[ It's a game Ciri knows well: find an overconfident man, let him underestimate you, take your winnings and amusement in easy time. She sits at a table nearby, alone for the moment, watching a new woman drink one of the regulars under the table-- a fine and funny show for Ciri, who actually laughs out loud when the liquor visibly hits Mr. Thought-He'd-Get-Lucky like a whole horse-cart barrelling downhill. He hiccups, slurring some protest she can't hear when his opponent turns around asking for new drinking partners.

Ciri gets up, leaving her empty ale mug behind, steps over to the table, and grabs the lilting man by the shoulder before he can slump off his seat. ]

Take your losses gracefully, Duncan. To bed with you.

[ With a hard squeeze, Ciri leverages the drunk man right out of his seat and stumbling away, cursing to himself.

She takes the now-vacant seat, crosses her arms over the table, and sizes up the woman across her with a grin. ]

Not looking for a contest, but I wouldn't mind sharing a drink if you still want another.

I'm Ciri.