Now it's her turn to trace a line through the air with her eyes. They come to rest on the giant Jenga and her own little grin broadens by tiny measures. "Ah, damn." Winter snaps her fingers, clucking and then ducking her head in mock disappointment. "I'm just not much of a whittler." She only stumbles over those words a bit. "How're your Transfigurations? Hate to call the whole thing off."
A dangerous question, as he seems to always be laying in wait for someone to ask him about the only subject he legitimately does really well in. He may as well be chirping when he answers maybe too quickly, "Oh, don't worry, I'm a prodigy." He takes his wand out and into his sleeve. He probably shouldn't ruin Laszlo's party just yet, but he's got to keep the illusion up. He pretends to pull it back, to reconsider. "Or should we collect bets first."
An impressive snort of laughter rushes out of her, caught and stifled in the palm of her hand. She grins behind her fingers, plainly delighted with Tybalt's bravado. Something about the effortless surety of 'don't worry, I'm a prodigy' hits in just the right way. Letting him go off with his wand is tempting, and though Winter has a soft spot for mayhem, she also, generally, tries to keep the chaos of the victimless kind. This is Laszlo's party, after all, and it seems like Armani had worked very hard on it. "Bets first," she replies, dropping her hand from her face once her smile's back under control. "Maybe someone just happens to have a chess set on hand."
It might not seem very notable that Tybalt doesn't argue this stance, and gamely tucks his wand back into his pocket. But it is, because if Tybalt really wanted to ruin the party, he would've done so by now. Luckily, he's been lulled into self-satisfaction by the laughter, and it's an agreeable state.
He leans a little conspiratorially closer, wishing he had sunglasses very much to stare across the scene. "What's a good bet worth these days? I've heard your ear's close to the ground."
Still, Winter replies as though she is a seasoned bookie, come from a long and prestigious line of successful turf accountants. She is absolutely not, and perhaps it shows. "Oh, confidence runs high among chess-players, so the bets are equally big. Dozen dragots, easy." She glances sidelong at Tybalt with a cat-like smile. "What would you w-w-wager on yourself, hm?"
Tybalt has never bet one thing in his life, and wouldn't know if a bookie was robbing him blind or not. He nods, serious, even as the corner of his mouth ticks up. If he was also a cat, he'd probably be purring in some mischievous contentment. Not entirely uncommon for him, but it's nice.
"If I was betting, oh twenty, easy, per game. But no one else should bet that. Or we'd have to pay them?"
It's a question because, again,he's never bet one thing in his life.
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peckenpaugh2019-10-20 09:54 pm
Tybalt & Winter
Tybalt & Winter
Tybalt & Winter
Tybalt & Winter
He leans a little conspiratorially closer, wishing he had sunglasses very much to stare across the scene. "What's a good bet worth these days? I've heard your ear's close to the ground."
He hasn't.
Tybalt & Winter
Tybalt & Winter
"If I was betting, oh twenty, easy, per game. But no one else should bet that. Or we'd have to pay them?"
It's a question because, again,he's never bet one thing in his life.