When he returned home from his morning run up and down the beach, somebody was pounding on the front door. Salvador had no time to strip and shower, but he made do with going halvesies on his way into the foyer to see who was so keen on being killed so early in the day. Sweating and shirtless, he heaved open the door and was met with a slap in the face with a fresh transcript of the Rhydin Newswire. "You can't let them say this sht about you!" Dris shoved his way in through the door and into the foyer as if he lived there.
Salvador grunted and peeled the paper off his face with an irritated sigh. He tossed it aside without even bothering to glance at the words printed on the creased page. "What is it now?" he grumbled, shuffling toward the kitchen. Of course, the ex-Governor swept up the discarded paper and stomped along after him, reading aloud.
"'Yeah. Anyone expecting much from Mr. Delahada? Me either. Here's a hint, buddy: a suave accent's going to get you nowhere in the rings,'" Dris recited.
"I have an accent?" There was genuine surprise in the Spaniard's layered voice.
"You do," said Dris. "Gods. You an'--" He caught himself before saying it this time. Skipping over the "your father" he used to be prone to blurting, he read on.
"'Sal's #1 dueling claim to fame? Winning the Talon of Redwin almost a year ago. As we can see from his Arena WoL record--'"
"I haven't been dueling," Sal interrupted.
"Duh," said Dris, slapping the paper with the backs of his fingers. "That's what this guy's saying."
"There a point to all this?" They had arrived in the kitchen. Salvador poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot he had set to brew before starting his run.
"Salvador," Dris whined. "Pay attention. Yer reputation's at stake here, lad!"
"I couldn't give two sh--"
"Just listen!" And the bard read on. "'As we can see from his Arena WoL record,'" he repeated stressfully, "'that didn't do a whole load of good. Sal's #2 dueling claim to fame? Winning a ribbon (yes, a ribbon like a Primary 1 tot would get for colouring within the lines) in the Seaside Super Fun Time Squire Extravaganza tournament. How quaint.'"
"The fck does that mean?"
"It means cute. Yanno. In a not flattering sort of way."
Salvador grunted acknowledgement of the explanation and shrugged.
Dris stared at him for a long, glowering moment, shook his head, shook the paper, and then read more. "'Advice for Mr. Delahada: You might want to, I don't know, try getting some matches in before Hydra starts. The way I see it, the only reason this cat's on the team is to earn bonus points for promoting rank in all 3 sports. He's certainly not going to make the jump to title-challengeable rank (except for perhaps on the Isle where again, anything lucky enough to scrape together 2 WoL is somehow deemed worthy of title-challenge). Well, that and maybe he can bring ribbons to share with everyone. Ribbons for all! Huzzah!'"
To that, Salvador snorted. "Magic," he sneered. He practically took a bite of his coffee; his teeth clinked against the ceramic. "I don't do Magic."
"Well y'ought better think o' startin' if y'want t'do yer team any ounce o'good, boy." Dris folded the paper in half and slapped it against his open palm for emphasis. Then he shook the one end at Salvador's face. "Ye really gonna let some pansy-arsed nobody talk that kind a shite about you?"
Salvador thought about it for all of three seconds, and said, "Yes?"
"No!" Dris slapped the paper down on the marble counter of the kitchen island. "No ye're not!"
"I'm not?"
"No!" Another slap. "And ye're gonna gods be damned find a way t'do Magic while ye're at it, y'hear me!?"
Salvador suspected this was the point in which he was supposed to cower before the wrath of, well... It was Dris. "Uh."
Dris shook the rolled up paper at him. "I've got money riding on you, boy! Don't you dare flake out on me now, y'understand!?"
"Okay?"
"Don't you give me that! You tell me 'sir, yes, sir!'"
"Yes... Sir...?"
"That's better." Dris turned on his heel and stormed off into the hall. "Pixie dust! Somethin'! Just do it, lad!"
A few moments later, Salvador heard the front door slam shut. The glasses in the cabinet rattled. He blinked, and then drank his coffee.
Salvador grunted and peeled the paper off his face with an irritated sigh. He tossed it aside without even bothering to glance at the words printed on the creased page. "What is it now?" he grumbled, shuffling toward the kitchen. Of course, the ex-Governor swept up the discarded paper and stomped along after him, reading aloud.
"'Yeah. Anyone expecting much from Mr. Delahada? Me either. Here's a hint, buddy: a suave accent's going to get you nowhere in the rings,'" Dris recited.
"I have an accent?" There was genuine surprise in the Spaniard's layered voice.
"You do," said Dris. "Gods. You an'--" He caught himself before saying it this time. Skipping over the "your father" he used to be prone to blurting, he read on.
"'Sal's #1 dueling claim to fame? Winning the Talon of Redwin almost a year ago. As we can see from his Arena WoL record--'"
"I haven't been dueling," Sal interrupted.
"Duh," said Dris, slapping the paper with the backs of his fingers. "That's what this guy's saying."
"There a point to all this?" They had arrived in the kitchen. Salvador poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot he had set to brew before starting his run.
"Salvador," Dris whined. "Pay attention. Yer reputation's at stake here, lad!"
"I couldn't give two sh--"
"Just listen!" And the bard read on. "'As we can see from his Arena WoL record,'" he repeated stressfully, "'that didn't do a whole load of good. Sal's #2 dueling claim to fame? Winning a ribbon (yes, a ribbon like a Primary 1 tot would get for colouring within the lines) in the Seaside Super Fun Time Squire Extravaganza tournament. How quaint.'"
"The fck does that mean?"
"It means cute. Yanno. In a not flattering sort of way."
Salvador grunted acknowledgement of the explanation and shrugged.
Dris stared at him for a long, glowering moment, shook his head, shook the paper, and then read more. "'Advice for Mr. Delahada: You might want to, I don't know, try getting some matches in before Hydra starts. The way I see it, the only reason this cat's on the team is to earn bonus points for promoting rank in all 3 sports. He's certainly not going to make the jump to title-challengeable rank (except for perhaps on the Isle where again, anything lucky enough to scrape together 2 WoL is somehow deemed worthy of title-challenge). Well, that and maybe he can bring ribbons to share with everyone. Ribbons for all! Huzzah!'"
To that, Salvador snorted. "Magic," he sneered. He practically took a bite of his coffee; his teeth clinked against the ceramic. "I don't do Magic."
"Well y'ought better think o' startin' if y'want t'do yer team any ounce o'good, boy." Dris folded the paper in half and slapped it against his open palm for emphasis. Then he shook the one end at Salvador's face. "Ye really gonna let some pansy-arsed nobody talk that kind a shite about you?"
Salvador thought about it for all of three seconds, and said, "Yes?"
"No!" Dris slapped the paper down on the marble counter of the kitchen island. "No ye're not!"
"I'm not?"
"No!" Another slap. "And ye're gonna gods be damned find a way t'do Magic while ye're at it, y'hear me!?"
Salvador suspected this was the point in which he was supposed to cower before the wrath of, well... It was Dris. "Uh."
Dris shook the rolled up paper at him. "I've got money riding on you, boy! Don't you dare flake out on me now, y'understand!?"
"Okay?"
"Don't you give me that! You tell me 'sir, yes, sir!'"
"Yes... Sir...?"
"That's better." Dris turned on his heel and stormed off into the hall. "Pixie dust! Somethin'! Just do it, lad!"
A few moments later, Salvador heard the front door slam shut. The glasses in the cabinet rattled. He blinked, and then drank his coffee.