WHO: Fitcher + Wysteria + Flint & You WHAT: Catch-all WHEN: Firstfall-ish WHERE: Kirkwall and stuff. NOTES: Will update if necessary. Feel free to grab me if you want a specific starter/wildcard me, baby.
Amos likes to gamble. His favorite game is soft G pachinko, or as the Belt calls it, pachinko. He also likes dice games, but cards are fine. He's only ever played card games that end in fist fights and the occasional homicide, but it seems unlikely here, which is novel.
"I got the rules," he says. He's wearing a cheaply made shirt, the sleeves are rolled up, revealing the shard in his elbow. He's an easy mark, or he looks like one.
Darktown has been amusing, in its way.
"What's the pot? Money?" He pulls out some bronze and silver coins, enjoying how antiquated it feels to hold physical money. It's like some kind of historical vid. The coins even clink as they hit each other, falling into a pile on the table.
Ellis is not so much an avid gambler as he is a graceful loser. Apparently content to be present at the table and enjoy the company while parting with a little of his money, he's not a regular by any means but this isn't his first appearance at Fitcher's table.
A nod to Amos, eyes settling on his elbow then flicking to the clatter of coins.
"Money. Sometimes collateral, if someone's feeling adventurous. I lost a decent knife that way."
Without any real heat to the admission. Yes, it was a good knife. No, he's not very concerned over it's fate. He taps a coin against the edge of the table absently as he speaks.
"It is indeed. And consequently relies entirely on the pleasure of one's company to be of much interest," Fitcher intones from her side of the table while casually rearranging the fan of her hand.
Only as an afterthought does she add, "There has been some blood. I believe you were there, Warden, on the occassion I attempted to extract myself from the middle of the bench while someone else was leaning forward and so put my knee in their face. Who was that?"
The Ambassador seems the most likely victim, but surely the bulk of the blows she has dealt that poor man have been more subtle than attempting to break his nose.
"It's a pity Edgard isn't here, or I'd bet him again," Barrow says from around a cigarette, eyeing his hand and trying to be stonefaced about it, though there's a crinkle of amusement in his eyes.
"What d'you reckon he's worth? At least one shoe."
"You bet a person?" That gets a spark of light in Amos' eyes, but about what, it's hard to tell. Some parts of him, from his posture to the vague suggestion of an expression he wears on his face, become more vital. Focused, almost. "Heard you could do that, but not here."
There's a momentary tightening in Ellis' shoulders at the invocation of Edgard, before he either decides he doesn't find the joke funny or doesn't care for the reference full stop. Regardless, he shuffles his cards into one hand as he considers Fitcher's question.
"I am fairly sure it was the Ambassador. It could not have been Bastien, as I believe that night he was rehearsing some new piece of music across the room from your table."
And it seems about Byerly Rutyer's luck, even in Ellis' limited experience of the man.
In answer, Fitcher slides a series of coins into the pot in the middle of the table to begin the game. "Poor man," may be an assessment of Edgard or Byerly or both.
And then, as the round of play begins to progress around the table - or, you know, however Wicked Grace is supposed to work -, she turns her attention on Amos. As far as looks meant to put people on the spot goes, this one is perfectly pleasant.
"You must tell us, serah. How are you finding Kirkwall?"
Amos' response is a thin copy, a smile that doesn't reach his open eyes, wide with an amiability that may seem forced, or perhaps just empty. "Not so great if you sell people."
"I'm a curious guy," Amos says, and the emotion is still blandly pleasant, but there's something that could be genuine, if sarcasm can be called that. "You bet money. There's slavers in your back yard. Selling people jokes. I get it. Everybody's gotta live."
He lays a card down, humming over that a moment, as though distracted before the same banal intensity returns.
Barrow's smile is oddly fixed, like he's afraid that if he lets it slip at all, he will betray something terrible to the entire table and also himself, so he'd better just keep smiling and avoid the awkwardness.
Then Edgard arrives, and he gives him a stilted nod.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says quickly, holding up his hands, and then looks to Amos as they await his answer.
