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At the beginning of their pilgrimage upriver, it was made very clear to both Carpenter and Faulkner that they had absolutely nothing in common.
A few times, Faulkner tried to make conversation, hoping that perhaps they'd find some sort of mutual interest to make this long drive far less dull for the both of them. He hadn't been on a lot of long road trips, even growing up, but the ones he had taken with his brothers when they were still young and bright-eyed had always been filled with constant chatter from all three of them.
But Sister Carpenter, it seemed, had not a single talkative bone in her body.
So Faulkner, in retrospect, really should not have been surprised when his final attempt at friendly conversation failed.
"Have you ever heard of Magic: the Gathering?"
"I played once."
A success, or so he thought—so he kept talking. "Really? At one of the Parish game nights, I presume?"
"Yes."
When Faulkner had first joined the faith, he'd been informed of a twice-monthly Magic: the Gathering tournament hosted by the Parish of Tide and Flesh, where each disciple who wished to would come and compete to be the final winner. He'd grown up playing Magic with his brothers, and liked to think he'd gotten rather good at it in the years since. He'd certainly gotten better than Eddie, who, even before they stopped talking regularly, had refused to play against him at all anymore. Faulkner had gone to his first game night a week after joining, expecting to win a few games and have a bit of fun. What he hadn't expected, however, was to win the entire tournament with little struggle.
He figured it must have been the Trawlerman's blessing, both that night and the nights after where he'd always had a similar victory. He'd worried, at first, that having Charix, the Raging Isle—a giant crab—as his commander would be a bit on the nose, and people had snickered when he'd first taken it out. But he'd shrugged it off, and perhaps his efforts to please the Trawlerman and his resistance to their teasing had paid off. Or perhaps the Trawlerman simply favoured him. Whatever the reason, he was completely unbeatable, and had even withdrawn from a few tournaments to avoid the dirty looks he received from other disciples when they saw him arriving to a competition.
"And how was your first game?" Faulkner asked Carpenter, desperately hoping that it hadn't been against him without his recollection.
"Fine. I don't see the point."
Faulkner stared at Carpenter as she continued to drive, his jaw hanging open in disbelief. Yeah, okay, he was going to have to kill this woman.
-
It felt like a lifetime later that Faulkner was sitting across from James Hayward at a table, a deck of cards in front of each man as he stared the other down with nothing but contempt in his eyes. Less than a second had elapsed after the two met before it became clear that they were far from compatible as friends. Some of their qualms were specific, personal—though a number of people had qualms such as these with Faulkner, and he was used to this. But aside from that, their issues with one another were too nebulous to be given a name. They were two souls destined to hate each other, even if neither could articulate why.
So, Faulkner had taken it upon himself to make sure they settled their differences like men.
"Tap or cut?"
"I don't know what that means, Faulkner."
"You either tap my deck," Faulkner began, demonstrating the motion in the most exaggerated way possible, "which means it's good. I'll play with it as is. Or, you can cut it, like so." He reached over to Hayward's deck, taking the top half off and placing the bottom half on top of it. "Just in case you stacked it a certain way."
"How would I even do that?" Hayward exclaimed. "You just gave me a deck and a card with a tree on it and said 'play with this.'"
"Well, you can read, can't you? Everything the card does is written on it. You're a smart man, you could figure out how to place each card strategically."
"I don't even know what half of these words mean," Hayward said. "Vigilance? Reach?"
"They sound pretty self-explanatory to me," Faulkner said with a shrug. "Tap or cut?"
"Fine. Cut." Hayward split the deck just as Faulkner had done, which Faulkner supposed was fair. It wasn't completely unreasonable for him to assume that Faulkner had some sort of trick up his sleeve. Unfortunately for him, Faulkner needed no such tricks.
In the end, it was hardly a game and more of a massacre. Hayward clearly had no idea what any of these cards did—even though Faulkner tried to explain what he was doing as he did it, just to give him a bit of help—and, if Faulkner could be honest with himself, Hayward's heart didn't seem to be in it. Of course Faulkner hadn't won his first game against Charlie, all those years ago, but he'd at least done better than this. This was just sad.
"Good game," Faulkner said curtly as he gathered up his battlefield and graveyard, placing them into a neat stack.
"Good game," Hayward repeated through gritted teeth, mirroring the motion.
"Don't be too hard on yourself," Faulkner assured him, without a single genuine note in his voice. "It's very rare to win your first game. Besides, I had a bit of a reputation back at the Parish for being rather unbeatable."
