[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]

[Her smile flashes wide, all self-satisfied before she begins once more to puff away at what remains of the bowl.]

What a tragic end to our association.

[bouchonne]

How will you ever find so good and generous a friend?

[ He holds out his hand to ask for the pipe. ]

[unshut]

[See how amenable she is - with a last pull, Fitcher passes it back.]

I can't imagine there is a single acceptable substitute to be found in all of Kirkwall. I'll have to go abroad.

[bouchonne]

But Riftwatch shall be crippled without your clever mind.

[unshut]

Are you not a diplomat, Messere? Is there nothing you might offer me to keep me?

[bouchonne]

My word. What is there, possibly...?

[ He makes a great show of deep thought - and then springs, abruptly, to his feet. ]

Come.

[unshut]

[A tip of the head, a narrowing of the eyes: consider her intrigued. She offers him her hand, and once upright loops her arm in his. That's three times now - nearly habitual.]

Lead on.

[bouchonne]

[ He strokes her hand, where it sits in the crook of his elbow, just once. Then he leads: unsurprisingly, given their earlier talk, to the kitchen.

Some of the more costly supplies (sugar, fats, spices) are kept behind lock and key. By slips free of Fitcher for a moment to pull a wire from his sleeve - shoots her a wink - and then capably picks that lock. ]

Contain your admiration.

[unshut]

My, you are a scoundrel.

[This from where she stands as a shield, but quite between him and the door leading out but near enough to it that it's difficult to imagine she's done so by accident.]

[bouchonne]

I do confess it.

[ He sees that she's serving as lookout, and grins. Sugar is pulled from the larder, and butter, and wheat flour, and bark of cinnamon, and salt - precious things all. A scoundrel indeed. Each one is carried to the work-bench, where they're laid out with confidence. ]

What flavors do you favor, madame?

[unshut]

[Now this does warrant some measure of genuine intrigue, a pause in her study of the setting and him in it and the series of ingredients laid there on the bench. She is so very good at those coy half turns, dark eyes and crooked smiles all purposefully overplayed to the point of comedy and here it's as if she briefly forgets the joke - her attention momentarily rapt, keen as some predatory bird.

Fitcher draws a pin from her hair or from up her sleeve or some pocket, sets it between the larder door and its frame so it might be shut without latching, then drifts inevitably nearer.]

Honey and almonds. But anything will do.

[bouchonne]

A lady of very fine tastes.

[ It's not anything particularly elegant he pulls together, it must be admitted. Even the years of Orlesian occupation had not managed to convert Ferelden away from its taste for simple sweets. The butter is creamed together with the sugar, a sprinkle of salt added. Just a bit of cinnamon as well. Then the flour is added by parts, each time with Byerly incorporating it with a capable hand. He works quickly and neatly and well.

He is an odd sort of lazy man: the pleasure in his face at this labor is quite plain to see. ]

Light a fire in the oven, will you?

[unshut]

[A lady of simple ones, she doesn't correct. A girl being taught by her mother to press honey sticky dough into a brick shaped mold and licking her fingers clean after. She'd had a brother once, and they'd cracked nut shells together on the dusty doorstep in the evenings.

Your mother didn't teach you this, she thinks as she watches him.]

I would have never supposed you were a baker, Messere. Tell me, [she says, withdrawing to the oven to do as instructed] Is this how your hands became so strong?

[bouchonne]

[ An eyebrow arches in (pleased) surprise at the forwardness of that question. But - even though he's begun to think of her as shy because she fended off his advances, that doesn't actually make her shy. No, she was bold as they came before she changed her mind. ]

My hands became strong through a wide variety of exercises. One cannot be strong merely from baking. One must bake, and sew, and deal cards, and learn the art of massage - for relaxation only, of course.

[ He touches a hand to his breast, leaving a smudge of flour to mark his heart. Then he goes for the mortar and pestle - crushing almonds, to add their sweetness and firmness to the dough. They're folded in once the shells are all cleared. ]

[unshut]

Sewing as well?

[There is warm ash still here in the ovens - no such think as a fully deceased hearth in a kitchen such as this one - and between it, the fine filaments of strip bark kindling pulled into fibrous webs, and the strike of flint, there should be no trouble at all calling fire back to the oven. It's thoughtlessly done, easy enough work that she has the luxury of studying him from the corner of her eye.]

Do you have a sister? She must be quite accomplished.

[bouchonne]

[ A ripple of tension goes through him at the question - there, and then just as quickly gone. His hands pause, and then start again. His face betrays nothing; his voice remains light. ]

Extraordinarily so. - I wish we had a bit of vanilla. That would go most fine with this indeed, but I think that poor impoverished Riftwatch has no access to such fineries. Ah, well. What about you, lovely madam? Any brothers or sisters?

[unshut]

[There is a song that goes, I could never love a maid with raven hair dear, for yours is as spun of summer and gold dear, and always it brings to mind the question: What are you avoiding, sweet thing? What girl with dark hair have you been kissing? But see - she is patient, coaxing an ember with in the oven with her cupped hand and encouraging puffs of air.]

Three sisters and two brothers, once. [A sly look, her own arched eyebrow.] I believe I have a niece who must be your age.

[bouchonne]

If she resembles you, I expect she'd quite capture my heart...were she perhaps a bit more mature.

[ He shoots her a sly glance in return. ]

[unshut]

[Without breaking their shared eyeline, she blows into the smoke and kindling. When the ember catches - and it does, with coaxing -, Fitcher tosses the nest of flame back into the piled ash and stacked cordwood.]

[bouchonne]

[ He can't help but grin at that deliciously provocative look on her face. He returns the favor by pinching off a bit of the buttery dough and bringing it to his mouth - nibbling on it with brows lowered. ]

How delightful.

[ But there's still work to be done. He breaks the eye contact with her, turns out the dough and presses it out onto the board. The shortbread is cut into fingers, then arranged on a baking tray that's presented to her - ]

Does it please you?

[unshut]

[Yes, well. Work is a singularly relentless mistress. Imagine all the things one might do if she were escaped.

And so a survey is given. After some moments of serious study, Fitcher allows:] They certainly look neat as pins, though these things really do come down to the taste. I'm afraid I must reserve my judgement.