Excerpts from the journal of Arkolio de'Averlain

[Pseudonym]

Now here is where the decision making gets a little ... murky.

The Red Bear has suffered some major setbacks in the last couple of months. The ‘arrangement’ he has with Saviar is shaky. Three out of four ships are badly damaged. Tikiri is at large. Liselle is still recovering from her recent capture and torture.

I think it might be prudent that the Red Bear benefit from Arkolio’s services for a little while. Balance is needed. Balance is profitable. I cannot continue to play two sides against each other if one of them disappears from the game.

I am contemplating making a trip to Bloody Gate. The dwarves there have supposedly rebuilt and rededicated the town. I believe it wont be long until they start producing some of their excellent work of the forge for export. I just have to find out what they are lacking in their new development and procure it for them to offer as trade. I hear on the grapevine that it is stores for the winter they are lacking. The slavers have food on their tropical islands and more importantly a hunger for quality weapons to arm their foot soldiers ... it is just waiting for an enterprising intermediary to connect the two. Without either party’s knowledge of who is on the other side of course! I think dwarves, as a general rule, tend to look down on slavery as a concept.

My elven lessons continue slowly. I haven’t seen my usual sources for lessons, Akki or Eghaas around much the last few weeks. The progress slows when one has to rely on the kindness of strangers.

Spoke to Alandric about his order for poisons. I’m not entirely sure what organization he represents ... I actually think it might be best for me not to know. I have a feeling it rhymes with Tyrtechon or Borath.

[Pseudonym]

A swarm of children, their high-pitched chattering sounding remarkably like a large flock of gulls fighting over scraps, ran alongside my heavily laden cart as I approached the small village. Perhaps ten or twelve of them ran alongside me, their bare feet perilously close to the wooden wheels of the wagon. The arrival of a ‘merchant’ was a rare thing in these parts, I knew a visit might only occur perhaps two or three times a year and it was an event that always brought much excitement and celebration, especially amongst the children. I could see farmers, men and women both, in the fields bordering the road cease their bent-back drudgery for a moment and greet my arrival with happy smiles and waves. They all knew my wagon was filled, along with more practical items, bolts of brightly coloured cloth, spices, liquors, sugared candies, sweet-meats and strips of dried fruits. As soon as I rolled into any of the innumerable villages such as this one along the coast, I became every child’s instant and greatest friend. It was my experience that sweet oranges, shipped an unfathomable distance, secured a child’s trust and love stronger than any bond of kinship.

In these wild lands, the infrequent trader peddling their wares was often the only source of news of the happenings in the greater world around them. Many of the lowlanders had never travelled, and never would travel, more than a day’s ride from the places of their birth. Towns and cities but a hundred leagues away were as mythical and inaccessable as the majesty of Prantz and Katherian. The news that I carried with me was as valuable as the trinkets in my wagon and that alone would always ensure my safety and welcome in villages and hamlets such as this.

In the near distance, emerging from one of the mud and daub huts, came two lowlanders. I had met one of the approaching figures on my last visit, an older warrior, perhaps forty or fifty winters, carrying the name Wynnis. Like the rest of the village folk he was built squat and square, his face ruddy and weathered from long exposure to sun and sea. His hands and arms were filthy to the elbow, caked with dirt and mud. An unidentifiable clotted brown substance that looked suspiciously like some kind of animal dung had splattered his simple tunic. The long bladed sword, swinging in a leather harness by his side, was the only thing on the man that was not encrusted with filth. Indeed, it looked well forged, scrupulously clean and razor edged. It was the only thing on the man that marked him as anything other than a penniless peasant. I knew better. This simple warrior owned a herd of cattle numbering close to half a thousand.

The figure beside him was a different matter entirely. Tall where Wynnis was short, her skin unblemished where his was coarse, the girl was a true beauty. Her red hair hung in curls almost to her waist and her figure, although a little on the slender side for my own tastes, was enough to set many a man’s blood to boiling. If she was a daughter, one couldn’t help but wonder over the miracles of the Gods that permitted one as ugly as Wynnis to produce offspring as remarkable as the girl beside him. I had met Wynnis’ wife last visit and I knew the girl’s beauty certainly didn’t come from the mother’s side of the family either.

A crack of my riding whip with a suitably threatening scowl scattered the village children who had clustered around the wagon in all directions. Their squeals of delight and laughter revealed that they all knew from past experience that this trader was more gruff bark than bite. They would return, begging for treats, when the business of their parents was done.

