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.
If there is a look typical of gamblers who find themselves in potentially unpleasant company whom they may or may not owe considerable sums of money to, Fitcher does a remarkably good job of not wearing it as she pauses just there inside the eyrie.
She smiles at Eshal while unstringing the soggy little packet of waxed paper in her possession.
"You are certainly not." One of the older griffons has begun to perk up at the stench of raw meat. "But you must know that the odds lean farther out of your favor the closer we get to the, if you'll pardon the phrasing, deadline."
The discolored string goes into her pocket and Fitcher's smile goes coy and coquettish, so clearly a ploy that it becomes a joke all on its own. "Lets not discuss money; it's so crass. Are you enjoying your new position, serah?"
There's a heavy FHWUMP as the elder griffon finally deigns to drops from the rafters of the eyrie. It shakes itself off, all dust and floating feather down.
Eshal lets a single rolling laugh fall from her throat. "You're lucky you're pretty."
She doesn't flinch when the griffon comes. She puts her hands on her hips and stares, appraising it slowly, as though it needs her approval. A verdict is not given, as the creature approaches, hungry for treats.
"And if I wasn't, would I complain about it to you?" Just to get back at her for that 'money is crass' bullshit. "I'm enjoying it. It's not perfect, but I like it better that way. Perfect is a fucking waste."
Yes, says Fitcher's self-satisfied expression. Her face is rather fortunate. But it would be conceited in the extreme to linger on the point, so she instead shifts her focus to unwrapping the bleeding scraps. One is flicked down into the straw and dust between herself and the imposing animal. After much ruffling of feathers and clacking of beaks, the griffon snaps up the strip of flesh.
"Ah, an adventuress diplomat. That's quite novel. Does your partner feel similarly, do you think?"
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She smiles at Eshal while unstringing the soggy little packet of waxed paper in her possession.
"You are certainly not." One of the older griffons has begun to perk up at the stench of raw meat. "But you must know that the odds lean farther out of your favor the closer we get to the, if you'll pardon the phrasing, deadline."
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The griffon directly in front of them lets out a huff. She huffs in return, mimicking it.
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There's a heavy FHWUMP as the elder griffon finally deigns to drops from the rafters of the eyrie. It shakes itself off, all dust and floating feather down.
no subject
She doesn't flinch when the griffon comes. She puts her hands on her hips and stares, appraising it slowly, as though it needs her approval. A verdict is not given, as the creature approaches, hungry for treats.
"And if I wasn't, would I complain about it to you?" Just to get back at her for that 'money is crass' bullshit. "I'm enjoying it. It's not perfect, but I like it better that way. Perfect is a fucking waste."
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"Ah, an adventuress diplomat. That's quite novel. Does your partner feel similarly, do you think?"
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She won't rag on Byerly, however she feels about him. A unified front. She has to keep up her end.
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"The accent, maybe?"