#whist | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

greypetrel · 1 year

Text

That night, at the estate of Lord Verney, 19th Baron Willoughby de Broke, the game of whist took an unprecedented turn. First, the Earl of Colchester showed up with his beau, a foreign Lady that enchanted the whole room with a male-like wit and quite the sharp tongue, as charming and easy-going, the perfect company, that he was. Second, when the men retired for a game of whist and the ladies stayed in the living room, at the second hand Lady Colchester entered, declaring she always found whist such a fascinating concept but never had the chance to assist in one game, back in Bukhara. She moved her hands in a way that was as unusual as mesmerising to watch, long fingers clad in cream silk under her purple gown, complimenting the tone of her skin. Chatting with Lord Hastings about the Middle East where he was sent in his service, she took no notice of the gasps and outrage she cause by sitting directly on Colchester's lap, as the worst of the women, and her gracious hand, deftly placed on the green, sent what felt like a breeze, as if the room itself breathed. The cards on the table didn't move, tho, and everyone thought it was an impression. She smiled amiably, a glint of intelligence in her eyes, as she bent to press a long kiss to her husband. They won the game, somehow, even if Willoughby de Broke had all the best cards. And the next morning, Lady Verney discovered her most precious tiara, a family heirloom that was passed from generations from one Verney wife to the other ever since Cromwell's Protectorate and that was told to be blessed by unnamed powers, was gone. And yet, who would have suspected the Colchesters, so amiable, so lovely if a little too forward -dued to the exotic nature of the lady, no doubt, that's what the contesses and baronesses at the dinner said anyway- and, as was clear to everyone, always in plain eyesight, catching everyone's attention.

#KissArtFebruary2023 by @violettenouvel #4 - Duty (Pragma)

They're on duty for the Queen, making a show and totally not doing anything mischievous! I can't believe it took me this long before drawing a game of whist.

Till Queendom Come is a project about an Indian Rakshasi who’s trying to find her lost heart after the East India Company stole it, a Jotunn who didn’t feel like going back to Norway after the Vikings invasions, and the youngest granddaughter of the last druid of St. Ives who’s now trying to keep on the family tradition on her own in spite of being the wrong gender to do so. Started as a project set in Edwardian England, born in a urge of sudden irritation about seeing Victoria being romanticised everywhere by a cynical comic artist who majored in English. You can read it or on Webtoon!

#kiss art february 2023 #kiss art february #historical fantasy #edwardian era #illustration #edwardian fashion #till queendom come webcomic #comics #comics art #webtoon canvas #greypetrel #traditional art #whist #storytelling #art #artists on tumblr

14 notes · View notes

seadeepywrites · 1 year

Text

stardust in the wind

Character: Reed Menetia (NPC) Words: 2415 tw: death, grief

After all these years, Reed recognizes her goddess’ influence in her dreams. When she opens her eyes to find herself standing in an endless field, twilight settling like indigo silk across a vast expanse of sky — she merely smiles.

It is warm here, and the wind whispers across her skin with a familiar gentle touch. Reed tucks her hands inside the sleeves of her robe, noting with some amusement that it is the long green outfit she wears on ceremonial occasions. It is stitched along the hem with intricate golden embroidery, and it is one of her finest possessions.

“This must be important,” she says to the sky, to the grass, to the breeze. “Last time I dreamt like this, you had me still in my sleep shirt.”

Melora doesn’t answer her directly, which isn’t terribly surprising. Reed can be patient. She closes her eyes, enjoying the balmy weather, and trusts in her goddess to make clear the reason for this vision eventually.

In a minute, or an hour, or perhaps no time at all, Reed becomes aware that there is someone standing in front of her. It feels the same as entering a room with a sleeping patient, knowing their presence in the way it changes the silence, rather than hearing anything in particular.

When she opens her eyes again, Reed is looking at the face of a friend.

“Oh,” she says softly. Not because she isn’t glad to see them, but because she hasn’t the faintest idea what their presence in her dream might mean.

Whist smiles slightly, tilting their head in a quizzical gesture.

