"I like rooks," He says suddenly. "Rooks and bishops." He picks up a piece, examining the detail. This was more intricate than he thought--he'd expected a chess set, maybe something in the same style as was popular in the 20s, with brilliant golds and art-deco. They're birds, and he's pleased that he can draw the correlation between Sam being one and the pieces themselves, even if it's only in his head.

"Rooks always go in a straight line, because they always know where they're going and there's never any doubt. That's how I remember it--and bishops, they're clever. They're unpredictable and always get away from danger, so it's diagonal."

He nods, finally setting the chess piece down.

"You can be white, if you want. If we're playing."