10 minutes is not a long time to spend on a ship when interstellar travel measured in a week at minimum, but when waiting in the office of one of the highest ranking men in the star system it stretched considerably. Habitually drawing his pipe from the loop it was kept in, he began to idly fidget with it during the wait. Twirling the corncob from Asim around his fingers like a bored student with a pen, he mulled over the old childhood dreams of running a vast fleet fromt this very office. After a minute and no reapperance, he rises to his feet and walks to the window to watch the swirling storm. He didn't look at Drinax proper often, and when he did it rarely raised his mood. A garden world, the history books said, with sprawling fields and thriving cities full of priceless art — and priceless lives. He ached for the memory of the Kingdom of Drinax, ruling from Asim to Paal bringing peace and prosperity to eight systems. Drinax was dead, and any semblence of unity in the Trojan Reach had died with it. Now the Aslan send waves of warriors to seize land, the Empire pretended it could stop them, and reavers thrived in the abscence of firm leadership.
His reverie broke with the return of the secretary. A quick glance to the chronometer showed it had been nearly ten minutes, spent daydreaming of a dead nation. With a shake of his head he followed the secretary ushering him into the next room, murmering a reply to his old Captain before stepping through the final door to the Admiral's office. It was, even having brought messages before, still disorienting how low-key and underdecorated it was. Regardless, he was halfway through his salute when the Admiral waved it off and so awkardly lowered his hand. Sitting slowly in the offered chair and gingerly accepting the offered cigar, he shook his head.
"I must confess, Lord Admiral, I do not."