The door opens with a long shuddering creaking, protesting the use
after such time. Slow treads of old leather shoes disturb the thick
dust, causing the play of small devils among the boards. A man with an
old tweed jacket, one that speak the word professor in many, many
languages, a terror only to those who forget some ridiculous agenda
called assignments, moves with a weary stride into the Ardcadia House.
Lines beneath his eyes ran down to play a riot among among the black and
gray of his beard. He looks and sees many fading ghosts, the image of
two old enemies, so long at the throat they have become friends, playing
a strange game with unmentionable stakes with a faded star of the
silver screen. A bartender who had seen better day and would yet seen
better still serving his last drink. Angels and devils twirling their
magic dance of damnation and blessing, and the strange beings who danced
in there presence for lack of better music... the place was thick of
sorrowful ghosts and lost tales.

He sighed. His eye were still heavy but there was a game to be
played. From a faded leather vest he drew a polished ebony cup and
placed into upon the bar. His left hand suddenly drew high a with a pair
of polished bone dice a flung them into the yawning rafters. The echoes
of the rolling bone stalked obscene whispers as they bounced on the
dusty mahogany bar, leaving strange runes in the wastes of time. The
right hand moved with old practiced speed to catch the die, one, two,
under the muffled ebony cage. He drew back the old cup in a long
polished ritual to reveal a pair of unblinking eyes the peered back.

One-and-one. the devil's gift, a losing bet.

A beginning, of sorts.