OOC: To sleep, perchance to dream
The room was dark. There was a hazy blur that he could tell was a window, but other than that, the shapes in the gloom were indistinct and unremarkable.
Voices spoke in the distance, ones he recognized as long gone, or from his memories, but they were all hazy, as indistinct as the objects in the room. And just as impossible to decipher their words.
“It all begins like this.” The man’s voice was lazy, by Crow’s ear. “Darkness, confusion. We’re all born into a world we simply cannot hope to comprehend. An existence too brief to appreciate. With a ray of light just dim enough it can’t keep us from knocking our shins against the furniture.”
The man lit a candle, moving past. Crow caught a glimpse of red eyes and unruly hair but the man’s face was turned to darkness too quickly to make out.
“We try to shed light, and we only end up burning the whole house down.” The flame dropped out of the man’s hand, the flames licking at the furniture and the walls, dark smoke coiling around the two men. In the distance the voices became screams.
“What rises from the ashes?” The man asked, his back to Crow, watching the flames consume everything around them. “Do we come back and build something stronger, more lasting? Or is it all a cycle we repeat forever? Can this world change?” the face turned to Crow, but it was concealed behind a red mask with a pattern of black flames. “Can people change? Is peace merely the word for a lull between conflict? A far too human invention, peace. War, that’s natural, the proper order of things is destruction, devastation, reconstruction. The fittest survive only to produce a new generation who do it all again. But peace-that’s an artificial ideal. A bedtime story.”
The man stalked towards Crow as the flames grew around them. Something in his voice deadly and confident and predatory. Crow watched him.
“Conflict is our nature, Itachi. Change is always preceded by destruction. You are the very harbinger of it-a messenger of war.” A sword flashed in the other man’s hand and Crow blocked with a blade of his own, steel that felt too natural and perfectly fitting to be anything but a sword he’d used many times before, though he could not remember it. The clang rang oddly loud in the burning room. Crow followed the block by disengaging and making an attack of his own. The other dodged, laughing.
“Yes.” The man’s voice was elated as he drew back into the flames. “You cannot win any wars by defense. If you cannot be the first to strike, then make your counterattack decisive.”
The smoke concealed everything, even the bright fire, in choking black clouds. Crow began to cough, and the man chuckled darkly, his voice blending into the roar of the fire, and both eventually becoming the distant cackle of crows.
Voices spoke in the distance, ones he recognized as long gone, or from his memories, but they were all hazy, as indistinct as the objects in the room. And just as impossible to decipher their words.
“It all begins like this.” The man’s voice was lazy, by Crow’s ear. “Darkness, confusion. We’re all born into a world we simply cannot hope to comprehend. An existence too brief to appreciate. With a ray of light just dim enough it can’t keep us from knocking our shins against the furniture.”
The man lit a candle, moving past. Crow caught a glimpse of red eyes and unruly hair but the man’s face was turned to darkness too quickly to make out.
“We try to shed light, and we only end up burning the whole house down.” The flame dropped out of the man’s hand, the flames licking at the furniture and the walls, dark smoke coiling around the two men. In the distance the voices became screams.
“What rises from the ashes?” The man asked, his back to Crow, watching the flames consume everything around them. “Do we come back and build something stronger, more lasting? Or is it all a cycle we repeat forever? Can this world change?” the face turned to Crow, but it was concealed behind a red mask with a pattern of black flames. “Can people change? Is peace merely the word for a lull between conflict? A far too human invention, peace. War, that’s natural, the proper order of things is destruction, devastation, reconstruction. The fittest survive only to produce a new generation who do it all again. But peace-that’s an artificial ideal. A bedtime story.”
The man stalked towards Crow as the flames grew around them. Something in his voice deadly and confident and predatory. Crow watched him.
“Conflict is our nature, Itachi. Change is always preceded by destruction. You are the very harbinger of it-a messenger of war.” A sword flashed in the other man’s hand and Crow blocked with a blade of his own, steel that felt too natural and perfectly fitting to be anything but a sword he’d used many times before, though he could not remember it. The clang rang oddly loud in the burning room. Crow followed the block by disengaging and making an attack of his own. The other dodged, laughing.
“Yes.” The man’s voice was elated as he drew back into the flames. “You cannot win any wars by defense. If you cannot be the first to strike, then make your counterattack decisive.”
The smoke concealed everything, even the bright fire, in choking black clouds. Crow began to cough, and the man chuckled darkly, his voice blending into the roar of the fire, and both eventually becoming the distant cackle of crows.