[In the shade of that clever little field tent, Maejyr Ralston's smile flexes briefly wider. For the barest instant, some specter of real humor lurks in the shape of that expression. It reaches up to touch his dark eyes, and to form a secret series of wrinkles. And then, as a card turned face down, that indulgent glint is once more made invisible. Obtuse. Shrouded.
Still—it's a good joke. That Kirigan solicited his attention; that the general asked for something. How rare must it be for the man to find himself burdened by the inconvenience of another person's wishes?
no subject
Still—it's a good joke. That Kirigan solicited his attention; that the general asked for something. How rare must it be for the man to find himself burdened by the inconvenience of another person's wishes?
No wonder he's so short tempered.]
Don't. Why not?