The smoky haze curls thick in the air, coiling like a living thing around the flickering lanterns overhead. The gambling den hums with low murmurs, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or a curse spat through gritted teeth. At the center of it all sits Misforto, his presence like a frayed thread barely holding onto fortune’s fickle weave.

He lounges in his chair, thick fingers rolling a golden coin over his knuckles, the flickering light dancing off its surface before it vanishes into his palm with a magician’s ease. His shirt and vest hang open, the fabric draping around his shoulders like an afterthought, exposing a torso marred with old scars of past games, debts paid in flesh, or warnings unheeded. His emerald eyes flicker with amusement, watching the dice dance across the table. A slow, knowing grin curls beneath his thick, wild beard.

“Ah, now there’s a roll a man could toast to,” Misforto murmurs, his voice a whiskey-worn drawl, rich with amusement. His round glasses slide down his nose, and he nudges them back into place with a calloused finger.

The dice settle in Misforto's favor. Almost instantly, a mug clatters to the floor nearby, its contents sloshing onto a pair of worn boots. A faint yelp follows, barely noticed in the haze of the room. Misforto chuckles, slow and knowing, before reaching for his winnings. He adjusts the battered brim of his green hat, the golden shamrock pin catching in the lamplight.