[That her room is in perfectly decent order is unimportant; surely the lie speaks to no motive more nefarious than a desire to visit rather than to be entertained.
She will play the part in any case. When she arrives at Isaac's door, it is with the two game pieces in her pocket and an infant sized loaf of some buttery sweet bread swaddled in the crook of her arm.]
[ The bread; his reputation. Etcetera. The room is as it’s ever: Clean, and spare by the standards of his station downstairs.
He’s dragged in a second chair for the occasion, trunk set before the fire in a low sort of table. The board and queens carve from Fitcher's own set, the rest torn paper markers.
It’s difficult, by the abstractions of ink and stone, to term any room in the Gallows cozy. But a fire rips through the hearth, breeze whistling through a window long stripped of bars. It’s a cold night, and clear. From a certain angle one may frame the moons.
In another time, this would have made a home for two or more mages. And still, ]
One, [ Finger held aloft above the edge of a small flask: ] Sugar or two?
[ He has been drinking more, and faking less, the past few months at cards. ]
Oh two, I should think. I try not to learn anything new while completely sober.
[The sweet loaf is unwrapped and arranged on its waxed paper on the trunk alongside the board, as vital a playing element as her game pieces and his spirits. Fitcher drapes herself into one of the chairs and avails herself of studying their paper pieces.]
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I'm changing my wardrobe over. Every flat surface where we might put a board is currently draped in something.
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[That her room is in perfectly decent order is unimportant; surely the lie speaks to no motive more nefarious than a desire to visit rather than to be entertained.
She will play the part in any case. When she arrives at Isaac's door, it is with the two game pieces in her pocket and an infant sized loaf of some buttery sweet bread swaddled in the crook of her arm.]
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[ The bread; his reputation. Etcetera. The room is as it’s ever: Clean, and spare by the standards of his station downstairs.
He’s dragged in a second chair for the occasion, trunk set before the fire in a low sort of table. The board and queens carve from Fitcher's own set, the rest torn paper markers.
It’s difficult, by the abstractions of ink and stone, to term any room in the Gallows cozy. But a fire rips through the hearth, breeze whistling through a window long stripped of bars. It’s a cold night, and clear. From a certain angle one may frame the moons.
In another time, this would have made a home for two or more mages. And still, ]
One, [ Finger held aloft above the edge of a small flask: ] Sugar or two?
[ He has been drinking more, and faking less, the past few months at cards. ]
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[The sweet loaf is unwrapped and arranged on its waxed paper on the trunk alongside the board, as vital a playing element as her game pieces and his spirits. Fitcher drapes herself into one of the chairs and avails herself of studying their paper pieces.]
What makes it so dreadful?