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Who Gives a Hoot?
Thu May 18, 2006 16:23
68.227.138.209 (XFF: 129.78.148.95)

OOC: That was a terrible pun. But there is an owl, so ha.


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Novices and Accepted breezed by him without interaction, second glances notwithstanding, sometimes sidestepping out of the way, sometimes not. It was odd, Locke knew, for him to be in the Tower now. There were no Talent lessons today, no battle weaves, no channeling of any kind for a Dedicated of his position to be attending. His presence was kind of a mystery for all those in whites and banded skirts, at least those that kept up with their lesson rotations. Locke pondered soundlessly whether or not the second glances were on account of his being out of place, or something else. He didn't particularly care, but knowing was knowing, and knowing was power.

Locke walked, languid and reposed, his step measured and controlled. He was starkly pale, but ominously pretty. Vampiric, but without the sickly veils of actually being dead. Gray eyes surveyed everything they saw in an imperious manner, idly professional, somehow at ease, even though he was out of place. It seemed that he would seem incongruous in the White Tower, but as Locke moved forward, whatever was closest seemed as though it was incongruous around him - quite an odd thing.

I'm going to get my fingers taken off today, and all because I think it's a good day for learning something new. Animals hate me. Locke smiled, a happy smile. He didn't actually know if animals hated him or not, he just never spent any time with them. Lately, all his time had been taken up with teaching Battle Weaves, and Spinning Earthfire. Also, his stints in the Clerk's Offices were becoming much more than stints - apparently his great attention to detail had made him a much saught-after cop out for Asha'man who didn't want to go through the drudgery that were individual quarterlies. Especially the Ambassadors. They were the worst. It will be a good day. Out in the field, away from task management. Perhaps, later, I can find someone to play stones with. Perhaps even someone who could beat me one time out of ten. Demetri Sedai is a general - she would give me a run for my money.

Thinking to himself about how his tactics might differ from hers, and whether or not she'd ever marshalled troops, as he had, Locke soon found himself in the midst of the mews, where, as he'd ascertained upon first arriving through his Gateway, he was supposed to be. There were a great many boxes, each shielded from one and other, probably to prevents animal issues. Hawk squabbles. Squab. Pidgeon. That's clever. I always do that, without meaning to.

"Is something fu -" An Accepted turned with a sentence and stopped dead, seeing a Dedicated behind her with an odd quirk to his smile.

"Yes."

"...well what is it?"

"Squab." The silence meant that she didn't get it, as he'd expected, because the pun was ridiculous.

"If you would, please tell me your name and what interests you about falconry and then come up and get a glove." Demetri's introduction finished before he could explain, or care to explain, and soon enough it was his turn.

"My name is Locke Lemain," recognition, maybe, in her eyes, just for a moment, "and I'm here because I don't know the first thing about falconry. I'd like to, though."

"Why?"

"Why not?"


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    • Who Gives a Hoot? — Major Locke Lemain, Dedicated, Thu May 18 16:23
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