“It’s nice to see you,” Reed says, a bit hastily. “I just — didn’t expect you here.”

Whist might love the forest with the same ardor that Reed does — albeit in a more practical, less mystical way — but they have never seemed to Reed like a dedicated devotee of the divine. If they are here, it suggests a new and unexpected chapter in the story of Reed’s and Whist’s hometown.

Whist looks around. “Uh,” they say. “Where is ‘here,’ exactly?”

Tipping her head back, Reed gazes at the sky. There is no sun, only wisps of clouds that streak pale over the purple expanse.

“It’s a dream-place. We’re dreaming.”

"You might be dreaming," Whist says with a shrug. "I don't think that I am."

"And why is that?" Reed says, curious.

In the exact same casual tone, Whist says, "Because I'm dead."

Reed stares at them for a moment, dismay catching in her throat. "What?"

"I'm dead," Whist repeats without affect. "We went to find Darcy, but then the guy that probably kidnapped her showed up with a bunch of people, and they killed me."

Reed wishes, for a few desperate seconds, that she weren't so sure of the truth of this vision. It would have been easier to believe this a nightmare, the inane imaginings of a sleeping mind.

"I think they got Gravel too," Whist adds as an afterthought. "Though I couldn't really see too well at that point."

"I'll..." Reed swallows hard. "I'll tell your father for you. Whist... I'm so sorry."

"I don't know why you're apologizing. You're not the one who killed me."

That brings a smile to Reed's face, even amid the devastation that drums its thunderous rhythm on her breastbone. It really is a very Whist-like thing to say.

"It just means I'm sad to hear that," Reed says. Tries to fill her voice to the brim with warmth, like offering a steaming mug of tea. "You're a friend of mine, and it hurts to think that I'll never see you again."

"Yeah. All right." Whist gnaws at their lip with their sharp little teeth. "I get that, I think." They pause. "I thought being dead meant going to the afterlife, or not being anywhere anymore, or something. So why am I here? In your dream?"

"Maybe Melora has a purpose for you still," Reed says, with a faint but non-negligible trace of hope. "Maybe it's not the end for you yet."

"Hmm." Whist does not sound convinced.

"May I give you a hug?"

"Uh, sure."

Reed steps forward, half-expecting Whist to pass like fog through her embrace. Whist does not accept hugs very often — a preference that stems from their general dislike of being touched — but it does happen occasionally, and in her dream, hugging Whist feels exactly the same as Reed remembers. Their leather armor creaks as she squeezes them, and the lithe lines of their body are solid and reassuring. They even hug back, a little stiffly.

When Reed withdraws, she uses the sleeve of her fancy robe to wipe away a few tears. Her throat aches with the dull agony of oncoming grief, and all her limbs are heavy as lead. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to savor the sweet summer scent that hangs in the air, hoping that she can inhale enough of it to erode the stone-heavy heart in her chest.

Is it Reed's imagination, or has the twilit sky darkened by a few shades? She had thought of it as a serene and dusky blue earlier, but now it more closely resembles the violet of a deep bruise. Almost the color of Whist's skin, actually. Reed stares upwards, wondering if night is approaching here the way it would in the waking world, even with no sun to slip below the horizon.

In the darkest part of the sky, a scatter of stars catches her eye. They twinkle like a handful of crushed diamonds, silvery and scintillating, or like tiny flecks of white paint on purple canvas.

Or, Reed realizes, like the opalescent freckles sprinkled across the bridge of Whist's nose and cheekbones. She looks sharply at Whist, the specter of suspicion starting to coalesce inside her.

"What?" Whist asks. "What is it?"

With no pupils or irises, Whist's pearl-white eyes resemble nothing so much as two fragments of the waxing moon — Reed has idly considered this thought many times over the years. Now she can only watch, half-hypnotized, as their sheen brightens into a steady glow. The light beaming from Whist's eyes is very much like moonlight, in the sense that it shines without illuminating. Gleams without blinding the viewer.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Reed doesn't know what to say. Under her care, Whist had regularly cast Cure Wounds on their broken leg, in an attempt to ease the pain and speed along the healing process. In other words, Reed knows what Whist's magic looks like — a purple shimmer that glints like sunlight on satin as it ripples down their arms and out through their hands.

