NETRA'YAIM, KRANT
Featuring: Srina Talon, John Locke
Featuring: Srina Talon, John Locke
Thump.
Thump.
Despite the hour, the room was quiet. The hour was early in the afternoon - enough so that bright rays bathed the office space in light. This was the time that brought about creativity. Progress. And yet, the space was as a vigil. The sole contradictions being the occasional huff and the light thump of a piece upon the board. The game being played was as old as time itself. A checkered battlefield stood between the Sith and the Exarch. Pieces of opposing hue were embattled - locked in a dizzying dance for supremacy of the board.
And though three souls in total watched the battle take place in silence, the unspoken questions filled the air. Confusion. Anger. The tension was thick - enough so that it weighed heavily upon each breath. For a small eternity, Isley said nothing. His opponent, John, had made a daring assault. A bishop was taken. He would pay for that move.
But who would pay for current events?
Who would pay for his life's work being taken away?
The former Vicelord stretched forth his hand. Who would it choose? Would it be the Knight? @Voph? The one who could navigate the board in staggering ways? Would it be a Bishop? No. Retribution belonged to his strongest. His most trusted. The one which brought terror to any battle across any board. Isley slid forth the Dread Queen. The Rook in her past was taken in one fluid motion.
"Check."
The first word in what seemed forever fell from his lips. John "The Fixer" Locke inhaled sharply. Whether it was surprise at the move, or the fact that he had spoken remained to be seen. Yet an inquisitive look claimed the man's features. Beside him, the alabaster Echani was as still as stone. Isley knew her thoughts. Knew her feelings. He felt them as soundly as the pieces within his grasp. And though her face gave away nothing, he could sense that she too was clinging to his word.
"I credit my father for very little." he began, before folding his hands upon his lap. Their late night conversations had clued them into the circumstances of his childhood. Of Hell on Earth at the hands of a man unfit to be called father. But even a drunkard of a man could have his uses. "But one thing he did teach was this very game. One of patience. One of time. One of anticipation."
His offhand motioned towards Locke's side of the board - where an abundance of his own pieces had been collected. The battle had begun in the Exarch's favor. And in those early stages, one might have believed he would achieve total victory. Yet now, the tide had turned.
"To achieve victory, one must see beyond the present board. One must see all the twists and turns that the opposition could make. Along the way, sacrifices - large and small - have to be made. All in the name of true victory."
And what greater sacrifice had there been in recent history than this? Than walking away from the nation that he had built? Than passing the torch in the name of quelling the rampant paranoia. This was a sacrifice, but the battle was not over. The King still lived.
"Fixer, oh Knight of mine. You will dash across the board and outmaneuver the enemy. Your battleground is political - the Separatists must not lose more ground."
"And you, my Dread Queen, you are a reminder of our way. Even from the far end of the board, the Queen projects the power of the King. While I may not sit behind the resolute desk, our goals remain the same. Show them that they are not abandoned. Stand where I would stand. Lead as I would lead."
He reached out, placing his index finger upon the board. Beside the King.
"A title can be sacrificed. Pieces may be sacrificed. But the King yet lives."
"Your move."
Thump.
Despite the hour, the room was quiet. The hour was early in the afternoon - enough so that bright rays bathed the office space in light. This was the time that brought about creativity. Progress. And yet, the space was as a vigil. The sole contradictions being the occasional huff and the light thump of a piece upon the board. The game being played was as old as time itself. A checkered battlefield stood between the Sith and the Exarch. Pieces of opposing hue were embattled - locked in a dizzying dance for supremacy of the board.
And though three souls in total watched the battle take place in silence, the unspoken questions filled the air. Confusion. Anger. The tension was thick - enough so that it weighed heavily upon each breath. For a small eternity, Isley said nothing. His opponent, John, had made a daring assault. A bishop was taken. He would pay for that move.
But who would pay for current events?
Who would pay for his life's work being taken away?
The former Vicelord stretched forth his hand. Who would it choose? Would it be the Knight? @Voph? The one who could navigate the board in staggering ways? Would it be a Bishop? No. Retribution belonged to his strongest. His most trusted. The one which brought terror to any battle across any board. Isley slid forth the Dread Queen. The Rook in her past was taken in one fluid motion.
"Check."
The first word in what seemed forever fell from his lips. John "The Fixer" Locke inhaled sharply. Whether it was surprise at the move, or the fact that he had spoken remained to be seen. Yet an inquisitive look claimed the man's features. Beside him, the alabaster Echani was as still as stone. Isley knew her thoughts. Knew her feelings. He felt them as soundly as the pieces within his grasp. And though her face gave away nothing, he could sense that she too was clinging to his word.
"I credit my father for very little." he began, before folding his hands upon his lap. Their late night conversations had clued them into the circumstances of his childhood. Of Hell on Earth at the hands of a man unfit to be called father. But even a drunkard of a man could have his uses. "But one thing he did teach was this very game. One of patience. One of time. One of anticipation."
His offhand motioned towards Locke's side of the board - where an abundance of his own pieces had been collected. The battle had begun in the Exarch's favor. And in those early stages, one might have believed he would achieve total victory. Yet now, the tide had turned.
"To achieve victory, one must see beyond the present board. One must see all the twists and turns that the opposition could make. Along the way, sacrifices - large and small - have to be made. All in the name of true victory."
And what greater sacrifice had there been in recent history than this? Than walking away from the nation that he had built? Than passing the torch in the name of quelling the rampant paranoia. This was a sacrifice, but the battle was not over. The King still lived.
"Fixer, oh Knight of mine. You will dash across the board and outmaneuver the enemy. Your battleground is political - the Separatists must not lose more ground."
"And you, my Dread Queen, you are a reminder of our way. Even from the far end of the board, the Queen projects the power of the King. While I may not sit behind the resolute desk, our goals remain the same. Show them that they are not abandoned. Stand where I would stand. Lead as I would lead."
He reached out, placing his index finger upon the board. Beside the King.
"A title can be sacrificed. Pieces may be sacrificed. But the King yet lives."
"Your move."
