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Ambitions of an Asha'man: The Shape of Things to Come
Fri Jul 7, 2006 14:53
68.227.138.209 (XFF: 192.168.1.3)

Direction is first and foremost in all things militaristic, including myself, and what I wish to do in the future. A clearly defined idealogical view of the shape of things to come is a vital ingredient in any rise to power, and I am no different. Still, every dream has a snag in reality, and as such, my aims should not be so weighty that I cannot achieve the goal without first bypassing Tower law, or, worse still, my own set of moral code. What is it, that I want? More importantly, what do I need to understand to get it?

Locke paused for a moment, and shuffled the papers on his new desk. Since his Raising, he'd once again found himself moved out of his old quarters - from Soldier's bunk, to a tiny Dedicated's effeciency, and now to this - the quarters of an Asha'man. A loft-type space he'd chosen for himself over the more usual garrisoned areas. It had been a free room, in the third story in the same building the Mess Hall was located in. Originally used for storing dried beans and flour, barley and oats, he'd shown the Mistress of the Kitchens a new floor plan, that increased her storage by thirty percent, simply by moving the pantries below in a semicircle, to better take advantage of built-in closets thathad been used for pots and pans. As it was, Locke had two windows. They were bubbled and just a tad cloudy, but they were windows. The floors had been cleaned by him and him alone. A Trainee from the Dragon's Army had been sent by someone to do it for him, and he'd been quite shocked when Locke had turned him down flat. "Just because I'm above you in rank doesn't mean I'm above cleaning my own floor."

He shuffled through the stack of papers to find a poem he'd started earlier in the day - he was lost on the way to finish the last bit, but it had come to him for no reason, as he thought of other things. Poetry was always like that, coming to you in clips and phrases, variations of themselves until they thought they were perfect - it was just his job to write them down. I've seen a sadder kind of Heaven, upside down in rain puddles. For all that fell, I'm unforgiven; I died again, today. His curiously angular hand slid across the page like it had always been there - maybe it had been. He turned, his white skin irridescent against the minimalist light proided by the small portico windows. He could see the light filtering through in beams, casting themselves onto him, onto the floor.

The room was unadorned, save the maps he'd hung on the walls, all manner of maps: topographical, well made, average, population densities, maps of kingdoms, maps of cities, locations of underground rivers, trails through mountains - anything and everything he could find. On his simple, sturdy bedside table - a square-topped thing with straight, angular legs - were piled notebooks upon notebooks upon notebooks. On the floor, next to and all around the bed, were books. Old, new, some printed last week, others so ancient, he dared not read the books themselves for fear of the pages crumbling, instead slaking his thirst for knowledge by reading notes his teachers had taken before him.

So what is it to be? A general, or a scholarly tactician? The bed was made artfully, if not in the traditional way. Rather than folding the sheets and comforter back, he pulled it up, in all it's excess, and then allowed it to ribbon back onto itself. The sheets were gray, the pillow was white, and the comforter was a lighter gray. Locke had a certain appreciation for monochromatics; they were elegantly simple, unlike much of everything real in the world. It was a good color for the worn chestnut floors of his new home - they were deeply stained.

Locke thumbed his quill pen thoughtfully.

He wrote, in bold, streamlined strokes, on the topmost clean sheet of paper, "Both."

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