Zeffir ran to the park, as he always did Casteday morning. Dobron, his clothes hanging loose on his thinning frame, was seated at the table with the beckboard set up.
"Blessed 'morrow, Sair!" Zeffir said, bowing. Then he stood and waited to be invited to sit, as was only polite.
"Good 'morrow, youngling," Dobron said, with his raspy voice. He paused a moment, to clear his throat. Zeffir stood stoically, struggling to remain patient. Then Dobron continued, "Won't you join me for a game?" (1/3)
"With pleasure, Sair!" Zeffir said, taking his seat. "Today I'm going to win! I can feel it!" He turned over the first tile — a vulpino! — and moved it diagonally two spaces.
They played for almost an hour. Zeffir lost the first two games, as usual. But, in the third game, managed a 'passe.
"One more, Sair?" he said, his hand over the board to reclaim his tiles.
"I fear I must decline, youngling," Dobron said, sitting back. "And there's something else I should tell you." (2/3)
@stevendbrewer@wandering.shopZeffir folded his hands in his lap. "Yes, Sair?"
Dobron looked into the distance. "Soon, I will be joining my ancestors."
Zeffir started. "Sair?"
"My condition worsens. The healers say it is #terminal."
"But you can't!" Zeffir cried. "Not… Not until I…" He burst into tears.
Dobron tousled his hair.
"Is winning so important?"
Zeffir looked up, stricken. He shook his head.
"Fear not," Dobron said. "I will not give up so easily. But you are now in a race. And death waits for no-one." (3/3) #wss366