Reed knows what Whist's magic looks like, and this isn't it.

She says, "Do you feel any different? Right now, at this exact moment?"

Whist blinks, the twin bits of moon winking out for a fraction of a second. "Uh, I'm dead. And hanging out in someone else's dream. I don't really know what that's supposed to feel like."

Reed steps towards them, intending to examine Whist's face more closely, but the vibration that thrums through her renders that inspection unnecessary. Entering into Whist's personal space is like a boulder crumbling to join a landslide — like Whist is one of those celestial bodies that Darcy's always talking about, and Reed has fallen into elliptical orbit around them. It's magic that moves the breath through Reed's lungs in this moment and pulls at her muscles, shaping her like clay. More importantly, the hand crafting it is one she recognizes.

Reed gasps as the sensation crests inside her, foaming like the long arch of an ocean wave. As it breaks, she stumbles, only distantly registering the strong hands that catch at her elbow and her shoulder to steady her.

"I get it," Reed says indistinctly. "Whist, I get it now."

"I think you should probably sit down." Whist's face swims into view in front of Reed, wavering through several feet of rippling water. "You're, uh, not making any sense."

"No, I'm..." Reed trails off, gripping Whist's forearm with all her strength. "She brought you here. She's... given..."

"Reed? Come on, get it together."

Whist gives Reed a little shake, which is surprisingly helpful in slowing the way this dream-world spins around her. Reed straightens up, standing on her own two feet, and Whist snaps back into focus. Their eyes and their freckles still glow as brightly as miniature comets, leaving white streaks across Reed's vision.

"That's better," Whist says. "I don't think you should die until I've had a chance to scout out the situation a little bit first. So you'll know what to expect."

Chuckling weakly, Reed folds her hands back into her robes and regains her previous composure. Whist floats nearby, much closer than convention dictates platonic friends should stand, but it's difficult to be too concerned about something like that, considering the circumstances.

"I appreciate it," Reed says. "That's very thoughtful of you."

Whist shrugs.

The air has cooled somewhat, and the buzzing of insects heralds oncoming evening. It is a peculiar sound — loud enough to be noticeable, but muted such that she cannot pick out any one chirp from the cacophony. More the idea of what insects should sound like than any particular bug's melody. The oddity of it tips the corner of Reed’s mouth up in a half-smile.

“I know why you’re here,” she tells Whist, then pauses. “But there’s no guarantee that either of us are going to remember this conversation. You know how dreams can come and go.”

“I can’t remember much of anything right now,” Whist says. “Because I’m—”

“I know.” Reed’s smile grows wider, warmer. “But I have a feeling that might not be true for much longer.”

Whist squints at her. "What do you mean?"

Reed takes a moment to answer them, considering her words carefully. "You know how you can feel a storm coming, sometimes? Everything goes still and the air gets all heavy?"

"Yes."

"It's like that. Something's coming, and the world around us is shifting."

"But is the something good or bad?" Whist asks with a frown.

"There are many things that are neither," Reed says. "I only know that for your piece in it... any chance you might have to walk this plane again... I hope you take it. Because I greatly prefer a world with you in it."

"Oh. Thank you."

Reed looks to the sky again, apprehensive about the dusk approaching even when she knows she shouldn't be. Night, after all, is only a different flavor of Melora's domain — all the crepuscular and nocturnal creatures that lurk under cover of darkness belong to her too, as do their various murky and mysterious affairs. Reed wonders if perhaps her anxiety is a side effect of living her life at the border of the Duskwood, where twilight signifies imminent danger, as well as fey mischief that can be malicious as often as it is harmless.

"It's okay," Whist says, touching Reed's elbow again. "If there's anything else here, I'll protect you."