Wynnis spoke after the briefest nod of acknowledgment in my direction. The lowlanders lived simple lives where social courtesies and pleasantries were considered to be of no great importance. His voice was as crude and as rough as the appearance of the man himself.

“Arkolio.” My own name was almost unintelligible when spoken in the man’s ridiculous gutteral accent. “Did you bring it?”

I summoned my most charming grin and taking the small package from the seat beside me jumped down from my cart to the street below. Street was perhaps an exaggeration of grandness, more accurate would be to call the street a dung-filled pool of filth that just happened to lie between the houses to either side. Careful as I was, mud, and worse, still splattered the bottom of my leggings and it was only by a supreme effort of will that I managed to maintain my fixed smile. I handed over the package to the flame-haired girl, her fingers already at work untying the string bindings before it had completely left my grasp. Inside the bindings were two dresses of the purest white linen, lined with thread of gold by the skilled seamstresses of Burgundy. The small crystals sewn across the bodice caught the pale morning sunlight and sent small rainbows across the fabric. Flame-hair’s squeal of delight as she gazed upon the dresses immediately removed any possibilty that Wynnis might ... just might ... have possessed to beat me down on the exorbitant price I had set for him on my previous visit. His low growl of dismay that followed the girl’s exclamation of pleasure revealed that he knew this as well as I.

“You like?” My smile had turned genuine.

A grunt, I assumed of assent, was the only answer from Wynnis but I was blessed by a radiant smile from flame-hair in response to my question.

“And a full two cycles until the wedding, yes? Got here in plenty of time.” I knew Wynnis was the type, really all these lowlanders were, to haggle over the smallest detail in order to get a lower price.

Flame-hair spoke. Although beautiful, she still spoke with the same intolerable accent as all these lowlanders.

“Father, may I go and show Gertran? May I plee-eeease Father? May I?”

Father? My suspicions as to the girl’s relationship to Wynnis were confirmed. He nodded, once and briefly, and flame-hair skipped off without a further word. I watched her disappear down a narrow alley between two of the lowlander hovels. A shame really, she certainly was about the best thing I had found to look upon in any of my visits to this village. It was a pity about her barbaric accent ...

“My money plee-eeease.”

The mockery of his daughter’s words and tone was followed by yet another throaty growl from the unamused Wynnis but both of us knew there was no room to negotiate around our agreed-upon price.

He handed over a small purse of coin. I didn’t need to count it, these lowlanders, if nothing else, were honest in their dealings once a price had been finalised. I was tempted to count it right then in front of him regardless of the necessity, just for the sport.

“Will you stay for the wedding? You are .... welcome.”

He spat this next question, the spoken invite obviously not made with any real desire for me to accept. An all too obvious pause before the word ‘welcome’.

I contemplated accepting his unwilling invite, again if only to see the look of annoyance that would surely be swift and thinly-veiled. It was a brief thought, quickly dismissed as I remembered the far greater reward that awaited me when I relayed the news of the date of the wedding to Seroga. This village was not going to be a place one wanted to be in a couple of months. The beholder slaver had promised to pay a sack of true for definite confirmation of the time and place of the wedding of Rhiannon’s daughter. The thought of a fat purse of gold, enough to see me through a full winter of feasting and whoring on the docks of some less frigid coastal city, was such that I answered as the man had surely hoped I would.

“Nay goodsir Wynnis. I fear this will be a short visit. I shall be gracing your fair township for but a night or two and then I shall be on my way once more. An enticing offer however ... were the season not so late I would gladly accept your hospitality and stay for the happy day. Sadly, I must decline.”

The heavy sarcasm, obvious to my own ears, was lost on the simpleton. An ugly man from an ugly village in an utterly unredeeming corner of the world. Seroga really will be doing no great evil when he comes a-reaving.

[Pseudonym]

*In a barely legible scrawl*

You just carnt trust women ...

*next few lines are completely illegible, further down the page the rambling continues*

... diirty cheetin women ...

*ink stain*

... such nun shmeeny ... no, not at ally thnun ya lyer ...

*a crude stick-figure picture of an elven woman (definable by the exaggeratedly drawn pointed ears) with multiple knives sticking out of her*

... why? ... ya ######## ... ##### ... ######

*the next few words are obscenities, a mixture of mis-spelt common and elven*

LiaR!!

