[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

b

[unshut]

Across the table, Fitcher has taken possession of the last standing bottle and begun to portion out its contents into the nearest glasses. It pays, evidently, to sit within arm's reach of her. But here, she pauses, the play of the cards in the candlelight drawing her attention from the task and the low muttering conversation happening directly to her right.

She tips the bottle upright (nevermind her neighbor's soft sound of protest), then half stands to reach across the table so she might dose the glass - previously used or otherwise - near Mhavos' hand with some fair measure of the currant black wine.

"Would you say then that you could do it with your eyes closed? Or do you keep lights in your closets for just such an occasion?"

[murderbaby]

He notes this, and wonders at it. Though he doesn't know Fitcher, it's clear she's in charge of this little gathering. She keeps her eyes on everyone and no one. He's kept himself out of her way, simply observing and appreciating her observation. And now he's been noticed. Is that good or bad?

He considers the wine, and takes a sip (fine stuff, finer than he's had before; he'll have to be careful with it) before shuffling the cards again, hands careful and nimble.

"It was a large closet. The kind nobles had. There was a window, but-" He closes his eyes, and repeats the trick. Mhavos opens them with mild surprise, comfortably pleased with himself. "Ah."

[unshut]

A light catches in her face, pleased smile quirking briefly crooked there at the corner of her mouth. Without really looking after it, she drains what little is left in the bottle into her neighbors cup. Cleverly done, little mouse.

"That," the woman says. "Is far too much time to be spending in a closet."

[murderbaby]

He placidly thanks her for the wine, and passes the deck back to her. "We were told to stay out of the way. They were having an estate sale."

He doesn't think to specify, we, the servants, they, the property owners. In Orlais, it would be obvious, it's not like he's managed yet to completely erase his accent.

[unshut]

"Well," she says, Antiva heavy in the smokiness of her voice, while accepting the deck. She cuts it deftly. "I didn't imagine it was by choice."

The wisk hiss of the cards as they're shuffled is a pleasant, ryhtmic melody.

"You said 'we.' Did anyone else come along to Kirkwall with you?"

[murderbaby]

His lip quirks. A pleasant enough joke.

He watches her shuffle, quietly noting the ease of movement, and wondering if he can copy it later. It isn't as though he isn't nimble...

"I was the only one that stayed," he says, because that's more to her interest, he suspects. "I'm finding myself fond of the city. A severe minority, I'm aware."

[unshut]

"Ah. There is something rather rewarding about it, isn't there? It's very much a place that invites putting one's energy into it. I might call it a rewarding city, but the word suggests coin and I'm not sure that's really so. But the sentiment--"

Well, the sentiment she will allow. It's the pleasure of successfully navigating a hedge maze.

With a hissof cardstock, she deals.

"Between you and me" --and the rest of the table-- "It's the harbor I can't stand. Crossing back and forth over it, I mean. I may be happy enough to be here, but my stomach disagrees."

[murderbaby]

"I find it honest," he says, "refreshingly so. Even in Hightown, they don't pretend."

Pretend what? He knows what he means. And there's an advantage to be had in vague statements. People's reactions are very telling.

There's a restrained chuckle at her complaint of the harbor. "I'm rather new to sea travel of any kind. I was hoping I would acclimate to it...?"

[unshut]

Honest. Now that does make her laugh - a dense, low sound. What a word for it.

"I wouldn't worry. I believe most do."

[murderbaby]

He hears that laugh, and considers an argument. Why not a riddle? "Are statues of slaves anything but?"

He takes his hand. "For your sake, I won't hold my breath."

[unshut]

Which is, really, more entertaining than the magic trick. Her smile is firmly set, curving there in the cande light and evening shadow, as she rearranges her hand.

"No, I think your assessment is the right one. I'm also reasonably certain there are a few tragic poets out there who might be envious of such a novel description."

[murderbaby]

"Oh," his voice curves more than his mouth. "A low opinion of poets? I'm sure I'm not the first to come up with the comparison. All cities are rife for description."

[unshut]

"Have you seen many?"

Cities, or poets?

[murderbaby]

He clicks his tongue, organizing his hand by number and suit. "Three cities. Several poets."

[unshut]

She takes up her cup. Across its rim: "Really? Which ones?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos shrugs. "Mostly in repose. Blois Occollemé, Gilles Piquet, Preux Impêche... I don't mean to bore you, if the annals of Orlesian poets isn't a subject of interest."

[unshut]

"Not at all." Which could just as easily mean Do go on or summarize the totality of her interest in poets, couldn't it? With a quirking eyebrow and a sip from her cup, Fitcher discards the first card and begins play.

Your turn.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos is not a fantastic card player. He's middling at best, and has always enjoyed the social aspect more than winning. He never had much to loose, anyway.

"Are you familiar with the translations of La Comtesse de Séces? Her translations are likely the best." He assumes she doesn't know Orlesian, at least, not well enough to read poetry in it even if she wanted to.

[unshut]

Meanwhile, Fitcher seems as reliable a player as one can be without a talent for cheating. She is familiar with the cards, with the game, with the stakes, and with the wine. What more is there to breeding a laissez faire sort of comfort?

"I'm not very good with names. Has any of her work been put to music?"

[murderbaby]

So Mhavos places his cards with a studied confidence, but no great luck or grater knowledge beyond the next move. They haven't set their bets, anyway, but if she demands one, he has more time to his own than he's ever had in his life. Surely she'll want some chore done discreetly.

"Are you asking me to sing?"

[unshut]

A shrug, as easy as her smile.

"If you like."

[murderbaby]

Just gonna assume that's a joke...

"As I have no reason to dislike you, I'll spare you the travesty. Have you ever heard If Ever Two Were One? I've heard that was popular in Trade."

[unshut]

"Ah." Which, with that intonation, is I Know That One in every language, though Fitcher goes as far as humming some variation of the tune as she debates the contents of her hand.

"I should have guessed the words were written by a woman of some means. That entire second stanza--" A click of the tongue. "Well, it's not really a song for the public house, is it?"

She lays a card, draws another.

what game are they even playing, waves hands ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[murderbaby]

It's a good song. It's a better poem, but Mhavos can admit to bias.

"I will admit the Trade translation is somewhat... bawdier," Mhavos says with a chuckle, "but it is fashionable for Orlesian nobles to write eroticism under a nom de plume. There are entire books of erotic verse-- not generally committed to song, though."

He lays down his card, matching hers in suit but not number, before drawing another.

fake fantasy card games is what

[unshut]

"I suppose all that time spent idle lends well to the contemplation of all sorts of things. I imagine that without the demands of routine, the rest of us might also spend a little more time on describing one another's flesh as prettily as possible."

Beside the pair, she begins a new branch on the tree - matched in color, but neither suit nor number. The points are less impressive, but she's of a mind to follow up on it on her turn next.

"Tell me - are you a poet, serah?"