Post by Ludwig Beilschmidt on Sept 2, 2010 22:05:27 GMT -5
aka: It's not stalking when your emperor tells you to do it.
Ludwig leaned back in his office chair and sighed. The never-ending paperwork was held back for now, he had watered his plant, and someone else had been placed on radio duty for the day. It was times like this that he missed the days right after he'd first been given his captaincy and every moment was spent in the air actively contributing to the safety of the empire. These days his crew was mustered only in a state of emergency, when the empire needed a particularly vicious pirate crew taken care of and taken care of now.
That was the reward for doing a job and doing it well, he supposed. And more to the point, a flying mission would distract him from the not-date that loomed at him, circled in red ink on his desk calendar and double-underlined in his personal schedule book. His eyes slid guiltily to the automated telegraph machine in the corner, office supplies used for highly personal communications- the advice exchanges with his brother had been torn off and stowed in a pocket to be pored over and winnowed for actual useful materials whenever he had a free moment.
His stomach refused to be still whenever he thought of the odd little encounter with the flighty artist, and he was beginning to dread the coming encounter almost more than he looked forward to it.
He was considering what exactly to do with the portrait that was the ostensible reason for their...lunch meeting when a heavy authoritative knock thudded, three times on his office door followed in quick succession by the door itself being thrown open. The soldier in him stiffened his spine and returned him to proper attention in his chair for whoever it was that didn't feel the need to go through formal channels first.
Ludwig leaned back in his office chair and sighed. The never-ending paperwork was held back for now, he had watered his plant, and someone else had been placed on radio duty for the day. It was times like this that he missed the days right after he'd first been given his captaincy and every moment was spent in the air actively contributing to the safety of the empire. These days his crew was mustered only in a state of emergency, when the empire needed a particularly vicious pirate crew taken care of and taken care of now.
That was the reward for doing a job and doing it well, he supposed. And more to the point, a flying mission would distract him from the not-date that loomed at him, circled in red ink on his desk calendar and double-underlined in his personal schedule book. His eyes slid guiltily to the automated telegraph machine in the corner, office supplies used for highly personal communications- the advice exchanges with his brother had been torn off and stowed in a pocket to be pored over and winnowed for actual useful materials whenever he had a free moment.
His stomach refused to be still whenever he thought of the odd little encounter with the flighty artist, and he was beginning to dread the coming encounter almost more than he looked forward to it.
He was considering what exactly to do with the portrait that was the ostensible reason for their...lunch meeting when a heavy authoritative knock thudded, three times on his office door followed in quick succession by the door itself being thrown open. The soldier in him stiffened his spine and returned him to proper attention in his chair for whoever it was that didn't feel the need to go through formal channels first.