[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

[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.