colour of oblivion

Chapter 1 : Demon

Demon"Here he comes, the demon.""I heard he fled from the mainland after being found to have killed several men... and then eaten the hearts of their women!"

"He can't be human. Look at his eyes!"

"His eyes....""Forget his eyes, pale as a corpse that man is.... Must be a spirit, nothing else for it,"

"A demon,"

"A demon,"

"Demon...."The terrified whispers did not escape the ears of the man at which they were directed.

The streets cleared before him as he walked, eyes cast upon the stones at his sandaled feet, black nailed hands hidden in the sleeves of his kosode.

The garment was black with white edging and tied with a white obi, the lacquer sheathed katana hanging from his waist his only possession of value.

He had come into the small rural village to buy ink and paper.

He lived in a house in the deep woods that rimmed the village, spending his days of self-inflicted solitary confinement writing music and playing his shamisen.

Paper was a valuable commodity, however, and the man was not rich by any stretch of the imagination.

Yet, he had nothing better to do, and to keep the company of the human trash that surrounded him was unthinkable.

He continued his walk, shaggy black hair loose, free of the commonly accepted topknot, worn sandals scuffing the dirt.

There was a sudden cry as he came upon a child of no more than eight, at the most, in his path.

The shout came from the dismayed people that edged the streets as they awaited what they thought to be the obvious demise of the child.

The man had never killed anyone in their sight, so why was it that they thought he would do anything now?

He would never understand the humans, strange as they were, being governed by their emotions.

He had no use for such things.

Not that he held an ounce of mercy in his heart that would spare the child from his blade either, for compassion was a waste of time, but it simply was that he did not feel like squandering energy killing a brat or any of the rest of the filth that lived in the village without provocation.

There was no point, no meaning to it... but there was no point in anything at all, was there?

His face displayed no feeling as he gazed down on the young girl.

"U-um.... Would you like to buy a flower...?" she squeaked, knowing of his reputation.

He was the one who mothers threatened they're children with when they were ill-behaved.

She proffered him a marigold and a buttercup, hand shaking.The man took the flowers from her, and he saw her wince at his pale skin and blackened nails as he did so. Emerald eyes, brilliant, sharp, and cold, like a spear of ice, met terrified brown for an instant before the man switched his gaze back to the flower.

"The marigold," he murmured, "the sign of despair... and the buttercup, the flower of oblivion.

"He handed the girl a coin, placing the flowers in the inside pocket of his kosode, returning his hands to his sleeves and once again hiding them among the folds of black cloth.

There was a disbelieving silence in the street behind him as he entered the shop he had come for.Despair and oblivion... what a fitting pair.

At the sight of his face, the shop owner stopped what he was doing, freezing in the act of placing a stack of fine-cut paper on the counter.