faderift | [open] can somebody please just tie me down

WHO: Barrow + you
WHAT: Bedrest and recuperation from Awful Things
WHEN: August
WHERE: mostly the Gallows
NOTES: I'll make starters if people want 'em

I.
Bedrest is ideal for people who like to read, or sleep, or sit around pondering life's mysteries. Although Barrow likes sleep as much as the next person, and reading is fine, he has little use for life's mysteries and finds more often than not that he is simply staring at the ceiling and unfairly wishing ill on the medic who impressed on him the need for his joints to mend this way.
He is, perhaps, a little grumpier than usual, but also absolutely desperate for any form of stimulation, so visitors are welcome. Especially if they have treats.

II.
When he's up and about again, Barrow knows better than to go straight to the training pitch and start swinging his hammer around, so instead he defaults to the more leisurely activity of ferrying off to the nearest pub and parking himself there to absorb whatever jollity is occurring at the moment.
He probably drinks too much, especially now, with so much going through his mind; but it's hard to help it, when there's very little else to do and so much he doesn't want to think about. At least he's a pleasant and agreeable drunk, not all that different from when he's sober, but with the sort of absent-minded nihilism that has historically made him either a good lay or a recipient for one's woes. He's rather more open to the latter these days, though the former has its place, at least for the right person.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

When he realizes exactly what is going on, Barrow's expression breaks into a grin and he laughs, loudly and resonantly, at his mistake.

"Maker's breath, for a moment I thought you some spirit of responsibility sent to shame me for my misdeeds," he exclaims, "cards, of course. Mariage. Go on then." He gestures to the expanse that is his blanketed lap, which makes a perfect playing table as long as he doesn't move too much.

"Worry not," she replies, the very picture of innocence, "if I were to be a spirit, it should not be of responsibility."

She'd sorted the deck already, the smaller portion they would use on top, and she separates it out now, puts the rest aside—for a different game later perhaps—and shuffles the remainder adroitly in such a way that her gloves are little impediment.

"Are you familiar with it?"

He shakes his head. "I'm afraid you'll have to teach me," he replies, "but I like to think I can still learn new things, every now and again."

"C'est bon! It is a game of trick-taking. Six cards each, to begin," and she deals, placing her own neatly on her knee, his on one of his. "The rest here," a draw stack which she'll place once he picks up his hand, "And our trump suit is—" A card flipped; the ten of hearts. "Ah, quelle chance! How fitting." An eyelash bat for Barrow, and she tucks it beneath the stack, visible to remind them of it.

"Tricks are thus: you may play any card at all, and so may I. The highest numbered card takes the trick. Once the stack is depleted and we are left with only our hands, we must match what suit is led or play a heart. Then it is the highest of the led suit or the highest heart that takes the trick. Now!" a finger raised with a flourish, "To its namesake. If you manage to hold in your hand both Emperor and Empress of one suit, you may declare a mariage and play them both at once. The trick is yours, and..." The same finger tapped at her lips, "I shall fetch you whatever treat you like best from the Hightown markets."

"You may do the same with the ace and ten of the same suit, although that is an amour," her tone turns to a dramatic whisper and she leans forward slightly, "love flourishing outside of marriage," le gasp, "and you must give me a kiss on the cheek."

It all seems well enough, an uncomplicated card game even if one he hasn't heard before, though that rule at the end merits a smile that feigns modesty.
"Scandal," Barrow gasps, "what will your husband think?"

"I shall not tell him, if you will not," she replies conspiratorially, her eyes sparkling with amusement, and then straightens back up and fans out her hand to examine it. Remembering something, she clucks to chide herself. "Ah; it is a partial deck, so you shall find no card with lower value than the ten." She resumes looking at her hand with the slight frown she knows to look as sweet as it does thoughtful, moves them around as if sorting them (but isn't), and then looks up with a smile.

"You may play first, if you like!"

"You should," Barrow replies, nudging his head toward her, "so I can see how it's done."
The statement is flirtatious in the sense that everything he's saying right now is flirtation; truly, he also just wants to make sure he's doing it right.

"Very well," she replies, "but you must watch very carefully, it is an incredibly complex process." With great exaggeration and decorum Alexandrie thinks about her cards... chooses one... pulls it from her hand... and lays it momentously in his lap.

"If you wish me to continue to play first to provide such fine example, you may play a card of lower value and yield me the trick as many times as you wish," she says, magnanimously.

"Surely you're not suggesting I would let you win," Barrow muses, pulling a card, "simply because you're a pretty lady?"
When he takes the trick, he grins at her. "You've already tried to lure me into marriage once, I won't be such a fool twice."

And she laughs, high and silvered, as she gestures a grand ‘after you’.

Mariage is one of Alexandrie’s favourite talking games: Simple enough that one can carry on a very fine conversation whilst playing, needing just enough thought that sometimes things slip out during that very fine conversation that might not otherwise.

So, as they continue like this, remaining relatively even in their claimed cards, she speaks. “How long have they decided you must rest for?”

Barrow tends to prefer games that don't require a lot of strategy, never having had much room for it in his mind (or at least not that he'll admit). He has an easy time with this one, smiling pleasantly as they play rapid-fire rounds.

"Just the week," he replies, easily enough, "though I'm to be careful after that, keep movement limited, and so forth." There's a touch of frustration in his voice, but he's hiding it well.

"Ah, the truly terrible fate of being delicate and having your every need catered to." She sighs the sigh of someone entirely empathetic to such a thing. The worst, really. A card played, trick taken and swept neatly into the little stack that is managing to almost keep pace with his. "What is it that galls you most about it?"

Oh, so it's gonna be like that, is it-- he shoots her a faux-chagrined scowl, accompanied by a snort as she takes the trick.

"People who come in just to trounce me at cards," he mutters, humor in his gruffness.

[open] can somebody please just tie me down

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