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.
"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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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.
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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.
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(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.
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"Alferez," the gentleman in question supplies.