Ellis sighs quietly. In lieu of greeting or further contribution, he drops a few coins into the center of the table before picking up another card, because Wicked Grace surely involves such an action.
With an Ooh of support for Square Jaw as Ellis' new name, Fitcher makes a tiny motion toward Edgard in greeting before laying out and drawing a series of cards et cetera et cetera. Presumably more money is pushed into the pot.
"Combat training," Barrow answers cheerfully, glad the conversation has moved on from slavery or lack thereof. He calls the bet, tossing in a few coins.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ota, threadjacking welcome.
"I got the rules," he says. He's wearing a cheaply made shirt, the sleeves are rolled up, revealing the shard in his elbow. He's an easy mark, or he looks like one.
Darktown has been amusing, in its way.
"What's the pot? Money?" He pulls out some bronze and silver coins, enjoying how antiquated it feels to hold physical money. It's like some kind of historical vid. The coins even clink as they hit each other, falling into a pile on the table.
Fucking hilarious.
no subject
A nod to Amos, eyes settling on his elbow then flicking to the clatter of coins.
"Money. Sometimes collateral, if someone's feeling adventurous. I lost a decent knife that way."
Without any real heat to the admission. Yes, it was a good knife. No, he's not very concerned over it's fate. He taps a coin against the edge of the table absently as he speaks.
no subject
It might be nice to play cards and not worry about how the inevitable fight will break out, whose side he'll be on, if he'll be on his own...
He puts down a few cards, a promising start.
"This is the popular game, right?"
no subject
Only as an afterthought does she add, "There has been some blood. I believe you were there, Warden, on the occassion I attempted to extract myself from the middle of the bench while someone else was leaning forward and so put my knee in their face. Who was that?"
The Ambassador seems the most likely victim, but surely the bulk of the blows she has dealt that poor man have been more subtle than attempting to break his nose.
threadjax
"What d'you reckon he's worth? At least one shoe."
no subject
no subject
He didn't, at all, but it's no fun picking on Edgard when he isn't here to get fussy about it.
"S'pose it's coin this time, is it?"
no subject
"I am fairly sure it was the Ambassador. It could not have been Bastien, as I believe that night he was rehearsing some new piece of music across the room from your table."
And it seems about Byerly Rutyer's luck, even in Ellis' limited experience of the man.
no subject
And then, as the round of play begins to progress around the table - or, you know, however Wicked Grace is supposed to work -, she turns her attention on Amos. As far as looks meant to put people on the spot goes, this one is perfectly pleasant.
"You must tell us, serah. How are you finding Kirkwall?"
no subject
no subject
The explanation is more complex than that, but Ellis addresses the immediate implication: Riftwatch does not trade slaves.
no subject
He lays down two more cards, building what advantage he has.
no subject
Barrow is briefly too shocked to laugh, but then does anyway, looking at least as mortified as he probably should.
"Edgard's a friend," he assures Amos as he lays his own cards, "just having a laugh, I promise."
no subject
no subject
"Perhaps you'd prefer to ask us questions instead?"
no subject
He lays a card down, humming over that a moment, as though distracted before the same banal intensity returns.
"Hey, lady, what's your job?"
no subject
She looks up from her cards only afterward, her smile slow over the fan of cardstock.
"I'm a clerk in Riftwatch's scouting division. One who prefers 'Fitcher' to 'lady' unless you mean to use them in combination. What's yours?"
no subject
"Heard there was a card game. Am I late?" He then notices Barrow. "Don't even think about it." He grumps.
no subject
Then Edgard arrives, and he gives him a stilted nod.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says quickly, holding up his hands, and then looks to Amos as they await his answer.
no subject
no subject
He lays a few more cards down. "That's a pretty sweet job, Lady Fitcher." A little salute as he says it. Yes, Sir, I am playing by the rules.
"What's everybody else's job? Besides Square Jaw over here; I know him." He points to Ellis.
no subject
no subject