Your reputation precedes you, like a hint of perfume on the breeze.
Prak'kesh and his Awoken bodyguard, Tulnik, had been watching crowds of bettors come in and out of the Eliksni Quarter for an hour. Clearly, whoever was stealing their business was gaining momentum.
The bookmaker spotted a fireteam of Warlocks wafting down the street like a perfumed breeze. He approached them with his most disarming smile.
"Hey, you guys are Warlocks, right?" Prak'kesh feigned a slight bumpkin accent.
The leader, a Shadebinder, held out his hand and summoned a shimmering crystal staff out of thin air. "What tipped you off?" he smirked. His teammates posed smugly behind him.
"It was your… uh… fancy bracelets," Prak'kesh replied, pointing to the Warlock's arm.
"That's a Celestine Bond, goober," the posing Dawnblade sneered.
"Neat! I just got here from the Farm," Prak'kesh said, leaning into his plucky yokel act. "I want to bet on the Warlocks to win the Guardian Games, because you guys are obviously the toughest and most dangerous class." Behind him, Tulnik faked a coughing fit to hide a guffaw.
"You're smarter than you look," the Shadebinder sniffed.
"The problem is," Prak'kesh went on, "I don't know where to place my bet. Do you know of any bookers around here?"
The Dawnblade rolled her eyes, "They're called 'bookies.'"
"Wow," Prak'kesh replied. "You guys sure are sophisticated."
"Just show this to one of the Fallen," the Shadebinder offered, "and they'll point you in the right direction." He handed Prak'kesh a scrap of paper.
"Now step aside," he continued. "We have to meditate on the nature of un-being before getting drunk tonight."
The trio pushed past Prak'kesh, floating their way toward the Tower. The bookie made a rude gesture at the retreating fireteam and walked back to Tulnik. They looked down at the calling card. It was worse than they feared.
Emblazoned across the paper was the emblem of a big black spider.