WHO: Fitcher, Marcoulf, Bartimaeus (+) & YOU WHAT: Ye Olde Catch'all WHEN: Nowish WHERE: Kirkwall, The Gallows, le Misc. NOTES: Starters in comments; if you want something/someone who isn't here, just hit me up and I'll scrape something together.
It isn't until they reach the Hightown gambling house that Fitcher finally sheds the mottled blue cloak. Though it is perfectly respectable wear for an evening traipsing through the city and for shielding finer things from itching fingers as they'd made their way from the Gallows slip and through Lowtown, it's hardly suitable for the work she plans to apply herself to this evening. Charming rich men and women visiting from Antiva - in the business of formalizing some new agreement with Kirkwall's Merchant Guild, and the exact sort of friends Riftwatch could stand to make - is better served by the fine tailoring and high collars with flashes of brilliant red embroidery. There is the smallest coined sized circle at the base of her throat made visible by the cut and clasp of the collar, but otherwise only her face and long hands are visible.
For the record: it suits her.
Fitcher touches Byerly's elbow as they wind their way from the door into the belly of the betting house. "Well Messere Diplomat, is there any last advice you'd care to impart before we begin?"
Maker, but does it suit her. He hadn't seen her without the cloak yet, and so the flash of color and pattern comes as a surprise; he cannot help but be captivated by the sight of her for just a moment. Oh, certainly, he looks fine enough himself - doublet and jerkin well-tailored and well-embroidered, hair well-trimmed, cheek clean, teeth gleaming - but the beauty of a dapper man rarely has the power to make your heart skip the way the beauty of a well-dressed woman can. By, being an ardent appreciator of both, feels he is within his rights to assert this.
Well. A smoothing-down of his front, a sly smile in her direction, and then he answers. "They are your people, madame," he replies. "I shouldn't be so arrogant as to instruct you. Just rest assured that if you find it advantageous to lose more than you win tonight, Riftwatch's coffers will lovingly make you whole tomorrow."
"Is the Seneschal aware of this promise, or is it entirely your own personal guarantee? I ask only as I've been on a losing streak, and I'd hate to either bankrupt us or find myself in a difficult position."
She's sticking close - not on his arm, lovely though it is, but near enough that for a moment the possibility lingers there between them regardless.
"I'm an important man now, Fitcher," he returns, eyebrow cocked in her direction. "With bona fides. I can make this guarantee on the strength of my word."
"How charming." Her smile is very cool indeed. "I do so enjoy it when a man is willing to throw his weight around on my behalf."
Ah, and there are their Antivan friends. Fitcher shoots him a sidelong look, then separates from him in favor of sliding into some standing gap available about the table.
What - What was that about? Why did she suddenly act like he said something offensive? He thought that he was being - you know - charming. Engaging. Why did she suddenly turn so cold?
He frowns at her back, then moves though the crowd to stand at another point on the table, a distance away from her.
This is, she has decided, how this night will go. Never mind that they have work to do - yes, yes, she will sweet talk a few of her rich countrymen, guiding them casually into conversation with her dear friend here who is an interesting fellow with a fascinating posting in the Gallows who you would get along with famously -, she means to get something out of this evening for herself. It is easier, she had heard, to take from a man when he has been battered about the head a bit.
Not that she has any personal experience with the prospect of course.
So for the first rounds at the table, she hardly looks in his direction at all and instead simply enjoys the game, placing bets here and there and working her way casually closer to the their rich prospects about the table. It isn't until some later round that she loses (magnificently; apologies to the Seneschal) and curses some laughing blue streak in her native Antivan that brings the head of one of the older merchants around that it even seems she's remembered what they're there for. The fellow - affable gent, wide smile, lovely perfume, her senior by a decade - turns and raises both hands as if to take her by the shoulders and instead cries out some friendly, cutting phrase before taking her money.
Then Fitcher shoots a look down the table to Byerly. Then she winks back at him.
Either she's forgiven him, or she was just playacting at being cold in the first place. How altogether baffling. But, well - Such is the nature of women, he supposes; that's no revelation to him. Even if it is irritating, it is, he supposes, what men live with. (And what a fool he is, to feel the rush of gratitude over her sudden warming.)
(Or maybe the gratitude is just that it finally appears that they've ceased playing around. How depressing it is, to have one's mind always on business instead of play - but that's the nature of his position now.)
"Well-played," By says to the merchant, nodding in salute. Then, as if emboldened by the man's luck, he starts this round out aggressively, throwing down a generous ante.
"Careful, Messer. Have you played much against Antivans?" she warns Byerly, flicking down her modest bet and arching an eyebrow toward their new compatriot. "I assure you, I know a tiger when I see one. One must be very bold indeed to scare them off, isn't that right--?"
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BYERLY
For the record: it suits her.
Fitcher touches Byerly's elbow as they wind their way from the door into the belly of the betting house. "Well Messere Diplomat, is there any last advice you'd care to impart before we begin?"
no subject
Well. A smoothing-down of his front, a sly smile in her direction, and then he answers. "They are your people, madame," he replies. "I shouldn't be so arrogant as to instruct you. Just rest assured that if you find it advantageous to lose more than you win tonight, Riftwatch's coffers will lovingly make you whole tomorrow."
no subject
She's sticking close - not on his arm, lovely though it is, but near enough that for a moment the possibility lingers there between them regardless.
no subject
He winks at her.
"Trust me, your trustworthy companion."
no subject
Ah, and there are their Antivan friends. Fitcher shoots him a sidelong look, then separates from him in favor of sliding into some standing gap available about the table.
no subject
He frowns at her back, then moves though the crowd to stand at another point on the table, a distance away from her.
no subject
Not that she has any personal experience with the prospect of course.
So for the first rounds at the table, she hardly looks in his direction at all and instead simply enjoys the game, placing bets here and there and working her way casually closer to the their rich prospects about the table. It isn't until some later round that she loses (magnificently; apologies to the Seneschal) and curses some laughing blue streak in her native Antivan that brings the head of one of the older merchants around that it even seems she's remembered what they're there for. The fellow - affable gent, wide smile, lovely perfume, her senior by a decade - turns and raises both hands as if to take her by the shoulders and instead cries out some friendly, cutting phrase before taking her money.
Then Fitcher shoots a look down the table to Byerly. Then she winks back at him.
no subject
(Or maybe the gratitude is just that it finally appears that they've ceased playing around. How depressing it is, to have one's mind always on business instead of play - but that's the nature of his position now.)
"Well-played," By says to the merchant, nodding in salute. Then, as if emboldened by the man's luck, he starts this round out aggressively, throwing down a generous ante.
no subject
"Alferez," the gentleman in question supplies.