I play

{if game:Bicurious >= 75}With a heavy, long-suffering sigh, I accepted my inevitable doom. There was no talking my way out of this with a bulge that practically had its own naval banner flying from my breeches.{else}It was all just basic probability, a glorified coin toss, really. Orcs weren’t exactly renowned for high-level card strategy, and there was every chance I’d end up walking away with her entire mountain of coins... right?{endif}

I dragged myself out from behind the damp burlap sacks, raising my hands in a sheepish, apologetic gesture as I shuffled into the lantern light.

“As... utterly captivating as that shanty was, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” I offered, forcing a weak, diplomatic smile as I patted my empty sides. “I didn’t bring a single copper down here with me. Tragic, really. Terrible timing. So, if you’ll excuse me...”

“Who needs coppers?” Uthul cut in, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating through my body as her golden eyes locked onto my chest. “You’ll get the same bet that boatswain got - I’m betting all my coins for... your trousers. All my coins against those breeches of yours.”
“My trousers?” I blurted, taking an instinctive step backward. “Absolutely not! I am a... a diplomat! A traveler of refined tastes! I don’t just gamble with my pants!”

{if game:Bicurious >= 75}I gulped, my eyes darting frantically between her massive pile of silver and the very bare, very impressive orc grinning behind it. If I lost, those trousers were coming off and... they’d would immediately reveal to the entire hold just how ridiculously turned on I was by this whole absurd setup. But... her whole night’s fortune for one single hand?{else}I stared at her, mentally calculating the sheer absurdity. Betting my clothing in a humid cargo was not on my wishlist, but then I looked at the glittering pile of silver on the crate. Her entire haul against a pair of basic, off-the-rack woolen travel pants? Mathematically speaking, it was practically highway robbery in my favor.{endif}

“Oh, listen to the grand lord!” Baelog howled, slamming his iron mug onto the crate. “Everyone here’s shed a cloak or shirt. Plus, she’s offerin’ ye twenty-to-one odds on a pair of dusty britches, ye royal codfish! Ye’d be a bloody lunatic to turn that down!”
“Aye!” Vance yelled from the crowd, still red-faced and adjusting his belt. “Even I didn’t get odds that good! Take the bet!”

The entire hold immediately erupted into a rhythmic, deafening chant, stomping their boots against the deck planks: “Pants! Pants! Pants!”

Uthul leaned back against her crate, her bare green shoulders flexing with lazy satisfaction as she fanned the cards. “So, Your Highness? Are you going to be a wise businessman and take the deal of a lifetime, or are you just terrified of a little draft?”

I sighed...

“Fine, pants it is!”