Whist's other hand goes to their hip, where their quiver is normally strapped. Reed is absolutely certain that when Whist appeared here, they did so unarmed. Yet in this moment, Whist's fingers brush against a forest of feathered arrow-shafts. When they take their hand from Reed's elbow, they are holding the dark, smooth wood of an intricately carved longbow. It fits in their grip like a tree trunk wrapped in vines — symbiotic and perfectly, breathtakingly natural.

"I know you will," Reed says gently. She moves to stand just behind Whist's shoulder, so that their faces are both turned towards the shadows that stain the underbelly of the sky.

"Is it weird," Whist asks, "that I died like my mom did, fighting things that came out of the Duskwood, but I'm not even a little afraid?"

"I don't think it's weird at all."

"Or maybe I am afraid, but..." Whist shrugs. "I'm going to do whatever I can. And either that will be good enough, or it won't be."

Reed would take Whist's hand, but they need it for their longbow — and they have never been as tactile as Reed is, and might dislike the gesture.

Instead, Reed draws in another lungful of imaginary air and murmurs, "May the gods bless you and your bravery, Whist Duskhunter. We need more people like you."

Whist doesn't smile, but they blink their pearly eyes at her in a manner reminiscent of a cat's sleepy affection, and Reed gets the idea.

The daylight is fleeing this dream-field now with exceptional speed, tugging the smothering blanket of twilight into the places it vacates. Whist is loose-limbed and alert, pivoting slowly as they search for the danger that chitters in the corners of awareness.

Perhaps Whist's confidence is contagious. All Reed can think, as darkness claims the two of them, is that she hopes she remembers what she's learned here: both the loss, and the hope that's tempered it.

***

Reed awakes wildly disoriented. The black-velvet night that swallowed down the last dregs of her dream was so vivid, yet it is pale dawn light that filters through her gauzy curtains and splashes specks of sunlight across the floorboards. She sits up in bed, the quilt tangled around her, and scrubs at her eyes until her vision scintillates in patterns of red and blue.

She remembers a field, and the presence of a friend. The rest is already fading, in the intangible way that dreams always do — but even as the details escape her grasp, Reed retains the impression that she has witnessed something important. She might not be able to explain the exact origin of the bruising sadness that pools in her abdomen, but she believes it nonetheless. She might not understand why the sight of her green robe hanging on its hook in the corner suddenly provokes in her the burgeoning weight of responsibility, but it does.

After all these years, Reed knows that her goddess will guide her in ineffable ways along mysterious paths, and all she has to do is relax and pay close attention. Reed will remember what she needs to remember when the time comes, and until then?

She sets her bare feet on the floor and she stands up. She washes, and dresses, and goes forth to serve the town of Graycott.

Her grief once had a name, and now it doesn't, but it will again. Reed can be patient.

#damn I can't believe I never posted this #I really like how it turned out #NPC #Whist #dusk campaign

3 notes · View notes

crankybutthead · 13 days

Text

Striped Book page 67

#striped book #oc #pencil #dalsuta #78 #whist

0 notes

tenth-sentence · 18 days

Text

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia.

"Pride and Prejudice" - Jane Austen

#book quote #pride and prejudice #jane austen #mr wickham #whist #card games #delight #elizabeth bennet #lydia bennet

0 notes

aesthetically0b5essed · 6 months

Text

some of you don't know how to play whist and it shows.

#whist #rehab #prison

0 notes

eva248 · 6 months

Text

Lecturas de octubre. Tercera semana

Perras de reserva / Dahlia de la Cerda. Editorial Sexto Piso, 2023 Las heroínas de Perras de reserva son mujeres fuertes, decididas a resolver por sí mismas sus problemas porque saben que si con algo no pueden contar es con la ayuda de Dios. Como mucho, se encomiendan al Diablo, ya que ante la perspectiva de convertirse en víctimas –usadas, explotadas o muertas– prefieren optar por la sangre…

View On WordPress

#1977 #Ampurdán #Berlín #Dahlia de la Cerda #familia #Jennifer Egan #Jordi Recasens #literatura catalana contemporanea #memoria #mujeres #mundo digitalizado e hiperconectado #obsesión #Premio Strega Giovani #redes sociales #relatos #Roma #Vicenç Pagès Jordà #whist

0 notes

aworldonfire · 10 months

Text

I was researching whist variations for my fic (as I want the characters to play hearts) and I cannot find the variation that my family plays. I mean, I've found hearts, which we play, but not the other variation.

