An Agreement
An Agreement. Angel's Creed. Slay and Redrum. 674 words.
Sean Alstaff, that is, Slay, was currently seated in a pub, balancing his chair on two legs while his hooves were kicked up on top of the table and his hands folded in his lap. It was the sort of position that spoke of rebellion and a devil-may-care attitude. Opposite him sat a large Gura by the name of Andrew Langley. Andrew, or Andy as Slay had taken to calling him, was seated in a much more appropriate fashion.
The clan tattoo on Slay's left breast had recently been replaced by a particularly nasty burn wound; his latest crime had not gone unnoticed and his shramni had been branded off in retribution for the summoner's life. Andy still bore his shramni, a shield in red and black against brown fur, which meant by all rights that he should not have been here, speaking with Slay, or even acknowledging his existence at all. And yet, here he was.
The waitress came by and placed a mug in front of Andy. Slay let his chair fall to its proper place with all four legs on the floor and pulled his legs down from the table only so that he could reach across it for the mug, which Andy pushed in his direction. The waitress wordlessly lifted it from the table just as his hand reached it and placed it back in front of Andy, and she then continued moving off toward the next table.
Slay chuckled darkly, watching as she walked off.
"Sorry, Slay," said Andy, sounding honestly apologetic for the waitress's action. He was, nonetheless, taking up the mug to drain its contents.
"I suppose it's what I should come to expect," he said as he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table again. "It is rather amusing though, don't you think? I'm not to exist and yet I'll be acknowledged in these minuscule ways just to ensure I'm being properly ignored."
"Sure, Slay, 'ilarious," Andy agreed, setting down the now half-empty mug.
"Mm, but you don't ignore me."
"Naw, cause we's mates. I don' care if you'se been exiled. Mates'll stick by their mates."
"That's lovely, Andy. Truly, I am deeply moved."
"Ain't nothin'."
"Surely." (Of course the rather nonchalant, facetious tone behind Slay's words was lost on Andrew.)
The waitress came by their table again; Andy looked up from his mug and Slay's face took on the slightest hint of amused malice as he reached out and casually flipped up her skirt as she walked past him. She let out a cry of indignation and surprise, quickly smoothing her hands over her skirt and shooting a dangerous glare over her shoulder at Slay. He smiled at her, eyebrows arched, inviting a reaction while knowing that glare was the most she felt she was allowed. She inhaled deeply through her nose, the sort of thing a person does when she's trying to keep herself from doing, and walked on.
"That wasn't very nice, Slay."
"Andrew," Slay began, by way of changing the subject entirely, "do you know what I've always wanted?"
"Flippin' a waitress's skirt?"
"No. What I've always wanted is a big dumb ox kind of bloke to pal around with, the sort who'll take orders without question. With some kind of stupid alias like...oh, Redrum, or something. I feel it would complete my life quite nicely."
Realization dawned on Andy's face and he leaned over the table and declared, with enthusiasm, "I could be a big dumb ox kind o' bloke what follows orders! I can go by Redrum!"
"Well, I didn't mean exactly that name--"
"Just call me Redrum from now on, Boss!"
"...Well. Alright, then." He took a quick glance up for the waitress, who was nowhere in sight, and reached out for the mug. Andy pushed it over to him and he drained the last of its contents, setting it back on the table as he pulled his legs down and moved to stand, saying, "Let's get going then, shall we, Redrum?"
Sean Alstaff, that is, Slay, was currently seated in a pub, balancing his chair on two legs while his hooves were kicked up on top of the table and his hands folded in his lap. It was the sort of position that spoke of rebellion and a devil-may-care attitude. Opposite him sat a large Gura by the name of Andrew Langley. Andrew, or Andy as Slay had taken to calling him, was seated in a much more appropriate fashion.
The clan tattoo on Slay's left breast had recently been replaced by a particularly nasty burn wound; his latest crime had not gone unnoticed and his shramni had been branded off in retribution for the summoner's life. Andy still bore his shramni, a shield in red and black against brown fur, which meant by all rights that he should not have been here, speaking with Slay, or even acknowledging his existence at all. And yet, here he was.
The waitress came by and placed a mug in front of Andy. Slay let his chair fall to its proper place with all four legs on the floor and pulled his legs down from the table only so that he could reach across it for the mug, which Andy pushed in his direction. The waitress wordlessly lifted it from the table just as his hand reached it and placed it back in front of Andy, and she then continued moving off toward the next table.
Slay chuckled darkly, watching as she walked off.
"Sorry, Slay," said Andy, sounding honestly apologetic for the waitress's action. He was, nonetheless, taking up the mug to drain its contents.
"I suppose it's what I should come to expect," he said as he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table again. "It is rather amusing though, don't you think? I'm not to exist and yet I'll be acknowledged in these minuscule ways just to ensure I'm being properly ignored."
"Sure, Slay, 'ilarious," Andy agreed, setting down the now half-empty mug.
"Mm, but you don't ignore me."
"Naw, cause we's mates. I don' care if you'se been exiled. Mates'll stick by their mates."
"That's lovely, Andy. Truly, I am deeply moved."
"Ain't nothin'."
"Surely." (Of course the rather nonchalant, facetious tone behind Slay's words was lost on Andrew.)
The waitress came by their table again; Andy looked up from his mug and Slay's face took on the slightest hint of amused malice as he reached out and casually flipped up her skirt as she walked past him. She let out a cry of indignation and surprise, quickly smoothing her hands over her skirt and shooting a dangerous glare over her shoulder at Slay. He smiled at her, eyebrows arched, inviting a reaction while knowing that glare was the most she felt she was allowed. She inhaled deeply through her nose, the sort of thing a person does when she's trying to keep herself from doing, and walked on.
"That wasn't very nice, Slay."
"Andrew," Slay began, by way of changing the subject entirely, "do you know what I've always wanted?"
"Flippin' a waitress's skirt?"
"No. What I've always wanted is a big dumb ox kind of bloke to pal around with, the sort who'll take orders without question. With some kind of stupid alias like...oh, Redrum, or something. I feel it would complete my life quite nicely."
Realization dawned on Andy's face and he leaned over the table and declared, with enthusiasm, "I could be a big dumb ox kind o' bloke what follows orders! I can go by Redrum!"
"Well, I didn't mean exactly that name--"
"Just call me Redrum from now on, Boss!"
"...Well. Alright, then." He took a quick glance up for the waitress, who was nowhere in sight, and reached out for the mug. Andy pushed it over to him and he drained the last of its contents, setting it back on the table as he pulled his legs down and moved to stand, saying, "Let's get going then, shall we, Redrum?"