It was a slow night for Horatio. Not that any night this deep into the Wastes could be considered fast. But it was slower than usual. The old centaur only had a few patrons at his little, rickety bar. Three, to be exact. Plus Jimbob, who was plucking out “Centaur Wine and Noggle Ale” halfheartedly on his little set of ivories. Horatio had to give it to the little Nog. He sure loved that song.

Horatio brought a round of drinks over to his patrons, who had all huddled up to play a round or two of Fox’s Run. With some friendly betting, of course. Bored, Horatio asked if he could join in. The rattler, Sneaks-by-Sand, said nothing, but the minotaur readily welcomed another player. Biggs was a staple in this dusty town. He liked drinking, gambling, and fighting, but he never did them all at once. Pretty respectable of him.

The human sitting on the far side of the little table had not given a name, or spoken, just smoothed back his hair and nodded as Horatio trotted up.

“How’s luck holdin’ up?” Horatio asked none of them in particular. Biggs shrugged.

“I think I’ve seen more silver in a Nog’s mouth.” He muttered, shaking his shaggy head. Horatio nodded, and offered to deal. No one objected, so he began to shuffle the cards in a slow, practiced, and easy to follow manner.

Fox’s Run was an easy game. Lowest hand of three cards won. If there was a tie, it was decided by suit. Though originally designed for - and played by - silver furred aristocrats, it had hit the streets with a bang long before the Wastes opened up, and it had been played casually in almost every tavern ever since.

Horatio dealt two cards to every participant, then set the deck down in the center. Biggs eyes his cards impatiently, while Sneaks simply looked at them, and set them back down.

“Fold.” Said the human testily, throwing his cards face down onto the table. Horatio glanced at his hand. Three of Horns and Five of Hooves. Not a bad hand. Not a bad hand at all.

“Bad luck, friend.” Biggs said amicably, scooting the coin the human had thrown down for ante into the pot. “Should check the sky for smoke, eh?” Sneaks’ tongue flicked out, and his eyes blinked several times, quickly. Then, the rattler moved a coin towards the pot. Horatio and Biggs followed suit.

“Let’s hope not.” Horatio muttered, shaking his head. “Keep prayin’ to whatever you believe in that Smokey’s ghost stays well within Verkell.”

“I hear of this Smokey much.” Sneaks hissed. “What is it?” Horatio flipped a card off the top of the deck. One of Silvers. That was a lucky flip - for everyone. He saw the human’s face pinch in irritation, and Biggs chuckled.

“Ol’ Smokey’s a ghost.” Biggs explained. “More than a score years back, he used to sell cigars,” Biggs huffed, mulling over his hand. “Ever seen a cigar?” He said the word with too much emphasis - see gar. Horatio snorted, and Sneaks shook his head. “Well, there these big, fat things that make sweet smelling smoke when you light ‘em. Supposed to be good for you, or so Smokey said.” He tapped his fingers idly against the table, then rapped his knuckles against it, passing the bet. “Fact is, Smokey got into some fierce business with some Fox. But the Fox didn’t know what he was getting into. Smokey had made a deal at the crossroads…” Horatio rolled his eyes as Sneaks watched with rapt attention.

“You bettin’, Sneaks?” He asked, and the rattler shook his head. Horatio also declined to bet, and flipped another card over. Seven of Scales. Ouch.

“I heard he’s been seen back in Verkell.” The human mentioned, leaning back in his chair.

“Gods save us, then.” Biggs mumbled.

“What did he do?” Sneaks asked, as the betting went around uneventfully once more.

“What didn’t he do?” Biggs replied. “Anyone who crossed him was found dead, or just killed plain as day in the streets. Ol’ Smokey was bad news.” Biggs leaned in close, over the cards and the coins. “He ripped angels, right out of the sky. Angels. Turned ‘em to dust.” Horatio flipped the last card. Twelve of Horns. That made his hand pretty much worthless.

“He vanished, though. But he left all the killing behind.” Horatio said, nodding at the rattler. “When people vanish in the night, without a trace… well. Some people think it’s Ol’ Smokey, up to his tricks.” Biggs put in two coins, and Horatio folded. Sneaks decided to stay in.

“Yea. Most of his cigars vanished with him.” Biggs gave Sneaks an appraising look before revealing his hand. Sneaks followed, shaking his head. Biggs scooped up the pot. “Though a few rich and lucky people held onto them. Believed they would protect them, if he ever came back.” Biggs shook his head. “No one smokes ‘em though. Only way anyone smokes nowadays is if you light ‘em on fire.” The rattler’s eyes tightened as Biggs chuckled at his own joke. The human smirked, and Jimbob ran through his song like an obsessive madman.

Horatio just picked up and shuffled the deck, then dealt two cards to each player once more.

The betting went in a circle, again. This time, the human stayed in, and everyone was fairly confident of their hand. Three cards on the table, and at least fifteen in the pot, things were getting pretty tense near the end of the round. It came time for the human to match or fold. He drummed his fingers slowly, methodically, against the table. Then, he grinned.

Slowly, casually, the man pulled a cigar from his coat.

Horatio froze. Biggs and Sneaks watched in awed horror as the human lit the cigar.

He puffed on it once. Twice. Smoke filled the little corner he was in, and he grinned at his three opponents maliciously.

“All in.” He threatened.

Horatio backed away slowly, but Biggs and Sneaks went straight out the door. Only Jimbob seemed unfazed, playing the piano. Horatio was not sure when he had stopped playing the little tavern ditty and started playing…

Ol’ Smokey stood up from his corner table, chuckling, and walked out of the bar, leaving heavy, black smoke in his wake and the coins still on the table. Horatio just stared after him, out the door and into the night.

Jimbob sang several low, tragic notes alongside the worn, dusty sound of his old piano.

“In the night, when the specter of Ol’ Smokey comes…”