oneman_onevote | (no subject)

(no subject)

The assassin strikes, appearing four spaces from where it should have been and taking a hapless knight.

Havelock tilts his head, noting the new positions on the board, considering the position from each player's point of view. His coffee sits off to one side, slowly growing cold, to the tragic sadness of a nearby waitrat. (Apparently Ianto Jones has rubbed off on at least one.)

Yes.

If not used in conjunction with the queen, first and foremost, a dangerous gambit, but...

Hmm.

Well, he has time to think it over.

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The back and forth continues for several moves: delicately probing at defenses, patiently shoring them up.

They could probably keep at this all day, honestly.

Very likely.

Havelock, for the record, is entirely happy with that - it's not often he meets an opponent who can so much as match him, let along present a challenge.

It's exciting to play a game that could really go either way.

You know. In a manner of speaking.

Indeed.

Absolutely.

So . . .

yeah.

Mmm-hmm.

Invisble tumbleweed silently rolls past.

You'll have to take my word for it.

It's all very zen.

Trowa's eyes follow the tumbleweed as it rolls.

(waa waa waaaaaaa!)

Wait, no, he's just watching Havelock move a pawn.

And shifting his own remaining knight, in turn.

Yes, the pace is really hotting up.

The Queens are coming into play.

The winner -- insofar as there will be one -- is not yet a foregone conclusion.

But it's getting closer to one; the possible outcomes are fewer and fewer.

Impassively, Trowa shifts a piece.

It is.

Havelock focuses more of his attention solely on the board, tracking possible future patterns in silence even as he moves again.

There's less point to monitoring Havelock now. Not none, of course -- never that, no matter what kind of conversation this might be -- but so far as the chess game itself is concerned, this is the endgame. The possibilities narrow further and further.

Eventually, Trowa looks up from studying the board over folded hands. Mate in five; it's clear which king will fall.

Havelock concurs, correct?

Quite correct - there is no longer even the slightest room for doubt.

He inclines his head in affirmation across the board.

Trowa lowers his eyes briefly in return, and in acknowledgement of a ~~conversation~~ game well played.

"Trowa Barton."

"Havelock Vetinari."

Well-played indeed.

He could, of course, stay longer to talk. But they've already exchanged a conversation's worth and more; there's no need to belabor the obvious.

Trowa rises.

"Thanks for the game."

"You are very welcome," Havelock says with a nod, and begins idly resetting the board.

Trowa heads for an armchair across the room, one of the many conveniently placed for good sight lines, and (after a little while) coffee from a waitrat.

He'll probably stick around a while.

As pastimes go, Milliways-watching is one of the more consistently interesting, after all.

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