*ink stain*

Watcha ... waddywnna ... panedy

*another drawing, this one appears to be a stick figure man roasting a sausage over a campfire*

... cen NOT trust nubudy ... nahpup ... NUBODY!

*ink stain*

[Pseudonym]

Whats been happening?

The last couple of weeks Ive been ... hitting the bottle pretty hard. Its all been a bit blurry to be honest. Had to work out a few things in my head.

This period of (generally drunken) introspection came to a head yesterday when I had a long chat to Akki.

Why does it take she and I four hours to say what most others could get out in four minutes?

I was rational. I was calm. I had left my swords in my room at the Scamp so I was not tempted to do anything silly. I was determined to either end things, or, have things known. For sure.

I am not normally a man with a need to have things in such order. On the contrary, I love the excitement and chaos of the unknown, the danger of the uncertain, the thrill of the random. Why then do I feel the need to have things with Akki so defined? So known? So certain? It is not me. Not my way.

In the end, it was all very calm and civil. I asked her what she wanted from me. From us. What she expected from me. What was allowed. What wasnt. What made her happy. What made me happy. What didnt. All in all, it was probably the most grown up conversation we have ever had together. Correction. All in all, it was probably the most grown up conversation I have ever had .. with anyone.

Where did it end?

We are together.
We are mindful of what may hurt the other.
We said the L word to each other for the first time.
We had great make-up snuggles.

Other than that ... been doing a bit of buying and selling. Trading this for that. True for items. Items for favours. Favours for more favours. Those favours for true.

Interesting developments with the Red Bear. I am a bit sleepy now ... getting old, cannot snuggle like I used to ... will write down all about my cleverness with that tomorrow.

[Pseudonym]

CDQ

We returned from the voyage to Isla de Vhodoun where Ireth had negligently blown up our prize. It seemed the alliance that the Red Bear had with Hurm was now doomed to fail and my plans of playing the two factions against each other along with it.

A group of us were having a drink with Captain Lion at the tavern in Hurm when Liselle joined us, having come straight from Saviars compound where she had acquired some interesting news.

Liselle told us how Saviar still wanted the alliance but that he could not commit to it without the things he had asked for in case he lost face in the deal. She also told us that Saviar had received an envoy from the Silver Crescent Slavers and was organising to send some of his people to meet with them to see what they were offering. This was not good.

We tossed around some ideas on how we could shore up the alliance and eventually decided to try and meet the slavers before Saviars people did and to put them off.

We discovered the place of the meeting and set off to find it ... once there, Sallaron and I climbed a ridge into the next valley of the Vipers Teeth and moved down to the slaver encampment. Here we managed to be noticed and brought to meet the mysterious slaver leader, the Sheik.

The negotions went badly as I had planned, but more importantly I also learned that Saviar was as ruthless as myself and definitely not a player to be underestimated. He had planned on making the Red Bears head part of a trade deal with the Silver Crescent Slavers. Cunning.

In the end various threats where made and we were advised to leave and carry the Sheiks threats to Saviar himself.

Another job well done. I become more and more indispensible to the Red Bear.

[Pseudonym]

I thought I had a great idea. A couple of years ago I was wandering around the Nameless Dungeon near Haven with Tarradon and a couple of other do-gooders. The lotting was fantastic. What vampires and their ilk need with true and magic I have no idea. Don't care. Just keep the loot flowing. It was a win-win situation for everyone. The paladins and clerics were fulfilling their need to feel as if they were making a difference - returning these things to the great cycle, blah, blah. blah. Whatever. More importantly, I was collecting a mountain of gold.

Anyway, I was rifling through the remains of a vampire when I discovered a rune-covered whip. It verily thrummed with power and evil. After a cit of research, I discovered the item was actually a whip of an Erinyes, a powerful demon (or is it devil? I always forget). I really wasn't comfortable using it, the thing was unwieldy and didn't seem to sit right in my hand at all. I popped it in a crate at home and promptly proceeded to forget all about it.

Then come my great idea. One night, admittedly after a few drinks, I decided to pretend it was the personal scourge of Corath and sell it, hopefully to a dopey priest of Toran or something who bought it to keep it out of the hands of the Corathites! I thought it was genious!

Here is my advertisement.

-------

Millenia ago, when the world was young, the foul and rancorous God Corath first stalked the lands of Layonara. In his passing, crops withered, babes grew sick, malcontent roiled where there was previously harmony and peace. All who felt the presence of the Black Sun knew evil and hate deified and chaos and discord were rife.

