"You offered gold, but intend to pay in blood I see," Amal chuckled, listlessly tossing the bone dice across the slab of sandstone. Idly the dice rolled, until they came up with the exact roll that won him the game not seconds prior. Across from him sat a fierce Turanian whose eyes bulged at the results of the roll, shrieking like a shemite stallion. He bolted upright, his state of bemoaning from losing the game replaced with wrath at having been cheated. The thief gave a grin that would make a jackal rile from envy, deigning not to reach for the twin daggers planted at the center of the makeshift table.

"Cur and loathsome dog!" The Turanian accused, pointing his finger at Amal Ibn Hakeem in the little hovel within the bowls of Great Xarame. The chamber was dry and dim, smoke rising lazily from hookahs and incense candles amid the crowd of ne'er-do-wells and travelers. All seeking refuge from the oppressive guards and the Sultan's taxes. A few white northmen sat and watch, whispering in their brute tongues and laughing as apes. In many cities, the Shem were distrustful of outsides. However, all were welcome in the city of Xarame. Kings and Princes rose and fell over the vast ages of the world, endowing the city with commerce and glory unimaginable, all to bring Amal and this Turanian this little game of chance that would change the Shemite's life forever. 

"I am a dog, but this dog has killed bigger goats than you," He quipped, unmoving despite the clear threat. They were not the only ones in on the game; a bone Blythunian glared daggers at both of them, clearly wishing to simply continue whilst the noseless Iranistani was too busy picking his teeth with the femur of his last slave. Amal brazenly took his eyes off the Turanian, coming nose to nose with the Aquilonian dancing girl whose slim arms had been draped around his neck all throughout the game. "And fucked more northern swans than you have." 

She giggled, only for it to be stifled by the ring of steel as the husky Turanian unsheathed his shamshir, breaking the vow of Xarame hospitality. Unfortunately, Amal had done the same by cheating, so he could not complain nor call him a fiend. As a pack of lions, three of the Turanian's comrades stood with him, crossing their jeweled arms and glaring at Amal, their noses pierced by brass rings that shimmered in the firelight. Amal calmly reached for his scimitar, but groping, he felt it gone from his belt! The thief turned from his cushion to see the Aquilonian women giving it to one of the Northmen, her wiles now blemished by the betrayal, though he would not blame her. He might have done the same. 

Amal did not go for the knives at the center of the sandstone table, knowing they were bait. Anyone who had been there before knew they were glued to the table, so men might make a grab for them and lose an arm in a dispute. The master of the hovel was wicked that way. Instead, Amal flipped backwards in a roll, feet going over his head to press to the ground not a moment before, and he sprung out into the corridor as the Turanian and his friends pursued him out into the street, losing him down the Causeway of The Forbidden, where Amal sank into the shadows and reached the roof of the Temple of Ishtar, cursing his luck.