"Unbeatable, you say?" A voice behind Faulkner chimed in. He turned slowly, to see Paige standing a few feet away, a manic grin on her face and a large binder in her hands.
Faulkner grinned. "What? Are you looking for a challenge?"
"Something like that," Paige replied as she walked over to where Hayward was sitting. "Move over. I've got this one."
"You'd better," Hayward grumbled, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice as he added "someone's got to avenge me."
"Well, she can try," Faulkner said with a shrug.
"What's this?" Carpenter's voice began as she entered the room, brows furrowed as she scanned the scene before her. "Gods, Faulkner, are you making them play that ridiculous card game?"
"Oh, he's not making me do anything," Paige assured her. "Hayward, maybe. But me? No, I'm about to kick his ass."
"Again," Faulkner corrected calmly, "she's about to try."
"Oh, I've got to watch this," Carpenter said, pulling up a chair.
"I thought you said you weren't a fan of Magic!" Faulkner protested.
"Playing, sure," Carpenter agreed. "But I'll take any chance to watch my brother get beaten at his own game."
"She's not going to beat me," Faulkner muttered.
"We'll see," Paige remarked. "Who's your commander?"
"Charix, the Raging Isle," Faulkner said proudly. "He's won me a number of games."
Paige burst into laughter at this, long and uncontrollable, much to the confusion of Hayward and Carpenter and to the irritation of Faulkner.
"What?" Faulkner snapped.
"Charix?" Paige repeated. "And you play him unironically?"
"Of course I do!" Faulkner exclaimed.
"Carpenter," Faulkner heard Hayward whisper. "Why is that funny?"
"I have no idea," Carpenter whispered back. "Maybe it's some kind of popular joke?"
"It's not a joke!" Faulkner protested. "It's a normal commander!"
"No, she's right," Paige laughed. "Charix is, I don't know, a meme? He's not even that powerful! He's just…he's a giant crab. That's why you play him, isn't he? Trawlerman-approved commander."
"And so what if it is?" Faulkner snapped. "Who's your commander, anyway?"
"Edgar Markov," Paige replied, pulling out the vampire's card and laying it on the table in front of her as her laughter subsided.
"You're one to talk, with your…Woundtree-approved commander," Faulkner muttered. Fine. A challenge, sure, but nothing Faulkner couldn't handle. He'd played against far more powerful commanders and won. Markov was a strong card, but Faulkner was a strong player. It wouldn't be a real struggle.
And it wasn't.
It was, like his game against Hayward, a massacre.
But not in Faulkner's favour.
"How did you do that?" Faulkner exclaimed as he, mournfully, moved his life counter down to zero. "I haven't been beaten at Magic since…well, since I was a child!"
"You've also never played against me," Paige said, smiling calmly. "Here, do you want a rematch? I'll pick a less powerful commander. Markov's kind of a guaranteed win."
"Absolutely," Faulkner replied. "There is no way I'm letting my reputation be tarnished by something like this."
So they played another round. And another. And another, and another, until finally Faulkner threw up his hands in defeat, kicking his chair back.
"I don't get it! How are you doing that?"
"If it makes you feel better, I had one hobby growing up," Paige replied, smiling with fake sympathy.
"So did I!" Faulkner protested. It was true—he didn't do much growing up except for play Magic: the Gathering. And drown his brother. But that was one time.
"Sure," Paige replied. "Do you want another match?"
"No, no," Faulkner sighed. "You've made your point."
"Thought so," Paige said calmly. "Hayward, do you feel avenged?"
"So avenged," Hayward teased. "Thanks, Paige."
"Maybe next time, Faulkner," Carpenter said, her voice amused. "After all, it sounds like your crab was pretty powerful back at the Parish. I'm sure someone will come along for you to beat. Or you can keep playing against Hayward until you feel better."
"No he can't!" Hayward replied quickly. "He absolutely cannot. Not until he or Paige teaches me. And I trust Paige way more in that regard."
"You're no fun," Faulkner muttered. "Fine. Let me know when you're ready for that rematch, Hayward. Then I'll show you all how good I am."
"We're counting on it, Faulkner," Carpenter teased.
Whatever. They'd see. He'd beat Hayward, and someday Paige, and he'd be back where he was. A streak of games without defeat, without even a struggle. Until then, he'd just have to keep practising.