Hmm, a seven. A reptilian tongue swiped across his lips as he pondered his next move. Greedily he would've hit again, but something had told him to hold off for now and wait and see how the cards played. Rich golden hues fell upon Oscuro on his perch for a moment, who was watching the game unfold in silence. He'd have to teach him how to read cards sometime; the raven could certainly have his uses in gambling if he took the time to train him. For now, it was just Jackie and his instincts. "You know what? I'll stand," Blackjack declared to Jormungand, peering into the satchel that the other feline had left between them.

The man loves his drink, he resolved mentally. He supposed that the Italian had some reservoir of alcohol in his quarters and found that to be quite fitting of him if that were in fact the case. Perhaps he had gathered them over time. "Have you lived here long, Jor?" he inquired of the Skald, newfound curiosity gripping him now that the vodka was entering his system and opening him up a little more. If the other man wished to be his friend, he figured the least he could do was make an attempt to know him and his history with the Pitt.

"Sure. He's my good luck charm, after all. My amuleto." Blackjack looked over at the raven once more before turning back and listening to the other feline speak, eyes filled with curiosity. Jormungand didn't seem to be an ancient beast, but he assumed that there were many Ardents whose reigns were short-lived. This was a fairly cut-throat clan, after all, and a very dangerous world in the first place. Life moved quickly on the Island (and in general, in all fairness), and if you didn't keep up with it, you were surely lost in the dust, likely to never come back. He wasn't sure whether to respect Jormungand or envy him and his power and experience. Surely he could experience both feelings just as intensely as he was now, in equal parts. He would be a fool to not acknowledge the power that the man before him had, yet a personal lust tugged at his heart when he looked upon him. Not for him specifically, but his title, his honor.

What did you do before? What a question. Jackie didn't feel like the answer was anything remotely special, though that stemmed from him only now speaking to those that weren't other hunters or his own customers. Perhaps his choice in wording would require more careful consideration for now. "My line of work required a lot of traveling," he responded. "A bit of this, a bit of that, depending on if the pay was good." The way the horned jaguar spoke about his past was much, much simpler and said in an easygoing, matter-of-factly manner, yet his physical form juxtaposed it and told a different, hushed tale: some scars here and there, faint remnants of blood between his digits, sturdy muscles beneath his obsidian pelt that rippled as he rolled his broad shoulders. "But after wandering for so long, you start to wonder if it's a worthwhile life in the first place. So I'm trying the clan life here." Though he was used to spewing outright lies to those he talked to, Blackjack spoke more or less truthfully to the other feline, perhaps as a result of the alcohol that flowed through his system. If you had asked him why he had chosen the Pitt, he could not give a straight answer. Perhaps for a roof over his head, perhaps for something to fill the void. Even he couldn't say.

Blackjack was quite relieved that Jormungand didn't pry any further about his own life, though in his current inebriated state, there was a good possibility that anything could've spilled without him even realizing it. Anything can happen when you're drunk, after all, especially when the other is getting there, as well. Still, he felt that he was grounded to an extent, albeit hanging to said ground by a microscopic thread, but it would be enough for him not to loosen his lips too much and reveal a dangerous amount to the other.

He watched the other feline eye him, taking in his scars, his rugged looks, his muscles, and he caught himself doing the same. There were marks of war and age upon him that he hadn't taken the time to notice earlier: scars upon his muzzle, torn flesh, a strange crocodile-shaped branding upon his dark chest, the way Jormungand's muscles rippled beneath his dark coat, the way his cheekbones looked strong and defined as the rest of his body did... He felt that he would disintegrate if the other panther so much as looked at him directly, much less pointed out that he had been staring. For certain the alcohol was poisoning Jack's thoughts, filling them with ideas he would not have even considered with a clear head. He licked his lips again, his body crying out for hydration and his thirst for perhaps something more than just water or more vodka. Good thing he had a tendency to zone out a little in conversation.

"What numbers do you have?" Shit, they were still playing. Blackjack blinked, his eyes falling upon his cards. His body was warm (and likely red beneath his obsidian fur — thank God he was covered in it) and his mind was fuzzy, causing him to lose his focus quite rapidly. His paw landed onto his cards, exposing the values that he held. "Eighteen. You got me," he said with a soft chuckle, lifting his rich golden gaze up back to meet Jormungand's icy, penetrating eyes. Yeah, he got him, all right.

Perhaps it really was more obvious than he thought. Blackjack figured so — he wasn't particularly of sound judgment at the moment, present enough to guide his decisions only to an extent. He could only watch on as Jormungand took note of his observing, standing to stretch out his muscles and define them beneath his scarred pelt. He knows what he's doing. The horned jaguar offered no comment or response to him but a faint, amused smile and a hushed snort to accompany it. He wasn't sure if he had felt anything of this sort before, sober or otherwise. It wasn't as though he had time to ogle at the attractive people he spoke to, and he wasn't one to act on emotional impulses anyway (such as, you know, feeling them). Because of this, the present tugging at his chest made him uncomfortable, uncertain, though he wouldn't appear as such to the other. This was a new feeling for him, but he didn't need other people to know that.

He could only watch on as the other feline stepped closer to him, announcing his victory in a sultry manner as he extended a claw out to his lip, wiping off the remnants of vodka from it and licking it. If fumes could be emitted from one's skull, they would surely both be surrounding in a thick, black cloud being exhumed from Blackjack, who, though stoic as ever, had not a single clue on how to respond to Jormungand's advances. Were these advances? He certainly hadn't been acting like this before. He found himself cursing his past self for not having allowed himself to indulge in his emotions towards others — maybe then he'd know what the fuck to do now.

Nonetheless he could not stand there like a fool. He'd have to reply somehow. "The reptile on your chest," Blackjack said, his eyes lowering down to the permanent, intriguing mark on the Skald's chest. Changing the topic again, huh? Smooth. He found himself moving closer to the other as well, extending out his obsidian paw to run an all-too-inquisitive digit along the mark, gently in case it was fresh and still hurting him, though it seemed fairly old and faded. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to touch the man's chest. Maybe not. Who would ever know? "Where did it come from?" It was evident that Blackjack had lost interest in their earlier game. There were other stakes to raise, it seemed.