The Captain.

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The Captain.

Post by DoS Archive » Fri Nov 19, 2004 6:36 pm

From: kaenetheblack@aol.com (Kaene the Black)
Date: 16 Mar 2003 00:27:18 EST

The crow knew hunger and cold. It managed the breeze like a skilled sailor, adjusting its wings to every nuance, every rush of air that assaulted it. Its mean black eyes absorbed more information than its brain could interpret, but, after a forgettable period of assimilation, it now knew height. Yes: it soared high above the barren countryside. The earth melted into the sky at the horizon-a thick, dull gray line encircling the crow. Below the black beast: a field of red littered with dark gray imperfections. Perspective was an impossible thing-from up high these hu-mans appeared so small, so meaningless, no more threatening than the ants that danced around its vicious feet when fancy found the crow reposing on the grass. But on the ground where the ants danced, mired in their own lethal humanity, hu-man's capacity for destruction consumed everything. The crow descended. It did not understand why-it did not understand anything. It simply obeyed its impulses, the primal force that demanded one thing: survival. At this particular instance, stabbing at the prospect of nourishment somewhere beneath its wings, the crow was stricken with the fancy to descend. So it did.

The gray imperfections sharpened into the shapes of men. The crow knew men-yes, it knew men only too well. The impulse to flee gripped the crow. So it did, ascending again. It knew comfort in its distance from the horror of man, and once at a safe height above them, where their blood-streaked faces were blurred beyond recognition, it knew peace again. The momentary bout of panic that overcame the crow was swiftly expelled from its memory, sucked somewhere into the sweet oblivion that more often than not comprised the crow's existence

His booted foot resting heavily on the expressionless face of the corpse, the victor extended his leg and slid the limp body from the wicked blade of his sword like a piece of meat. It collapsed in an inhuman heap at odd angles. The soul had transcended its earthly prison long ago, leaving the mangled assemblage of limbs and organs a hollow shell of its former self. This corpse was not unlike its murderer: devoid of feeling, of humanity, to the study of even the most devout observer. The only disparity between the killer and the killed was the aftertaste of something human in the breath and the driving force of malice in the former that fueled each twitch of his knotty muscles and each beat of his black heart with murderous energy. How many souls had he freed that day? An army of rotting warriors stained the field with their bloody red flag of surrender, of defeat. He did not know numbers. But he had seen that flag before: the red incensed him, sparked the rage within him, drove him onward like a charging bull. He had not always been like that. But such inner peace was long ago, before he had ever heard the word murder or seen his mother pillaged at the rough, invasive hands of an invading army-before he had his first glimpse of the Primal Truth.

"Captain," a voice flickered into existence behind him. He recognized the distinct fragility of inexperience that undercut its strength. "Your tent is ready." A pause. "We've finished our survey. There are no survivors. Those still capable of breath were turned over to drown in the blood of the fallen." A cruel end, thought the Captain, but in his experience malice was directly proportional to efficacy. Inexperience plus efficiency-the Captain now knew potential.

"Excellent. Leave the bodies. We march at sunrise." The Captain spun on his heel with the mechanic curtness of a weathered soldier and retired to the tent that had hitherto been merely a pile of sticks and canvas. The knobby horns on his helmet glistened in the patchy areas where blood had not yet suffocated the metal. That a shelter could arise from such basic items-lines and planes-had always massaged the pedantic corners of his mind. He aspired to be like the crow: knowing only impulse. Thoughts merely convoluted reality; the more complex and coiled his reality, he knew, the more indecisive his mind.

His humanity had always been a burden, a hurdle on his path to perfection-only through the death of others had he been able to chip away at it to expose the One Primal Truth. He knew he could never efface it completely-the opaque morality of his humanity would always obscure the Primal Truth, a lamentable inevitability-but he busied himself with the realization of this endeavor in spite of its obvious futility. For without a destination, there could be no path. And without a path, he was lost… he was lost.
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