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A Matter of Great Importance (Lysander!)
Thu Sep 7, 2006 12:37
68.227.138.209 (XFF: 192.168.1.3)

Locke had dealt with the paperwork that was his responsibility, for the day. Acquisition of foodstuffs from local merchants, the purchasing of new training instruments for the men, leave time requests, and, his absolute least favorite thing of all time, signing off on the notices of deserters found, allowing them to be hung on the tree. Well, it wasn't the worst thing in the world - grits were the worst thing in the world - but it was an steadfastly unhappy thing. The only bit that made it alright, that he said "yes" to the "can we kill this one?" was that they had tucked tail and run from duty and honor. The Black Tower was, in Locke's mind, the only institution left in the world that was worth anything. Some would argue the White their equak; they would be wrong. It was a bastion of knowledge and culture, and it was a part of general knowledge, but they seemed preoccupied, of late. When the Seanchan had landed in Falme, they had not moved. And as they spread across the westlands, still, the White did not move. They were too busy trying to subjugate the Dragon - a lost presumption - rather than focusing on the destiny that he had been born to realize.

One would think that the Tar Valon thinkers would believe it out of step, to try and control the only means they have to salvation, in the end. One does not boss around someone who holds the key to the future. Locke sighed. He let these thoughts slip away, busying himself with the usual musings over new battle tactics, training regimens, how to improve efficiency within the officers' ranks, which would in turn manifest tenfold in the regulars. And yet, he could not concentrate. Something about his M'Hael had been eating at his mind since his raising to Asha'man. Lysander was a sound leader; Locke had no plans to usurp him, and no qualms with how he delegated power, or ran operations. He just wanted to know the man he served; know him like he'd known Poettre. It's his eyes. Something has been bothering him, for months now. And I will discover it.

_________________________________________________________

The secretary looked at Locke sideways. His reputation preceded him, it appeared. Usage of the term "Fire General" had become a normalcy, at least when he was not in the room. An ear to the ground found that the men meant it respectfully, even if the most respectful thing to do would have been to simply use his given rank. Or sir. "Might I be of service, Asha'man?" The secretary was small and hunched, not a defect in his bones; he'd just been writing memos and notes and jotting down appointments all morning and afternoon.

"I require a short audience with the M'Hael - it is a matter of great importance. However, the importance is to me, and me alone, and as such, if he is otherwise engaged, I do not take issue with being made to wait." Locke inclined his head respectfully, and took a seat, as was directed. The secretary left the room and returned shortly thereafter, saying that Locke would be sitting for a short while - perhaps thirty minutes. Thirty minutes turned into an hour, an hour into two. Locke fixed his gray and white eyes at nothing in particular; he had expected that this would happen. He'd known it, in fact. The secretary seemed unsettled by his constant presence, and his refined silence. He seemed to think it awkward; Locke didn't. If he had nothing to speak of, he spoke of nothing. Finally, two words permeated reality in a manner which only sudden noise through silence can. The words were "Come in."

Locke shut the door behind him, saluting and bowing to his Commander. Lysander's head was shaven, lately, and there was peach fuzz on the dome of his skull. The leader's eyes met his. Locke had two different colored irises, but if it made the M'Hael uncomfortable, he gave no sign. "Be seated, Asha'man." Locke followed orders. "What matter of great importance do you for me to consider, if it applies to you, and only you?"

"Poettre Valis beat me at stones, once." Locke leaned back in his chair and produced a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket - a hand-drawn stones board, folded many, many times over. The white and black pieces were in his left and right pants pockets, respectively. He placed all on the table, much to... what he would call chagrinned dismay, of Lysander. "I'm very curious to know if you can, too."
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OOC: To play, or not to play??

^_^

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