[OPEN] deal me in

[unshut]

WHO: Fitcher + you and also you
WHAT: A weekly card game
WHEN: At some point every week, without fail
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Catch-all mingle space; threadjacking encouraged and time is an illusion. Threads are not required to have anything to do with cards or even include Fitcher; may be before/after the game etc. No rules, just right; get your banter and gossip on.

There are really only two rules to play at Fitcher's table: you mustn't be a bad sport, and come prepared with conversation.

In theory, an invitation and the lady in questions presence are also required but both those guidelines have been broken: anyone who shows up in the the dining hall on the right evening who displays any interest in the game being played at one of the tables earns themselves an invite; and at least once Fitcher has appeared, slung back a single glass of wine, then announced, "I've work elsewhere tonight, but I expect a full account of all that occurs," before disappearing into the night.

It's sometimes loud and it's sometimes quiet. There are nights where more drinking is done and others with only a single shared bottle. Sometimes there are enough players to warrant splitting the game and sometimes it's just Fitcher, lying out a spread for Solitary as she smokes from a pipe and occupies herself with a little evening bookkeeping.

It's pleasant. It's a good distraction. One should never think too hard about these things.

Comments

[unshut]

"I'm afraid that I can't claim to be well aware of her record, only the fact that she once held one. But as you say - it would be difficult to under perform compared to the candidates interviewed thus far."

She pauses, peering across the edge of her cards at him. As play sweeps back to her she passes the turn - evidently quite pleased with her hand at present. "I'll admit, I'm surprised that there is no ready volunteer among Riftwatch's ranks. You will have to forgive me for looking to you, Enchanter, but as a very junior member of the outfit here I find myself wondering if that isn't some kind of warning sign."

b.

[ketterdamn]

[ It's gotten too loud inside, the raucous laughter reminding him less of the Crow Club and simply becoming a ringing in his ears. Here, he doesn't have the luxury of going upstairs to escape. Instead, it's a bit of a walk to his quarters, though he isn't in a particular rush. Too much restless energy; he's been too directionless and rudderless. Having to start from the bottom up– well, he doesn't shirk hard work, but it's still a lot to take in and adjust to.

So he takes his time going back to his room, cane tapping out a less aggressive rhythm than usual. He pauses at the form of someone sitting upon the steps, gauging if they're wide enough to fit down without tripping. ]

Perhaps for some. [ He glances back to the building where plenty of people have lost more than their pocket change tonight. ]

[ketterdamn]

As far as game nights go, it's not as rowdy as some he's seen. The one at the Club could really go askew, especially if the gang was high on a victory, adrenaline causing risky plays, as if they had no fear. He rarely played at the tables, preferring to gamble in different circumstances, with different stakes. He'd leave the monetary losses to Jesper.

But despite the noise level being more acceptable, it's still crowded. It's an uncomfortable feeling and he has half a mind to leave, hating how close his elbow is to the person next to him. The thought crosses and then there's another person filling the just emptied spot on his other side and he's a bit boxed in. His entire frame tenses for a moment before he rolls it out of his shoulders, folding his cards face up on the table. There's a bit of moaning and groaning at lost rounds, coins and trinkets exchanged, and the dealer collects, shuffling with admirable skill.

"Wicked Grace. Hand just ended, lucky for you."

[justashotaway]

[Something about her smells strange as she tells the story, but Laura doesn't know if it means there's a lie in it. It's hard to know with someone new, someone whose scent is less certain in her mind.

So she accepts it as it is, listening with muted interest--and starts slightly at the secret, her brows drawing together. Is this funny? Is this supposed to be funny? She isn't sure, and she isn't sure how she is supposed to respond.]

Oh.

[murderbaby]

It surprises a genuine laugh out of him. "Oh- Oh, no, no, not a poet. I am neither cruel nor confident enough for such arts."

He lays down another card on her branch, twisting it into a new shape.

"I appreciate poetry. I also appreciate rivers and oceans; I do not wish to be a fish."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos shrugs. "It's convoluted and messy, but that gives my work more worth. It's not my life's passion, but I do not hate it; the same cannot be said of all. One does not have to be rabidly passionate about their work to be happy, thank the Maker."

He lays down to more cards, beginning his gambit.

[overharrowed]

Whether or not he believes Fitcher lacks information on Petrana—certainly possible, but not entirely a given—he decides to let the assertion pass with nothing more than a small sigh at her evident pleasure or the state of his hand. (Or both.)

"I certainly don't think less of you for wondering about it," of her observation about volunteers. "I'd consider stepping forward myself, but I'm already up to my elbows as a project leader, to be honest. On the other hand, we're asking people to do a great deal with much less in the way of resources than we had when we were part of the Inquisition. I can't say I'm entirely shocked we're hard up for internal volunteers." He regrets Herian's departure, for all he was never close to her. If nothing else, the woman had an overly developed sense of responsibility.

[overharrowed]

"Truer words," Julius says, though in truth he's speaking more from observation than experience. He has always been somewhat married to his work, even if the nature of that work has changed dramatically.

He draws another card and considers it before discarding a different one. "And lucky for us. There are a great many tasks that keep the Gallows running that are unlikely to inspire passion. I'd just as soon we not wait to find a full compliment of people devoted to mopping floors or taking inventory of the larder." He smiles. "Though perhaps I'm doing a disservice to those who find satisfaction in things being in their assigned place."

[murderbaby]

"To each, their place? How Orlesian of you." He doesn't mean it as an insult. He mostly means it as a joke. But Mhavos almost entirely tells jokes for himself, and that occasionally shows.

