It’s Not You, It’s Me!
Asha'man Locke, Written by Johnny
Posted on Sun, Sep 5, 2010 21:00 pm
"It's not you, it's me!" How many men have heard this, under different circumstances, over the course of the turning of the Wheel? "I get nervous when I channel in front of strangers, and," Kipcha lifted herself on her elbows, settling into conversation awkwardly, if not poorly, "What happened? I fainted, didn't I?"
"Yes, quite."
"I apologize for that, you just… startled me." Locke let out a low whistle and set the parasol to spinning. Kipcha laughed outright at this, tucking her arms under her chest in mirth. "Light, but you're a sight. You look…"she stopped talking. Not at all scary? Go ahead, say it, if you wish it. "I'm sorry, Asha'man, I was out of line." She frowned. "If you wish it, I will practice the hundred weaves in front of you." Aw.
The hair on Locke's arms set to standing, tingling. She had taken saidar. The first weaves came easily, Air and Earth being made to behave with little effort, if some concentration. Fire, though, seemed to be her speciality. Strange for a woman to be so strong, here. You might have the talent for Spinning Earthfire, as I do. Water, though, came last, and it came hardest. She struggled – sweat beaded on her forehead, both from the effort of steeling her resolve in front of a strangely behaving superior, and her weakness in the element at hand. "What class were you teaching, Asha'man? Before I interrupted you, I mean. Oh, I think I've got thi – "
Locke lowered the parasol before the squeak. Rivulets shivered down its top, leveled in front of him like an infantryman's shield. Peeking, Locke saw that Kipcha was once again soaked. I think you do not have it quite yet, Accepted. Locke smiled, his face hidden by the umbrella, before swinging it back over his shoulder, the need for it having ben deposited mostly with his unofficial charge. "Also, if I might ask your name."
"Well, certainly. I was teaching a small class on tactics and strategy to aspirants to the Green, Blue, and Gray Ajahs. Some of your compatriots were in attendance. It is the second of a series of lectures I will be giving on the subject. This particular segment was on the nature of perceived advantage versus understood advantage – created advantage. 'Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.' The job of the brain behind the army. The next will be assessments and measurements; tactical disposition, as it were. I am Asha'man Locke Lemain. We could change the course of discussion to conjecture; say that you and are opposing forces. Have I not achieved the goal of supreme excellence? I said only explain, and you keeled over. Such is the nature of a well orchestrated army. Enemies fall to our will, not to our swords."
Kipcha took a moment and seemed to be thinking; it was plain in her eyes and on her face.
"That's neither here nor there, though. As it stands, I do apologize for frightening you so. Understand me; I thought perhaps I was the victim of some poorly thought out attempt at humor. That you were practicing – well, imperfection is to be expected. It is why we practice. Again, if you please." She seemed genuinely shocked that he was not angered, but did not object to being prodded onward in her studies. The conversation was minimal, but present, as she formed and reformed the lost balls of liquid, frowning, biting her lip – and cursing, just once. She had quickly slapped a hand to her mouth and looked at him apologetically.
"Yes, do please mind my virgin ears. It's not as though I've ever been afield with ruffians and soldiers before. What does that turn of phrase you used even mean, Accepted?"
"…you're funny. For an Asha'man."
"You're bold, for an Accepted." Pride, for a moment. I see you. "Again."
And there it was – the sphere hovered, and shimmered, and held. She left it aloft, head cocked to one side, observing it. She was quietly happy.
"Good." Locke laid a hand on her shoulder, a congratulatory tap. "Good."
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I intentionally left parts of their conversation implied, so you can fill them in however you want.
In reply to A Vision in...Flowers?[show]/[hide]
The darkness was all-consuming, and the only face she saw behind her eyelids was that of the Asha'man she had angered. He was thin, sinewy...the picture of a corpse, and one Kipcha would be content not to see every again. The voice of the Great Lord echoed in her mind, You have been careless again, Kipcha . Too, too careless. What if someone were to grow suspicious, ask questions? You will never rise through the ranks to the Black Ajah acting like a clumsy child like this. Kipcha wanted to tremble in fear, but she was locked fast in a nightmare. She knew this was only a dream, yet she wanted to go and hide underneath the nearest desk and never come out again.
Her nightmarish blackness was disrupted by a drug of some sort, and she entered the world of the wakeful again with a violent gasp. She struggled for breath for a moment, turning to look in the last direction she knew something had been. She was greeted only by a white wall, and she frowned, her brow furrowing, confused. She turned back, away from the wall, to stare right into the face of the so-recently soaking wet Asha'man, and Kipcha almost fainted again, until she noticed the almost-comical parasol over the man's head.
Unbidden, a smile came to her face and she almost laughed outright. "What in the name of the Light is that thing?" She raised a slim eyebrow, her green eyes dancing despite herself. When he mentioned practicing there, with him, she shook her head violently. "Oh no, I couldn't..not in front of you. I mean, that's not what I mean. It's not you, it's me. I get nervous when I channel in front of strangers, and..."she closed her eyes, sitting up slowly on the cot the Yellows had her on.
"What happened? I fainted, didn't I?" Kipcha blushed deep scarlet. "I apologize for that, you just....startled me." He was leaning back in the chair, twirling the parasol like a top. Kipcha laughed outright at this, tucking her arms under her chest in mirth. "Light, but you're a sight. You look...."she stopped talking. "I'm sorry, Asha'man, I was out of line." She frowned. "If you wish it, I will practice the hundred weaves in front of you." Light, she was talking to this Asha'man like he was her equal! He could flay her silly if he really wanted to, and Kipcha hoped that it would never happen.
Kipcha embraced the Source, going through the weaves that didn't involve Water very easily, the ones involving Fire almost scarily so. "What class were you teaching, Asha'man?" She asked, as she wove a glowing ball of Spirit and Fire. "Before I interrupted you, I mean." She got to a water weave, the first she had practiced, and began to make it, smaller this time, sweat beading on her forehead as she wrestled with the threads of Water. "I think I've got it this-"she broke off with a little squeal as the ball exploded, getting her soaking wet. She growled angrily. "Light, I'll never get these water weaves." She glanced up, to see if Locke had been soaked at all. "May I also ask your name. Asha'man?" The cold water felt good. It lessened the fire burning in her cheeks. Light, this man must think her a complete idiot!