In these early days, prior to the establishment of law and order that we enjoy today, dark souled individuals, ever obsequiously ambitious, sought the favour of the Mad One. It is rumoured an assembly of damnable men and women (mayhaps eventually becoming the first Dread Priests and Priestesses of Corath), through means deceitful and deceptive, obtained and offered as sacrifice to the Black Sun one hundred virgins of noble birth.

It is remembered in ancient histories best left forgotten that Corath, pleased with this offering, took a hell-forged whip from his side and flayed the multitude of victims in an orgy of unspeakable horror that taints the land to this very day.

What became of this whip, this instrument of overwhelming evil, was lost in the passage of the years that followed. Over time, there were rumours of it surfacing in lands near and far and whenever it did chaos, war and pestilence followed.

Eventually, through a sequence of events of fantastic chance, this whip has come into my possession. My first thoughts were to take it straight to a temple of Aeridin, Rofirein or Toran so that the whip might never again fall into the hands of evil-doers. I am a lover of peace and the thought of this filled me with dread.

Then, I remembered the realities of the world in which we live, the children going hungry, the multitude of orphans, the sick, the needy, the poor huddled masses. As I stood on the docks of Hempstead, tears in my eyes, watching a beggar, a boy child, no older than eight or nine, I had an epiphany. I would sell this whip, hopefully to a cashed-up crusader or good and light and use the money to help these unfortunate souls.

Though it initially seemed at odds with my altruistic heart, I decided it must be the best course of action.

And so, I offer for sale, the Whip of The Black Sun. Starting bid, whatever one might think is reasonable to keep this in the 'right' hands.

Arkolio de'Averlain

-------


Lo and behold, Ozy put in an offer for it of 240,000 gold if I could substantiate that it was the artifact I claimed it to be just to keep it out of Corathite hands.

Hmmmm, here was a complication. Ozy is a duplicitous #######. I didn't trust him as far as I could throw him. Not by a long shot. Actually, I trusted him nowhere near as far as I could throw him, which was probably a fair distance. He look like he weighs no more than Akki whom I can manage to ..... nevermind.

My first thought was to make contact with my 'associate' in the Church of Corath, get a letter claiming we had met and that they had seen the whip and verified it as the real deal and were willing to buy it, then this would be enough to convince a purchaser of it's legitamacy.

Here is the first draft of my letter from the Corathites to me.

-------

Arkolio the rogue

It is a dangerous game you play and I warn you that when one plays with fire very often one gets burned.

You were told to come alone and yet you disregarded this instruction. Do you think your wretched band of companions could save you from the invoked wrath of Corath? Do you not think that if I did not see some value in keeping you alive as one of my innumerable pawns that even now you would not be rotting in an unmarked grave, your flesh being stripped from your bones by bloated maggots?

Beware misplaced arrogance Arkolio. Very often it is the last perceived triumph before the inevitable screaming descent into my Lords cold embrace.

As to the whip. We have searched for years and I wonder how it came into your possession. My servant @@@@@@@@ tells me you are a resourceful profiteer. It would appear his assessment is correct. I can tell you, if you truly be a pragmatic man, that it is far better to serve the Mad God than be his foe.

I am able to raise my offer for His unholy scourge to 200,000 true. I advise you to accept it. Refuse it at your own peril.

signed,
@@@@@@@@

-------

In the end, I got a bit nervous and decided to concentrate on the next big plan. Something that make 240,000 true look like pocket change.

[Pseudonym]

What or who exactly makes a God or Goddess?

I am told they are, with the exception of Rofirein and Pyrtechon, ascended mortals who attained great power and were chosen to Lord (or Lady) it over a particular domain for which they held a great passion or skill in their mortal lives. Is that what it takes?

I do not really know. If they were indeed once mortal, they were certainly very one dimensional mortals. Surely someone with the intellect, or the ruthlessness, required to ascend to deity status, would have a reasonably divergent range of interests? Why then, do the Gods as we know them today, each represent such a narrow range of endeavour?

Xeen - Pleasure, excess.
Dorand - Excellence in crafting.
Rofirein - Law and Order.
Corath - Death and Destruction.
Mist - Chaos and Storms.

The list could go on.

It makes one start to wonder if the Gods were ever truly mortal .. are they just manifestations of a collective consciousness?

Have all the people in the world with their petty jealousies, their hatreds, their bitterness, their unworthy thoughts ... made ... created Corath? Have we done the same with Lucinda? All the mages manipulating the weave have created by their collective efforts an entity who is The Ultimate Weaver?

