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As it Was
Fri Apr 13, 2007 16:19 (XFF:

There are few things in life that can deprive a man of happiness. Locke carefully observed the thought, as though it was spoken by a separate entity in his own head. Willingly, longingly, he agreed, silent in his meditations. The window in his loft, which he had had the years since he'd risen to Asha'man, was still bubbled. He had never changed anything about his home, once he had one to call a home to begin with. It was the same as it had been - so was his desk. It was heavy a cross, crafted intelligently, presenting itself as a station where tasks were taken and accomplished, where monsters born of paperwork were born and beaten, where ideas became work orders that became staples of the Tower that everyone eventually would take for granted. The floors were the same. The creaked, they were scuffed, and in some places, cracked ever so lightly. They were cypress, heavy and with a graceful repose that preceded ugliness in old age. They floors would never be ugly; they had too much character. The door, the same - it was crossed by blacked iron billet, and the lock was of tarnished brass, having been used and abused by many a keyholder before him. Him. He was the same - hair black as coal, gray eyes flecked white. A stern, studious face; oval and serene. Behind the face, though, behind the pretty face, everyone knew, had always lurked something dangerous. Locke was, and always had been, a leader of men who killed men. Very little indeed. There are so precious few things that one must rise against.

Out the window, past the imperfections and slightly twisted rays of light, bent by the irregular surfaces, was the Tower. The streets of Old Town bustled, as they always did, everyday, as they always had. Men in black coats, with pins, and without, hurried about whatever business they might've had scheduled for the day. Messengers and such with bags or packages scurried to and fro; Soldiers and Dedicated who were late to classes, they scurried as well, though for different reasons. He could hear the dull chatter of many voices upon many other voices, and it pleased him. This place was the heart of the beast, and the beast was healthy. Rising, Locke closed his eyes and let the strident push of his chair's legs against the floor grind into his mind. It was a pleasing sound - most would argue that particular point, saying it was annoying, but in his world, it meant that Locke was finished with whatever paperwork needed his attention at any given time. A blessing, to be finished. He couldn't say that the papers were unnecessary, but he could say they were unnecessarily boring. One would be hard pressed, though, to find a way to make balancing the coffers an interesting day in the office. Dusting his shoulders and lightly twisting his pins, he examined himself in his stand mirror.

Pale, pale skin. Some of his senior corporals, those he trusted as intern managers within the ranks of their special force, had joked with him over ales that he was whiter than milk. Locke smiled; he was ghostly, at best. His thin lips gave subtle hints to his love of secrecy unto himself; the elegant slope of his eyebrows gave him a look of some kind of royalty. He was poised, thin, with eyes that made whomever they gazed upon feel as though his soul was being evaluated, perhaps not unlike a person would inspect pieces of meat at a butcher's market. His coat was high necked, and buttoned down the middle many, many times; it was a long trench, breaking just above his heel. The Sword and Dragon sat proudly on his lapel, and the golden pips on his neck let all know who he was, though they might not know him personally. Spit-shined boots and a thin black ribbon in his hair finished him, today. The observer would say he appeared a dead prince. He was older than he remembered, though he was not old to begin with. Locke Lemain was twenty seven. He had not always been twenty seven; he had once been twenty. That desk had not always been a desk - it had once been a tree. As they were to being with, though, had led them both to where they were.

"Where you end depends on where you start."

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