[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

a

[thereneverwas]

Well that's hardly fair.

[It's said with a warm smirk nonetheless, Barrow's gaze following the pin into the pot.]

Does that mean I can start betting my nose hairs?

[unshut]

If you can make an argument for what they're worth, I don't see why not. Beyond that - you can hardly blame me for coming prepared.

[Is it possible to sashay while sitting on a bench? No, but Fitcher somehow manages the whole coy over the shoulder look anyway. It's overblown to the point of being a joke behind the fan of her cards, but no less appalling for how easily she manages it. That, men somewhere have at some point warned their fellows - perhaps when Fitcher was younger and presumably even more keen to rely on her excellent bones -, is a minx of a woman.]

[thereneverwas]

Oh, I can blame you all I like. [He adds some bluster to the theatrics, furrowing his brow like a disapproving uncle.] You're intent on having me for a fool, and you'll probably succeed, and at the very least I'm allowed to whinge about it.

[He sighs, bends down for a moment, and returns with one of his boots, which he plants decisively on the table.]

[unshut]

[Which is delightful. Fitcher laughs, and it's a low pleasant sound.]

You make it sound so personal, Serah. Would it make you feel more better or less if I were to swear an oath that I'm intent on having everyone at this table for a fool, and not just you?

[Which she punctuates with a wink about the table for good measure.]

[thereneverwas]

To tell the truth, I might feel a little less special.

[He breaks his theatrical scowl to wink.]

Now deal, damn you.

[unshut]

As you like.

[So she does. And round the table goes the wagering and into the pot goes another one of her hairpins and a little ring from her finger.]

I'm afraid that's all the jewelry. Would you care to raise?

[thereneverwas]

[Lips pursed in a flat line when the circle is complete, Barrow glowers at her, at everyone else at the table, then bends down to offer his other boot.]

I'll see it, that's all. More than this and I'll run out of clothes faster than I can finish my ale.