Do we ourselves make the Gods and Goddesses? If we were to all ... switch off our thoughts about one of them ... would they cease to exist? More importantly, if millions of commoners started to worship Mister or Missus Blah-blah, would that be enough for whomever it is that appoints deities to take notice? If so, would not the God of grubby farmers be the most powerful and influential deity that exists?

Who appoints the Gods? Who decides on this ascension process? How does one get in contact with THAT person?

Why is there no specific God of Thieves?

Food for thought.

[Pseudonym]

*This journal entry is written entirely in stilted and spelling-error riddled elven.*

Hello, my name Arkolio is now wearing on.

I live in Krandor, from where do you live in?

Much nice to meet your acquaintance.

My best wishes on the meritable occasion of your voyages.

I believe with very most certainty it is my turn on the pony.

He will be to avoid the perilous I would be advising.

My plate of the green beans is fulfilling to my hunger.

The fur on the cat is softly patted by my hand.

The time on the sundial is revealing to me as almost sundown.

I many like learning elven, I have it learning down onto the pat.

[Pseudonym]

*In a shadowy alleyway in a shadowy city a shadowy figure hands over a folded piece of parchment.*

*Weeks later, on the other side of Layonara, soft fingers break the wax seal on the letter and hard eyes peruse the writings within.*

My Dearest Tikiri,

I trust this letter finds you well and comfortable.

The plans of our friends in Hurm were thwarted. Negotiations proceeded between the Sabre, Saviar and the Red Bear uninterrupted. This will continue to happen so long as they send inferior underlings to do their work.

You will no doubt hear of the important work done by Group 37 in ensuring the peace in Hurm during this time. Company 37. The thorn in our friend's side.

Company 37. A rather arbitrary anonymous number, no?

Would it be more helpful to think of this thorn as,

Kobal Bluntaxe.
Hargrenar Craggenhilt.
Eghaas Treebringer.
Varka Cleaveson.
Autumn, an alleged cook.
Eldarwen of the Church of Lucinda.
Malor the Mage.
Shiff Dragonheart.
Dur'thak the demon.
Ranewin of the Church of Ilsare.
Pendar o' the Hood
Alantha the Mage.
Rhynn the illusionist.

I trust this of some value.

Yours,
A

[Pseudonym]

Chasing monkeys.

This is what I have been reduced to .... chasing monkeys across the countryside. Was nice to stretch my legs and good to see Reaver again. I've asked him to make me a yew bow. Senile Gods, he must have some time on his hands to be bothered learning how to make all that gear.

*shakes head*

I suppose I can write down what has been happening with the slavers now ... I was not at all comfortable with putting quill to parchment on this matter previously, no matter how well hidden my journal. Up intil now, I had been playing both sides of the fence as they say, trying to maximise my profits. Frankly it had started to get a little messy ... I had thought to convince myself that the true outweighed the guilt ... now, I just don't think so. I eventually sought a meeting with the powers that be of Hurm and confessed all I knew of the whereabouts of Tikiri. Well, not quite all I knew, but enough that they should be able to seek her out and take her out of the 'dance'.

Gods, I feel as if I am getting old. It never used to worry me .. this thing others call a conscience. Now ... i'm quite happy to maximise my profits ... more than happy really ... but not at the expense of the freedom of a child.

When did I get so old?

What have I to show for my time upon this world?

Is chasing monkeys the reason I was called by the Dragon?

[Pseudonym]

There you are!

*Buried under a mountain of lewd clothing (that Akki had put aside for one charitable cause or another but had never gotten around to actually delivering), Arkolio finally manages to locate his journal after months of searching*

Where do I start?

I have decided writing in a journal is kind of like catching up with friends. Those friends that you see every day you never have any trouble searching for conversation as you end up chatting about the minutiae of your respective days ... stuff that probably no-one else would find interesting or noteworthy. Haven't seen someone for years? What do you talk about then? I wouldn't just launch into an anecdote of my trip to the bank that morning - i'd probably try to summarise the big things.

Which, journal old friend, begs the question, Where does that leave you and I? I have done little things ... and big things. Things of which others may deem 'worthy' and some things that might make my old Aeridinite preacher spin in his grave. I have sailed many times with Lion and some few times with Liselle. There was some ruckus in the crypts in town that I probably should have investigated .. but I accidentally slept through the call up for 'heroes' that eventually saved the day.

