[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

derrica | ota.

[tender]

Always, always, Derrica arrives with a bottle of her own. It's meant to share, as if she needs to have some further contribution other than coins and a willingness to lose them.

Maybe it's a little bit for her too. It's always easier to make conversation when she's had something to drink. Starting over is always difficult, and she's in a position here where many of her talents aren't necessarily applicable. (Seaside knowledge, ill-gotten or legitimate, doesn't fit here.) She finds her way to the table, and wedges herself into the first free space available.

Maybe she has to elbow herself some breathing room. It's fine.

"What are we playing tonight?" She asks, a little breathless, as she clunks her own bottle onto the table. "Can I be dealt in?"

[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."

[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.

[ketterdamn]

"Superstition." That the first hand has anything to do with the rest of them. Any card game can be curtailed by a dealer favoring one person over the other, especially if they have quick fingers. But then, most players cling to those superstitions—he banks on it at home.

"Kaz." He shifts slightly to the side as she starts opening a bottle, cheery and bulling right through any space constraints. Somehow, he's reminded of Nina. "Enough to stay in; profitable to some, not as much to others."

[tender]

Derrica hums. She doesn't know how to play cards this way, angling towards specific profit. Derrica learned card games haphazardly, playing for nothing that mattered with warped cards in the hold of ships. As informal as these games are, she still feels in over her head but determined to brazen through it.

"I don't have a lot to lose," she admits easily, shrugging as the cork finally pops. "Want some?"

The label on the bottle is torn, but what's left is promisingly fancy; elaborate script curls around the edges beneath Derrica's fingers.

[ketterdamn]

"Not many here do. The distraction is worth its weight in gold." Wartime did that to people. He remembers the bedraggled and dazed looks of the Ravkans who managed to make it to Kerch. Refugees, with hollow cheeks and hollower eyes. There'd been similar looks, during the Queen Lady's Plague. And there's always the ones in the Barrel, people who've lost it all or damn near.

(He thinks of water, rising to his ankles, and–)

"If you're offering."

[tender]

His response hints towards something heavier, darker than Derrica had intended. She watches his face for a moment before hooking the handle of his cup and pouring a generous amount of whatever it is in that bottle into his cup. It smells nice. Sweet. Derrica clearly plans to swing from the bottle herself, as there's no extra cup in sight.

"Do you play in pairs?"

A little easier than asking for a follow up on his opinions about distractions.

[ketterdamn]

Whatever she sees, if anything, she doesn't comment on. And for that, he's grateful. The years have done what they could to lessen the severity of his expression any time he thought on the past, but he knows someone with sharp enough eyes may be able to take a guess.

Here, she fills his cup without a word and takes a swig herself, the odd ripple in the conversation steered easily into better places. Kaz sips from the cup, surprised at just how sweet the taste is. Not his usual fare, though he'd be hard pressed to waste it.

"Normally, no. Think there's enough joining in that we could get teamed up." Too many hands and not enough cards in the deck to go around. He can see the dealer waiting for the chaos of people coming and going to settle, counting just how many heads have come to sit.