If I had to describe it, it's a combination of Bid Whist and Tarneeb - it has basically the rules of tarneeb but no set partners (and also simpler point scoring) and has the "downtown" found in bid whist but with ace being low in that case rather than it being high. We call this game partners but I cannot find any information on a game exactly matching it. Isn't that fascinating?

#fanfic #true beauty #card games #whist #partners #hearts #if someone has information on this game #or on card games in general #i really want to know

0 notes

elgallinero · 11 months

Text

Practice English

share.libbyapp.com/title/505744

View On WordPress

#carreaux (tiles or diamonds)#coeurs (hearts) piques (pikes or spades); 40 High Card Points (HCP); 13 cards; 3 active players and the dummy; 4 cardinal points #English as a Second Language #ESL #French Cards; 4 Suits: trefles (clovers or clubs)#Jane Austen #practice English #Pride and Prejudice #Whist

1 note · View note

sappakattu · 2 years

Photo

RARITY IN SENSUAL EXPRESSION OF MUNDANE MINUTIAE OF EVERYDAY LIFE IN MRS. BATTLE’S OPINIONS ON WHIST BY CHARLES LAMB.

Lamb carefully sculpts the everyday reality into an effervescent portrayal of monotonous life using his words. With the help of Sarah Battle, he allows us to experience how what we consider an insanely insignificant act of liking a game can tell us so much about the person and their life as a whole. Although authors often associate game play with men and express it as a masculine trait, Mrs. Battle is an unapologetically competitive woman. We have a line in the essay that goes like,

“She fought a good fight: cut and thrust. She held not her sword (her cards) “like a dancer”. She sate bolt upright:”

Lamb portrays Mrs. Battle as an opinionated woman who knows her way with the game. He even elaborates on her awe for the game of whist and how majority of her daily routine comprises of it. She even reads The Rape of the Lock for the epic card game battle and plays Ombre. She criticizes those who call the game of cards as a game of gambling. Mrs. Battle claims that a bet is necessary to spice things up. "To those puny objectors against cards, as nurturing the bad passions, she would retort, that man is a gaming animal."

Mrs. Battle alludes to the game of cards with every word she talks. Her obsession with the game is fascinating. Fascinating to the point where one would feel that she is trying to shut her reality down by obsessing over Whist. Mrs. Battle tries to fill the void of loneliness using fun and games. She even describes her love life as a game of cards.

“Quadrille, she has often told me, was her first love; but whist had engaged her maturer esteem".

The former is quick and unsettling whereas the latter is quite stable and slow paced- it is a soldier's game, according to her. "But whist was the solider game: that was her word. It was a long meal; not, like quadrille, a feast of snatches. One or two rubbers might coextend in duration with an evening."

Lamb mentions games as an escape from reality- "that cards are a temporary illusion; in truth, a mere drama; for we do but play at being mightily concerned, where a few idle shillings are at stake, yet, during the illusion, we are as mightily concerned as those whose stake is crowns and kingdoms."

The pervasive nature of a game being used as a metaphor for life is prevalent in literature. “Life is a game” is a phrase used in everyday discourse. We can witness Lamb introducing the metaphor in his essay Mrs. Battle’s Opinions on Whist too. Just like whist where two colours complete a suit, variety is the spice of life. When Mrs. Battle asks "Why two colours, when the mark of the suits would have sufficiently distinguished them without it?, the narrator replies “But the eye, my dear Madam, is agreeably refreshed with the variety. Man is not a creature of pure reason he must have his senses delightfully appealed to."

References:

https://www.bartleby.com/library/prose/3085.html

#essays #charles lamb #charleslamb #mrs.batle'sopiniononwhist #literature #literaryessays #whist #english #englishessay #lamb

0 notes