Raindrops Keep Faaaallin On My Heeaaad…

  It was a day that begged to be strolled into. Locke peered out his window furtively, eyeing the sunbright greens beyond the window pane with a lust that would be realized, and treasured. He had been cooped up for the better part of the morning, seeing to reports and markers and missives from the Black Tower – even being so far flung, he was a man of responsibility and duty, and they could not be shirked or shared. He came and went by Gateways, and oversaw what needed overseeing – in both spires. It was odd – picking up the well secured, string-tied package in his old apartment loft in the township of the Black Tower, to return to such a furnished space in the White Tower. Home, his accoutrement was nothing more than a well made bed, chair, and desk, with a very large table in the spare room, for maps.

  Here, though, there were finely tooled and carved legs on everything – ivory inlays on pencils. Walls that glittered like a rich woman's bauble – and perfect windows. At home, the glass in the panes was cheaply crafted, utilitarian – bubbled. Here, it was as though it was not there at all – all the better to feed his wanderlust from the desk. The morning sun had crept high, every detail of the world available to his eyes through the void pristine through the crystal threshold, beckoning, waiting. Signatures carved at razorlike angles slashed across parchment as dew evaporated, stamps and marks were placed where needed as the early rising birds set to chirping, then felt satisfied with their efforts, and went about their daily business, much the same as everything else within the walls.

  The sound of his stamp was mirrored in the muted cracking of lathe upon lathe – and sometimes lathe upon flesh. The echoing maelstrom of the practice yard gave voice in his room with each impact of the seal upon an envelope. Occasionally, the strangers far flung below and he would hit hot at precisely the same moment; it was a wonderment that amused Locke to a small degree, but also spurred him to think more on the fact that they were outside, on this glorious day, and he was not.

  Eventually, when all was done, filed, and returned to Andor, and there was naught to be done save teach a lesson – Locke elected to move from the classroom to the Gardens. The assemblage of Novices and Accepted were to receive basic tactics training; they were aspirants of both the Blue and the Green, and a few of the Gray. Locke was nothing if not a military man; they came to him eager to learn of formation and of thought, of effeciency on the field. banded hems and plain sat in the vibrant grass as he wove images for all to observe; mock ups of armies on topographical maps.

  "Here now, we have a vast tract of land, will river access and a few hills. One hill is fortifiable, being both tall, and only approachable from three sides due to terrain. Note the paths through everything; it is well traversed ground – not highway material, but an army could perform a double or forced march with little impediment. If the defender seizes the high ground, and the attacker camps at the banks of the river to set up command, who begins with the advantage?" Locke rotated the image in many directions, adding markers to indicate the positions of the armies. An Accepted raised her hand, eyes bright, curious.

   "Would not the men on higher ground have the upper hand, so to speak? Attacking uphill, facing an entrenched enemy, is known world over as suicide."

  "Well said, and yes, you are absolutely correct. If the attackers choose to attack, it will prove to be a fatal mistake." Locke nodded, but furrowed his brow. "However, tactics and strategy is not just about attacking. The best method of War is to allow the enemy to fight himself – and, if the attackers on the low ground allow them to do this, the High Ground is nought but a cemetery. Tell me why."

  There was silence. A small crowd of quizzical and expectant female faces swam before him, all striking, some pretty. Locke, for his part, was in his element. They waited patiently, obedient. Needing to know.

  "Dying Ground can occur on any of the Grounds – which we will discuss later. This High Ground is Dying Ground – and the reason why is simple: should the attacker encircle the hilltop garrison, and hold, using the river to resupply, the hilltop troops will be left aloft, alone, without a way to get additional food and water. The army will starve to death, or, in a smart play, be left without water for a matter of days before pushing the assault. Breaking a weakened enemy is as crumbling twigs – striking a prepared army is like punching an anvil."

  Locke nodded to the class, smiling at the flashes of understanding. "The lesson for today, is simple," eyes grew wide and hands covered mouths. One Accepted pointed, and Locke had time to turn and face a monstrous floating ball of water. "What in the bloody -" it came down on his head with no remorse or pity, soaking him to the bone in front of his assembled students. They erupted in laughter, and then paled, as they realized that someone somewhere had just played a prank on a weapon of the Dragon – one that was personally responsible for the deaths of thousands of people. A bucket of water had been loosed on an Asha'man so revered for his ability to kill that he had been bestowed the moniker "The Bloody Flame".

  "…the lesson for today is, it is up to the strategist of the army to create Dying Ground. Advantage is not the direct route. Advantage is created. You are dismissed." Locke spoke calmly, water dripping off his thin, imperial face, dripping from his ears and chin onto his sopping black coat. His Sword and Dragon sparkled evermore in the sunlight because of their sudden washing; he looked comical and ridiculous – he looked murderous and annoyed.

"I'm so sorry," An Accepted burst round the corner, eyes wide and plainly frazzled.  "Are you all ri – Oh. Oh dear. Ohh dear." Yes. Please panic.

  Seizing saidin, Locke channeled Fire and Spirit and Air, steaming the water from his clothes and hair. He stood before this -either clumsy, or an idiot - girl, imperious, tall. His razor thin smile was an echo of his razor thin frame; he was made of all clean angles and harsh lines, drawn out. Locke was the vision of a dead prince, all bone and sinew. Gray eyes flashing, he uttered one word in a tone that demanded immediate reciprocity:

  "Explain."

 

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OOC: Hilo!