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Colors; Chapter One by Emcaw Eeaton
SUMMARY: Comment please.
I stand stock still in the freezing shadows of the wild grass that reaches my neck even when I am standing. It prickles rather uncomfortably around my body as I lean even closer to a rather awkward looking and very large rock that was placed in the middle of the plains area. I venture to give it a tentative poke. A hiss resounded through the silent night as its heat burns the tan flesh on my finger and I grab my hand back again quickly, choking back a curse.
Quickly I shove at it with my heavily booted foot, causing the rock to roll off of a hole. As I re-adjust my newly acquired dress over my usual array of trousers and a long woolen shirt, a gust of warm air comes up into the cold and voices drift up with the steam.
"I think we should just attack the Blacks," comes the voice of a boy that I judge to be around sixteen. He has most likely just become a man, and is still acting more emotional than intellectual. I roll my eyes. I have been sent to spy on this? Please. The Reds would have been a better use of my time, not the Whites. The Whites never thought passed anything besides rash judgment, and even when they did they rarely used their good advice. In my opinion, they rely too heavily on their God and the Angel's that serve Him. I think that is stupid. Why a male god? But the White's are insistent of His existence, and I will grudgingly admit to seeing some kind of deity-like assistance on their side during the last war a year or so ago. Either that or they were using some wicked magick. Suddenly an older woman's voice breaks into the murmurs of agreement.
"No! I am sick of losing!" comes the wizened voice. "We Whites have been fighting the Blacks since at least I was young, a hundred or so years ago, and we have lost many of the battles because we have always fought their way!" Another round of affirming murmurs resound as the first young man laughs bitterly while I curse the fact that they have Elders to shove in a voice of reason, even though they were dumb enough to believe her age. A hundred? Please. Whites rely more heavily on their faith than in healing herbs and therefore they rarely live passed seventy.
"Stuff it, old hag. What other kind of war is there, that does not fight how it must be fought?" I am beginning to feel like they are rather stupid with all of the agreeing to both sides of the argument. If they would only choose a side...ah, well they are arguing again, this time with the hag's voice livid at the rudeness of the young man.
"Listen here. I have been around much longer than you have, and therefore I know more than you. I speak from experience. And I know for a fact that war is what you make of it. You could, for instance, make war into a card game, and whoever was better at it won. And you could also make war into a challenge of wits. It is simply how you decide to fight the war."
"But the rules," the young man mentions doubtfully.
"Rules? Rules? Boy, please, don't be stupid. In war there are no rules.