Prompt 1: Crux

"Call it," he said, holding the gil between his fingers, head side faced towards her.

She smirked and rolled her eyes.

"Heads."

Winttrach's eyes followed the coin as it spiraled through the air, finally landing in the midlander's sweating palm. He turned his palm slowly, as though the contents of it could bite him. His face fell the moment he set eyes on it, feeling the sting of the coin's result.

"Tell me how you do that one of these days," he muttered glumly, turning to motion one of the barkeeps over. To both of their surprise, one was already approaching.

The elezen, hair covered fully by a wrap, leaned down to look at Winttrach. His thumb jerked backwards towards the entrance of the Quicksand. "Fella out front's lookin' for ya."

Her eyebrows knitted together as she leaned over, trying to get a glimpse of who the requester might be. "Who is it?"

The elezen shrugged, standing back up, "Hells if I know, standin' out on the street now I think. Won't miss him, trust me."

She and the midlander exchanged a glance, before she shrugged and stood. "Can't hurt, I suppose," she said, making her way out the door.

Bustling as the streets outside the Quicksand were, the barkeep had been correct. Winttrach identified the man without a second glance. His aged face, with both his hair and beard graying, stood out against the bright white and blue of his armor. He was leaned back against the railing near the entrance, eyes locking onto her the moment she stepped out of the building.

His hand raised in greeting, motioning her closer. Bright as his smile seemed to be, she felt drawn to the tired look in his eyes. Her stance stiffened as she approached, leaning against the railing as to look out on the street. He turned to follow suit.

"Long time no see, girl."

"Same to you, old man."

There was a pause as he turned to size her up. "How have you been?"

"Best as I can mange, I suppose," she said. Her mind ran over the proper response to that. Was she well, was she doing alright for herself, she had never been able to decide.

"Figured as much," he said, fingers tapping against the railing. "Watched you fight in the arena the other day. Did pretty well, all things considered."

That managed a laugh from her, "And what is that supposed to mean?"

His armored boot nudged at her shoe, "Feet were a bit wide, stance a bit broad. Nothing that can't be worked on."

"Still won," she said dryly, "So it couldn't have been that bad."

He chuckled in return, preparing to comment of further, before she cut him off, voice serious.

"Why am I out here, Gideon."

"Well," he began, choosing his words carefully, "Watching you fight made me think of something."

"Did it."

"It did," the rhythm of his fingers on the rail picked up tempo. "I've a few positions to fill for the Sultansworn. I thought perhaps you might consider it again."

Her eyes closed and she let out a deep breath. Much to his surprise, she didn't immediately dismiss the notion. It almost disappointed him. He had prepared a rebuttal and everything. Instead she stood there in silence, staring out at the passersby on the street.

"Give me time to think on it," she finally said.

His eyebrow arched, "Do you mean that, or do are you just hoping to run me off?"

"Both," she said.

Gideon considered her for a moment. With little hesitation, he reached up to put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed, and turned to leave. "You know how to reach me."

"I do," she said, gaze not diverting from the street.