. . . Sean spied Maureen across the deck, crumpled against the wall of the ship. Her captor had dropped her there to defend himself from a cloaked warrior Sean had yet to see in Grania’s fleet.
The sun glinted off the warrior’s claymore, dazzling Sean. He stood transfixed, watching Maureen’s thwarted captor, scrabbling for his life. . .
D: That’s me?
D: I’m pretty spectacular.
A: (Nodding) Yes, yes you are. I actually kind of like you here.
D: I mean – hey, what? Kind of?
A: A little.
D: . . .
A: Well, it’s been thirteen years, D. And you aren’t exactly Mr. Charming.
D: Wait, I’ve been rattling around in the vast emptiness of your mind for over thirteen years and that’s the best entrance you can give me? I’m insulted.
A: Five seconds ago you liked it. And watch it – that’s exactly what I’m talking about.
D: Five seconds ago I didn’t realize how sheltered I was. I mean, shouldn’t there be trumpets, an angel’s choir, maybe some ticker-tape?
A: . . .
D: Ticker-tape, A. I want ticker-tape.
A: No. No ticker-tape. You are too spectacular for that; you don’t need all that other stuff.
D: Hmm… I am rather, aren’t I? And, if you think about it, a choir of angels might drown out that awesome sound the swords make when they clash.