"Ah, me. We've got ourselves a winner, gents."<br/><br/>The young man at the Table of Blood spoke well before Jack actually sat down. The table itself was a circle with a hole in the center for the young man to deal from, and perched on his stool like a gargoyle he grinned theatrically and waved towards an open seat. A slow night for the table, there were two additional occupants to the table. The first was a woman who seemed to be pretending she was somewhere else as adamantly as possible--her fine cloak was drawn tight about her and her head was down. The auburn curls falling down the front of her shirt were wet from the rain, and her left hand glove was removed for the ante, her shirt rolled up to reveal bare, pale skin but for the red slit that dribbled into a cup.<br/><br/>The other gambler was a man of indeterminate age who looked to be having a bit of trouble keeping his head in the game. Three of the tarnished silver cups of blood were filled in front of him, the closest one beginning to darken and congeal across the top, and he looks pale beneath the well-trimmed beard and mustache on his face. He carries himself like a soldier, but doesn't look like one of the watch, and his jaw is clenched tight in a grimace.<br/><br/>"Bold as brass, hopping up quick-march. I like that in a victim. Looks like a man who thinks he's nothing to lose." The young dealer talks professionally quick, like a carnival hand reeling in a crowd. He is at once a child and not--it's clear to most that he's older than he looks by his speech, his scars, and the glimmer in his eyes, but at the same time it is difficult to dismiss his body. Dressed in blood red pants, he wears only a vest over his chest open to show off the cuts and the scars that seem to be endemic to him. "Course, they all do think that, don't they?"<br/><br/>As Jack approaches, he offers a nasty grin and shifts himself into a lascivious pose, leaning back against the stool and fluttering his hand coyly before his face as a fan. "My stars, Mr. Dashing, what's a man like you doing in a place like this? Ought look at the Table of Flesh, ducky, win yourself some twopence right quick and hop on back looking a bit finer. Pigeons on my doorstep are right plumed this night, regular cockatiels." He bops his head quickly first one way and then the other in a quick bouncing motion to his other customers before reaching into his pocket and drawing out a tarnished silver cup about the size of an apple. His smile turns sharp.<br/><br/>"Ante's one cup, handsome. Gonna ink it yourself, or do you need a little tender mercy?"