[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 hear the food is quite good.

[Which is a mild, neutral thing to say. The sidelong look Fitcher gives her says she knows it is - that she picked it to be so. Fetching up the pipe from its resting place, she makes a point of tap, tap, tapping it further before tucking it away into the pocket of her coat.]

Have you a thought for where you will go? When this business is over and done with.

[elegiaque]

( easier and more difficult to think on than her father. gwenaëlle toys with her skirts, swaying a little where she sits, something about the wryness of her expression when she returns that sidelong look more generally telling. she is a tolerable gambler, but by and large does not have much in the way of a poker face.

it's easy to see her become more and more comfortable. )

Thranduil wants...

( an exhalation. wants what, wants to not be in a fucking circle tower? she doesn't have to finish that sentence for it to be immediately clear that the question of where gwenaëlle will go at the end of all this is still an open one, the moreso for the steady ground beneath their marriage license having lasted less than a year.

he would not go easily. it goes without saying. it's probably better not to say it. )

I think he'd actually quite like to go to Orlais, ( for reasons both political and petty, ) but I don't know.

[unshut]

[From where her chin is tucked in the palm of her long hand, Fitcher's eyes narrow in something like exaggerated study of her company. It doesn't quite outstrip the warmth of her, some latent easiness beneath or maybe because of all the put on faces, and yet--]

And in which direction would you prefer to go?

[elegiaque]

( away from orlais? away from war, and the unceasing wrangling, and— )

With him.

( she is very young, yet. )

[unshut]

[Something in her face softens behind against the palm of her hand. It's sweet, and sweet things deserve-- well, nevermind the particulars. The sentiment at least warrants some respect.

She isn't so old and hard as all that.]

I felt the same.

[Which is not like telling a secret. It's only a statement of some gentle fact, held tenderly for its delicacy in the warm night.]