"Check."

The older man glanced down at the board, and skillfully moved an ivory bishop to counter the attack. "Always on the attack, boy. I wonder, why? Why is the game so important to you?"

The teen sitting opposite him shook his head. "You wouldn't understand. It's more than a game, to me." The unspoken words; that the game was everything to him because nothing else was worth it, that he had lost too much in his real life, that the game had become his life because he was afraid of one that he couldn't control. Real life had real emotions, real sacrifices; things he didn't want to deal with again. The boy moved his rook. "Check."

The man was watching his face now, not the board. He moved his own rook. "I might understand more than you think."

The boy shook his head again, fingering a pawn. "I doubt it." Replacing the pawn, he exchanged it for a knight. "Check."

He raised an eyebrow. "What's your name, boy?"

"Varden." He raised his eyes to stare straight into the other's, speaking a little louder, and clearer this time, "My name's Varden."

"A good name." He moved his queen, standing up. "Well, then, Varden, I'm afraid I must be going. But, should you ever wish to pick up where we left off, you simply have to ask."

Varden stared at the man's retreating back, before calling out. "Wait! You never told me your name!"

"You'll find it out, next time we meet."

Standing up, Varden scattered a few coins on the table. Turning on his heel, he, too, exited the bar.

When the barmaid came to clear away the drinks, she saw that white had checkmated black.

Because Inverloch owns.