#gameoflegends

Evening had given deference to night, and darkness had settled in across the city of the strong. Their Hand sat high above the dull urban roar, isolated inside his study in Darkbourne Hold. Beside him, a stack of papers rose from the desk, already having laid claim to the rest of his night. 2nd quarter reviews for high ranking officers of the Noxian military. Quill scribbled against parchment, clinked twice in the inkwell, then back to more scratching.

*Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt.*

The vibration of his hexphone dropped him from his reverie with Colonel Reicheleau's training statistics. Bushy eyebrows met a moment as he read the caller ID.

He couldn't even say hello before an imperious voice spoke on the other end.

"Darius.":

"Sir."

"Come upstairs. I need your help."

Such words were seldom spoken.

"Right away, sir."

*Click*

'How erratic,' he mulled as his massive legs took the stairs two at a time up to the Grand General's annex. 'The last time he asked for help, he about died.'

Moments later, he knocked on the door to the leather-scented office.

"Enter," came the voice from inside. It still struck him, at times, the difference between the rasping imperative he used to hear, and the smooth, almost bored voice uttering it now.

"How can I be of assistance, sir," he said, taking his seat in one of the over-stuffed leather armchairs situated in front of the ornate wooden desk. Perched on the surface of the desk were 4 empty bottles of Glengragas 12-year-old scotch; utter firewater to anyone but their maker, and apparently the man in front of him as well. Swain looked sober as a Demacian nun.

From under the desk, the Master Tactician withdrew a crystal tumbler filled with more of the smokey amber liquid, and shoved it with a graceful movement of his fingers towards his second. "Drink this."

He blinked. The gesture caught the Hand off-guard. Help, he thought, had meant running a strategy by him for dealing with the presentation to the Council of Equity regarding the recently-discovered Nexus crystal in Zaun. But, of course, he acquiesced. "As you command, then."

He took a small rocks glass off a nearby tray, and filled it with two fingers of the fragrant liquor, raised his glass to his superior, and downed it in a single swig. The complex flavors of caramel and peat and...bacon? swirled in his mouth before he let it drain down his gullet. The whole time, Swain watched him, unblinking.

Finishing with a satisfied "Ahhh", he turned to to his superior. "Delicious, sir, but may I be frank?"

The Grand General nodded. "Yes. Go on."

A small hesitation, and he continued. "Just what exactly am I helping you with?"

The Master Tactician stared. "...are you intoxicated by any means?"

He gave a small frown. "I mean, I feel a little warm in my mask and throat, but I'm not drunk."

The Grand General pushed a second bottle across the desk, as if he were resentful of it. "Darius," he hissed. "...I can't get drunk. Not even a bit."

Darius stared at his commander a moment, then gave a short, barking laugh. "That is the saddest thing I've ever heard, sir."

For a moment, the Grand General stared, then buried his face in his arms over the desk.

"I take it's been like this since your procedure?" he asked. He remembered the inaugural dinner with his superior right after the rebirth. He'd had three or four drinks, but had displayed no impairment of his faculties.

"I suppose," Swain said into his desk, sullen and melancholy. It irked the Hand to see him like this.

"Oh, don't be such a baby about it...sir," he added hastily. He cursed at himself silently for his slip into over-familiarity, but he knew it was best to soldier on. "If you've grown stronger, so must your drink. We need an expert."

Swain sat back in his leather chair and stared, glowing green eyes just short of livid. The raven on the bookcase echoed, `Baby. Baby. Baby.` "You misunderstand me," the Master Tactician said coolly over his familiar's shrill cries. His nails rapped a rhythm on the polished desk. "Nevermind about it."

"Ahhh...shit. My apologies, sir. That was out of line. I've just never seen you so despondent," he plead. "Come, we should consult Gragas on the matter. Every man deserves to leave the confines of sobriety once in while, non?"

After a moment spent in inexpressive silence, his chin pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Swain corrected, "You have. Moreso. I'm not despondent. Just... mildly annoyed." Glowing eyes glanced away and the raven squawked, `Annoyed!` "I don't need to call Gragas... I just need to punch something."

He cast an aggravated glance at the raven 'Delinquent bird.' "I differentiate between despondent and depressed on the brink of death, sir. And I hope that's not why you called me up here after all..." He frowned, nervous all of sudden. He could guess that Swain did not truly know his new strength yet, and given the performance he'd put on in the gym the other day, he didn't want to be the guinea pig.

"No. It isn't. Though perhaps you could use one to the jaw for your brazenness" The phantom of a smirk flickered over his face."At any rate, I mostly desired to find whether this liquor was a poor brew or my own tolerance was to blame for my sobriety."

"I suppose I'd deserve it," he replied, eyes cast down a brief moment. "But you honestly have no desire to find a potent enough concoction to affect you even in your...evolved state?"

"Not now." The ghost of Swain's humor evaporated; he pushed a half-full bottle across the desk. "Someday," he sighed. "Drink."

The Hand squinted at the Grand General, somewhat taken aback. He could feel  anger rising in his stomach, but he squashed it down in favor of growing incredulity. "You've proven your point, sir, and I've evaluations for half the officer corps still piled up on my desk that I was aiming to decimate tonight. Is this really necessary?"

The briefest flash of something other than imperious pride and smugness shone in the Grand General's stare: something human. Then, after a moment's silence, he answered, "No." And then, "You're dismissed," his mask of impassivity restored. `Dismissed, dismissed, dismissed,` Beatrice chimed.

A flicker of confusion crossed the Hand's eyebrows, playing into his beetle-black eyes a moment. Then he stood, saluted, and strode from the office, shaking his head to himself once he was clear of Swain's view.

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Back in his office late that night, he felt the incredulity of his earlier meeting with the Grand General bubbling and roiling around inside his head.

'Colonel So-and-so...Hrmph!'

He tossed the quill on his desk in frustration, and swiveled around to face the big bay windows that looked out over his protectorate.

'Since when has he not wanted to solve a problem...?'

He shook his head as the twinkling lights of Noxus, the countryside, and the refugee camps were laid bare before him, resplendent in their resilient prosperity.

'Eh. I'm just a powerful pawn. You've dug your own grave Darius. Just enjoy the fresh air till he pushes you into the ground.'

A disappointed sigh left him as soon as the thought was finished, and he swung back around to face his paperwork once more, rubbing his eyes.

'No sense dwelling. We share a vision. That is enough for me. I still serve Noxus first and foremost.'