[closed]

[unshut]

WHO: Fitcher, Byerly, Lexie
WHAT: Playing cards in the sick room
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Kirkwall, The Grippe War(ehouse)d
NOTES: n/a, will add if necessary

"And that, I'm afraid, is the end of the trick. It seems I've won again, Ambassador. Would you like me to explain where you went wrong, or shall I simply deal again?"

As far as venues for card games go, this one is truly the height of misery - a narrow bed in a line of them, surrounded by other wheezing and coughing sick, and the whole state of the infirmary kept almost unpleasantly over warm in what must be an attempt to sweat the sickness out. But this is hardly a card game, either. If the last five hands are any indication, Fitcher is making up the rules as she goes along for her own pleasure.

Which she is perfectly entitled to, thank you. There must be something done to keep her in good spirits as the illness - perhaps by some combination of her rather less than conservative lifestyle or the fact that she is, simply put, old enough to get murdered by these sorts of things if she isn't mindful - has done its work to draw her rather thin and pale, to make her dark eyes very dark, where she is laid up in bed. Her knee, beneath the terrobly casual line of Byerly's arm, might almost be described as sharp.

Comments

[bouchonne]

"Oh?" He looks around theatrically at Lexie's noise of warning, then nods sagely. "Oh, I see." And he moves his fingers from that card to a different one - one that is altogether random, the playing of which has no strategy involved in the least.

"But I'm a very soft man, you know," he protests mildly. "Possessed of a full suite of womanly virtues. Indeed, I think I may be softer than either of you."

(There is no question that he is softer than either of them.)

[unshut]

"I'm afraid that is the trouble, Ambassador. A soft touch is very different from a truly gentle one; a lady is made of iron and chooses to moderste herself, whereas I'm afraid you bear a closer resemblance to my favorite goose feather filled pillow," she explains, placing a series of cards over his as if she has made some very clever play off his choice. "But I would be delighted to hear what womanly virtues you believe you possess.

"Although, it occurs to me that the Lady Asgard might not be here expressely to play cards or discuss your habits, Messere." She looks to Alexandrie then. "You must say the word if I'm causing any delay to your business, Madame."

[coquettish_trees]

"Her business was to be the entertainment of the Ambassador, and so she is on it." Alexandrie eyes Byerly, still in his comfortably stretched slump against Fitcher, and of a sudden hates it again. And so she considers the pile of cards on the bed instead, and is not entirely successful at keeping the needle tip of hurt from peeking through the cover of of her light and unconcerned tone.

"Although she finds herself unnecessary."

[bouchonne]

"Yes, yes, entirely so," By says, his voice rather dry in response to her playacting. The little quaver of unhappiness in her voice is an unsubtle touch, he thinks. "I find all my joy with this lady now."

He taps a finger on Fitcher's ankle.

Then, "What was your plan for entertainment, dear Lexie? Surely not this card game which was most certainly invented but a few minutes hence."

skippin' cause immediacy! 8D

[coquettish_trees]

The cultivated looseness freezes in place and Alexandrie is, of a sudden, on her feet and brushing her skirt as if the last moments were unwanted folds in the cloth she could dismiss with the same precise briskness.

"What matter that?" She asks, as airy as her shoulders are stone, "I shall take it back to Hightown and entertain all my joy." A dip of her chin to Fitcher. "Madame."

She has already turned towards the door and taken a step before "Ambassador," follows.

[unshut]

Given the tap to her ankle, Fitcher glances up from her hand of cards fully prepared for a bite of sly humor or something like it and finding-- well, not that. The Lady Asgard rises, all sweeping skirts and perfunctory goodbyes; the look Fitcher throws Byerly in the wake of it is a question without concrete form.

[bouchonne]

His lips part in confusion. It's taking the joke a bit far, it seems to him. It'd be one thing if it were done with just him, but Fitcher is here as well, and she doesn't know Lexie's sense of humor.

"Oh, come now," he says, and though his brows betray his confusion with the way they're knitted together his voice is light - "I apologize from the depths of my heart. Come back, my lady, come and bring me joy."