Of Muir I see little, I suppose she has retired and looking after her little rugrats ... actually, they're probably big rugrats now. Akki has been away lots, sometimes she drifts in when I'm away at sea myself, sometimes our paths cross and we are at home together - it is a life that suits us both I guess. Part of me wonders if she ever yearns for ... more? Who knows? Sometimes I attempt to raise the subject with her and more often than not, end up with a blinding headache after an hour of confusing word games.

Then there is Sasha. Cheerful and a fun companion, I wish I had known about what those Rofi's got up to years ago. Maybe it's all her years of training, the repressed emotion, the maintenance of this stern visage for all the world to see but I tell you dear journal, when she ***** ***** ***** ***, *** ***** **** ***** **** *****. ** ***** ******* ******* ****** *** ********* ****, ******** * ******* ******** **** **** ****** *** ** **** ***** *****. ***** * *** ****** *** ***** **** ****** *** ***** ** *****. Really quite took my breath away, who would have thought she'd be willing to try that?

Anyways, where was I? I've quite lost my train of thought now. I shall attempt to be more diligent with recording my goings on now that I have unearthed this journal, I can tell it all about my trip to the bank this morning.

[Pseudonym]

You know something? I'm in my mid thirties. By the senile Gods, who would've thought i'd ever see the day?

Looking back, in my thirty odd years, I've done a few things here and there. I've learned a few things ... forgotten some others. I've loved some women .. then accidentally called them the wrong name and, well ... anyway. I've held fortunes ... I've squandered fortunes. I've killed men, mostly bad men ... some few that I now think weren't so bad afterall. I've threatened Corathites, I've slept with Toranites ... then the next day I threatened Toranites and slept with Corathites. I've looked into the eye of a dragon and told the most outrageous lie I could think up .. just to see if I could get away with it. I've sailed with slavers and then with slaver hunters. I've threatened the biggest beholder that I have ever seen with a supposedly magical device that was actually a a smooth river stone that I had picked up hours before. I've eaten at the tables of the nobility one day and the very next went hungry for lack of coin to buy a meal.

Thirty something years. What have I learned?

Not much really. Would I do things differently if I could have my time over? Probably not by much.

One thing I have learned and i'll share my one pearl of wisdom here and now with you journal. I've learned that life is a series of moments. Worry not about the next moment, regret not the last moment ... just enjoy the one you're in now.

[Pseudonym]

I saw Eghaas had placed an advert in the trade and market hall a few weeks back. A few days later, after admittedly a few too many ales, I staggered back in to the hall and saw that his advert remained unanswered.

I figured this must have been because any would-be purchasers would have to engage Eghaas in conversation to complete the sale, something i'd probably pay a couple of thousand true to avoid, and as such, were dissuaded from bidding on his silk.

So, I decided to spice up his poster a little with a stupid story and attribute it to Storold .. he being a paladin with what I thought was at least a skerrick of a sense of humour .. but apparently I was mistaken! By the senile Gods, the sensitivity of some people. Surely he has better things to be doing? I was only trying to help Eghaas out and draw some attention to his sale.

I have had a long standing theory with the Gods ... one which I have been, over the years, somewhat vociferous in sharing. Them being a bunch of senile chaps (and chapettes) who have completely lost their minds. It is the only explantion that fits. The only theory which explains everything neatly. The older I get however, I start to think there may be one God who is not so senile. One who looks at things with an appropriate perspective.

I wonder who I can talk to about Shadon?

[Pseudonym]

Forget Shadon.

I'll be the first to admit, I am a man of many and varied vices.

I like pretty women.
I am somewhat less than motivated when it comes to the more recognized as completely honest ways to make a living.
I have a liberal perspective of rightful asset ownership.

Senile Gods, now that I think of it. I am, admittedly, quite the flawed example of virtuous behaviour!
I am frequently drunk, infrequently completely honest, frequently unfaithful, infrequently charitable, frequently vulgar, infrequently tolerant and frequently impetuous with a frequently disastrous outcome.

One vice I don't have is gambling. It is a vice for fools and for all the multitude of sins that I unarguable possess in abundance, I am no man's fool. Games of chance are always stacked against the player. Sometimes not by much but .. always by at least a little. It is a statistical certainty, the more you gamble at a game where someone else has determined the rules .. determined the odds .. the greater the likelihood of losing.

However, there is one exception and it's the only way to gamble.
One bet
All in.
Great risk, great reward.