Taking my cue from Hammersmith.
Imagine a large cavernous chamber. One half of this chamber is well-lit, and it is filled with people of all sorts and kinds and races and ages and walks of life. In the well-lit section, you can find almost every amenity imaginable. Comfortable sofas, tables, bookshelves filled with texts and novels on just about every subject and topic, toys, entertainment centers, TVs, DVD players, movies, video games, a kitchen complete with every piece of china and silverware you could ever need, a refrigerator that provides all the water you'd ever need for drinking, an oven, a sink and dishwasher, beds aplenty for folks to sleep and fornicate on, heaters, air conditioners.....
...but there's no food.
The other half of the large cavernous chamber is dark. Pitch-black, almost. From deep within that void, on occasion, can be heard chilling noises, the cries and screams and grunts and panting of wild animals. Beasts... but beasts that keep to the shadows.
In the middle of the chamber, in the grey that marks the divide between light and dark, white and black, is a small coffee table. On that coffee table is a single large hunting knife. Outside of the rather tame cutlery and the wooden chairs and other various amenities that might make for makeshift weapons, this knife is the only real, pre-existing purpose-built weapon in the entire chamber.
Melkire is the man that picks up that knife every day and delves into pitch-black darkness, risking his life, in order to come back out with food, so that the people in the well-lit half of the chamber might live one more day without turning on each other and cannibalizing their own population in a chaotic frenzy born of desperation.
And he does this of his own free will, volition, whatever you want to call it.
Not because it needs doing. That's the excuse he gives the others.
Because he likes it.
Imagine a large cavernous chamber. One half of this chamber is well-lit, and it is filled with people of all sorts and kinds and races and ages and walks of life. In the well-lit section, you can find almost every amenity imaginable. Comfortable sofas, tables, bookshelves filled with texts and novels on just about every subject and topic, toys, entertainment centers, TVs, DVD players, movies, video games, a kitchen complete with every piece of china and silverware you could ever need, a refrigerator that provides all the water you'd ever need for drinking, an oven, a sink and dishwasher, beds aplenty for folks to sleep and fornicate on, heaters, air conditioners.....
...but there's no food.
The other half of the large cavernous chamber is dark. Pitch-black, almost. From deep within that void, on occasion, can be heard chilling noises, the cries and screams and grunts and panting of wild animals. Beasts... but beasts that keep to the shadows.
In the middle of the chamber, in the grey that marks the divide between light and dark, white and black, is a small coffee table. On that coffee table is a single large hunting knife. Outside of the rather tame cutlery and the wooden chairs and other various amenities that might make for makeshift weapons, this knife is the only real, pre-existing purpose-built weapon in the entire chamber.
Melkire is the man that picks up that knife every day and delves into pitch-black darkness, risking his life, in order to come back out with food, so that the people in the well-lit half of the chamber might live one more day without turning on each other and cannibalizing their own population in a chaotic frenzy born of desperation.
And he does this of his own free will, volition, whatever you want to call it.
Not because it needs doing. That's the excuse he gives the others.
Because he likes it.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