"I think many enjoy their work simply for having it. I have fewer frights in my heart larger than being turned out to the streets."

c just 4 u

[limier]

She looks up, doesn't smile; an absence as habitual as the indication of her hand: Of course, sit,

"Superstition," Somewhere between explanation and admission. The cards splay across the table in unusual formation — it might be one of half a dozen games, but it'd be a bad hand in any — "Don't tell the Sisters."

The slant on her words is Val Royan. The serpent of decay winks as she moves to shuffle, deal again.

"Have you done this before?"

:0

[murderbaby]

Mhavos sits, tidy and polite.

"Play cards? Yes." He taps the deck his companion draws from. "The game you're playing? No."

[limier]

"It is not a game one wins," Not in this permutation. As an initiate, of course, it was infinitely more interesting to make the Knights fight — "A sort of fortune-telling. You ask a question."

A breath, a gesture.

"Not What is your name," A wry glance. (It would do.) "More broad, yes?"

[murderbaby]

Squint. "That would explain it." Squint harder.

"May I still ask your name?" It only seems polite. In anyone else, it would be flirtation, but Mhavos' voice is polite verging on meek. There's no heat or sharpness there.

"As to the question... what does one commonly ask fortune tellers. Nothing about tall dark strangers, please. I suppose... Something of my future. Will my work bear fruit? I hope that is suitably vague."

[limier]

"Coupe," It isn't a first name. It isn't given like someone who gives those. "Nor am I barred from your own."

That had been a prompt. She lifts the first card, turns it over theatric. Someone's mixed this deck: Wicked Grace and handful of stranger suits; the illustrations peculiar to each other.

"The Song of Temerity,"

The popular image of Havard, aegis raised before a trumpet.

[murderbaby]

One name begs another, though Mhavos' surname has always existed for himself, never others. "Mhavos," he says.

He looks over the card, and cannot keep one brow from curving slightly in a sarcastic angle. "And this means...?"

[tender]

"We can decide if it's lucky or not after the next hand."

Not that Derrica has that much coin to lose. She isn't worried, really. Easy come, easy go. She's always managed to scrape by, though it's slowly setting in that she doesn't have the embrace of a crew to fall back on.

"I'm Derrica," she tells him, nearly elbowing the man on her otherside in the jaw as she cheerfully begins working open the bottle. "Are you having a profitable night?"

There are cards begin shuffled. Derrica's pleasantries are extremely determined, wedged in between the business of gambling. She's here to meet folks, one way or another.

[thereneverwas]

[Lips pursed in a flat line when the circle is complete, Barrow glowers at her, at everyone else at the table, then bends down to offer his other boot.]

I'll see it, that's all. More than this and I'll run out of clothes faster than I can finish my ale.

[hornswoggle]

"Well, you're in luck."

For a given definition of luck.

"I'm a fast learner."

And someone willing to cheat at the drop of a hat, though John is obviously not volunteering this information. He taps his fingers at the table, watching as the cards are shuffled. Fitcher's eyes are bright and sharp, and her easy confidence seems to John a sign that there are far worse partners to have.

[overharrowed]

Julius laughs. "I don't think I've ever been in shouting distance of Orlesian before, frankly. The dangers of transferring to Diplomacy, perhaps. But I can sympathize. It was extremely lucky for me that enough people wanted reading or copying done that I didn't starve when I was trying to work out how to earn a few coins."

It's no secret Julius was a Circle mage; certainly not when he dresses in robes most of the time and carries his staff more often than not. He doesn't think it's particularly shocking to reveal he was ill-prepared to support himself outside a Circle when it came to that.

[unshut]

[From behind the swirl of pipesmoke, the woman with her dark hair and dark eyes and her long hands smiles. It's the sort of curving expression which predates a coy statement like 'Yes, well--' which requires no real end but suggests a half dozen. Instead, after a beat in which the smile makes the statement for her, Fitcher sighs and removes the pale wooden pipe from between her teeth.]

The nature of the beast, I'm afraid. If we were all winners, it wouldn't make for much of a game now would it? [This, characterized by the exhalation of smoke tinged with something both like cherry wood and mintly medicinal.] Remind me; what was your name? I think I was otherwise occupied when introductions occured.

[unshut]

'Oh?' Don't tell me you're so honorable as all that. I might start to feel a little guilty.

[This too is a kind of joke, punctuated as it is with a crooked flashing smile.]

[unshut]

Ah see, now there is a pleasant response. There is something rewarding about a person taken aback, by good humor or otherwise. "No swimming even under the pretense of sport? Say then, which is your favorite piece - or producer, if you prefer."

A card, a dagger laid down at the terminus of his branch, closes that particular path of play.

"Or is that something near to asking you to pick a favorite raindrop?"

[unshut]

"Ah, that's right. You oversee the investigation of our arch-nemesis, do you not?" Which is clearly a metaphorical question, as she asks another as she draws and discards accordingly: "Would you say our chances are promising?"

It could be a joke. Would they be here right now if they were?

[justashotaway]

No.

[That is not a difficult question to answer. She runs a finger along the edge of a card.]

I am not honourable.

[murderbaby]

"I have swam, but nearly drowned." To continue the metaphor, without having to actually, verbally admit to writing poetry. The dangers of being a perfectionist.

"Callum Nettling." He says it quickly and easily; he's known his favorite poet for a long time. "He only writes in Trade, but his attention to both meaning and form are beyond question. I've never read a poet who better serves those two masters."

He lays down another card, a new branch off the base of their twisted tree.