[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

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[murderbaby]

Mhavos sits, tidy and polite.

"Play cards? Yes." He taps the deck his companion draws from. "The game you're playing? No."

[limier]

"It is not a game one wins," Not in this permutation. As an initiate, of course, it was infinitely more interesting to make the Knights fight — "A sort of fortune-telling. You ask a question."

A breath, a gesture.

"Not What is your name," A wry glance. (It would do.) "More broad, yes?"

[murderbaby]

Squint. "That would explain it." Squint harder.

"May I still ask your name?" It only seems polite. In anyone else, it would be flirtation, but Mhavos' voice is polite verging on meek. There's no heat or sharpness there.

"As to the question... what does one commonly ask fortune tellers. Nothing about tall dark strangers, please. I suppose... Something of my future. Will my work bear fruit? I hope that is suitably vague."

[limier]

"Coupe," It isn't a first name. It isn't given like someone who gives those. "Nor am I barred from your own."

That had been a prompt. She lifts the first card, turns it over theatric. Someone's mixed this deck: Wicked Grace and handful of stranger suits; the illustrations peculiar to each other.

"The Song of Temerity,"

The popular image of Havard, aegis raised before a trumpet.

[murderbaby]

One name begs another, though Mhavos' surname has always existed for himself, never others. "Mhavos," he says.

He looks over the card, and cannot keep one brow from curving slightly in a sarcastic angle. "And this means...?"