[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]

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."