The room was littered with smoke and the light was down to pin-pricks, now, three different slouched forms over chairs, heads bent close to the table.

Cards were sweaty in hands; Remy had his feet, ankles crossed, on the table, and Oz could smell the leather from his own place, short-sleeved , a beaded wrist flicking as he tossed in his bet. He wasn't speaking much, but that was to be expected; Bill carried the conversation and Remy supplemented, the glow behind his eyes lighting through his arm when he tried to make a point.

It didn't seem strange; everyone was different here. Psimitars and wands and the faint edges of a primal snarl were par for the course. The beaten leather of Bill's jacket (looked like hide) scraped soft over the table as his money landed atop Oz's, looking over at him with a drawling smile, matched with his low, "Remy, are you in?"

"Such an offer I cannot refuse, mon ami," came his assured reply, and with a glinting flash, his bet landed atop the other two.

Oz ran a hand through his hair and raised an eyebrow, laying a card down in front of him. The game was ready to begin.