Prompt: Write a descriptive essay about a workshop and its owner.
Disclaimer: 私はナルトを所有していません! I do not own Naruto!
The Workshop
Prologue
The Titan's Gazette
November 9th 1999
Time stamp: 10:30 a.m._
EVerY CitY hAS a DaRK SidE
Every city has its dark side.
In the city of Hyperion, its darkness lies within the shady streets of Nyx, a quaint little cottage sitting alone at the end. Beyond it, thickets of foliage formed an impermeable barrier around the Dark One's Forest, the tress stood rigidly in attention, their branches poised as if sculpted in grim, mocking salute. Wild, vibrant vegetation grew in between the cracks of the streets, while curling lime green vines would be found wrapped snugly around the depreciating walls of abandoned homes that were lined up on either side of the cottage; leisurely the vines took apart the structure brick by brick, the fumes of dust dirtying the grimy pavements even more so.
Life itself appeared to have been seeped out of the place, replaced by a forbidding landscape foreign to all of the populace of Hyperion…
…but one.
The 'One,' as the citizens of Hyperion had long since begun to dub him, had been speculated to be an artist. However, this was only a hapless rumor. No one really knew of his true identity, after all. Information in regards to him was scarce to none; he was a reserved fellow who had never once been caught leaving his cottage, his makeshift workshop, at all. Even when the streets of Nyx had weathered away into a desolated no man's land, he had not left. The chimney of cottage had continued on to smoke its dark, coal black fumes.
Like the 'witch' in that tale of Hazel and Gretel, the man infinitely haunts the shady cottage, even when all others have faded away to nothingness…he alone had persevered, testing the test of nature. Testing the test of time…
And astonishingly, after a century, we find that he was even testing the patience of Death.
Who is this peculiar man, whom our city had endured for a hundred years?
This man. We know absolutely nothing about him yet we have managed to peacefully coexist for a century. And for what? What has this man done for us in return for our hospitality?
I ask you fellow citizens of Hyperion; who was responsible for polluting our city skies and air with fumes of smoke? Who was responsible for hindering the development our city by denying the rights of our people to explore every inch of our city as please?
The 'One'.
We cannot go on blinding ourselves to the existence of the 'One' within our midst, deluding ourselves that he will pose no potential threat to us in the future. He has tested time himself; he has proven his unwillingness to depart from our city. He has proven to us that he was a patient man. But what was he waiting for? What are his intentions?
We are no closer to finding this answer than our ancestors were a century ago. We must make an effort to secure a permanently binding oath from the man himself; otherwise we cannot be so sure to claim that he will not attempt to put in motion any ill-designs that he may have on our beloved city.
We must open our eyes to see more clearly towards to the future. Lest we unwittingly lose everything we hold dear to one simple mistake.
"Security is our golden key, a key to safeguard our city."
-The Fifth Fundamentals of Hyperion City.
- Haruno Sakura
Slipping expertly through the throngs of people rushing about, a man with dark hair and equally dark shades made his way purposely towards a newspaper stall he regulates daily. Without even pausing to look, he picked the newspaper he wanted, tipping the seller the appropriate sum, and walked away, unfurling the paper as he did so. Flicking through the pages, he found the article that had recently caught his interest.
"EVerY CitY hAS a DaRK SidE."
A twisted smirk curled around the edges of his lips, as he slowly perused its contents with a slow manner. He savored every useless word, the idiotic self-righteousness, the naivety that this stupid girl, who had written this article in hopes to rid him from this city, possessed. The audacity of her to demand him the rights of their city made him want to laugh. How utterly clueless she was. How terribly obtuse.
Passing by a bin, he rid himself of the paper. He did not need it anymore.
Tilting his head back to gaze at the quickly fading daylight, he stop to reflect just how long he had endured the years, watching them as they mockingly passed him by. He sighed quietly. No satisfaction came without a price, after all, nothing in life is ever free.
Sparing one last glance at the discarded newspaper, he turned away, his strides quickening and becoming longer. The day was ending, and he had spent his time away from the cottage long enough. He turned around a corner, entering the route of a rarely used shortcut; dimly, flickering lamp lights cast his lone shadow on the neglected, gratified walls. But there was something wrong. With each step he took, his shadow warped and shifted, decreasing in height and size, until an unfamiliar silhouette of another replaced it completely.
Shaking his head experimentally, deft fingers examined the familiar sight of his vermilion locks, satisfied to see there was no trace of the guise he had momentarily sported. Pocketing the shades, cold amber eyes helped fashion his face into an emotionless mask; an inexplicably important facade to where he was returning to.
To a realm of unending nightmares.
He came to a dead end.
You could always turn back, the soft, guileless voice whispered within the confines of his mind. And he knew perfectly well that he could; a cold, wintry breeze, flitted about him teasingly, the city beckoning him to change his mind, as it always does whenever he would come to the crossroads.
But he would not.
Placing his palm firmly against the bricked wall, he slid it down harshly across the rough surface. Briefly, he experienced pain, but he quashed it down. His blood bubbled, and pooled in between his injured hand and the wall, a warm tingling sensation slowly building up to an intense feeling, just like a pianist gradually playing the notes to crescendo. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the wound even more firmly. A lone red circle drew itself around his splayed hand, increasing in its intensity as he started to chant in a indistinguishable language, composed of snarls and growls.
Runes formed, crisscrossing over each other, sketching a shady silhouette of an arc. Pulling his hand away, the glow immediately faded, and the arc solidified itself. When there had been none before, an entrance stood in front of him, imposing and powerful. Steam curled around his right hand, his body reflexively healing itself, staunching the flow of blood, and resealing his wound.
He paid it no heed. Grasping the bronze doorknob, he twisted the door open. Without a backward glance, he entered, snapping the door shut behind him, plunging himself into self-isolation from the world he could never truly become a part of.
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"Oh, mother, mother! The children are playing,
Dancing and singing, twirling in time to their tunes,
Oh, mother, mother! May I join them, please?
I've finished all of my works, even the chores and tasks!
Please let me play with them, mother, truly please!
They look to be having such fun, I really want to play!"
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"A work of a young man is never done and over, dear son,
And the whims of children must not ever catch your eye,
Be wary; no work but play are the devil's tools my son,
To fall under their alluring charms would be such a fatal mistake,
Dear child! Listen not to the sirens musical entices and promises,
Work is our only salvation; the play are for foolish heathens!
Do not stray from your works again, lest darkness strings your heart!"
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"...I am sorry mother, I will not ask again."
"Good, child. Now off to work with you."
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