Power; what an intoxicating quality.

Oftentimes, even the mention of such a thing caused a sane man to falter in intelligence, his greed for such an object causing him to folly. It became all possessing, calling to one’s vanity in the voice of a seductive siren, tempting even the wholehearted Christian. Even now, as a man that had acquired such power, the calling never silenced to his ever ambitious ears. Allowing a small smile to pull at his thin lips, the scholarly fellow pulled his gaze away from the paperwork that surrounded him, spreading out over his opulent wooden desk in a dishevelled sea of white. It would seem intimidating to a lesser individual, but as the silver-haired fellow stared at the proposals, grants, mission reports, and economy observations, he could not find himself more at home. It was as if this pressure of a village invigorated the ruler, the stress pulling forth his most creative mind. Pressure was just as seductive to this man as power, and as he rose from his rather decorous, winged-back chair, his robes rustling with the movement, Second Raikage, Unubra Raikou turned his gaze to the bustling village below.

It wasn’t often that such an economically successful village would arise under a ruling age that was far less than one hundred years, but under the dictatorship of his grandfather, Kumogakure blossomed. Although hesitant to admit it, Raikou admired his forefather for his iron-will and the fist that accommodated it and it was because of this mixture of fear and admiration that he inspired, did he receive such loyalty from his village. It was with his passing that the scholar ascended into his grandfather’s throne, and the moment that he seated his body in the large chair, did Raikou finally allow a smile to grace his lips. He appreciated the old man, even respected him, but what the always ambitious shinobi had respected more, was the knowledge of what he would gain at the original Raikage’s death. It was this, this kingdom spanning the sky below him that drew Unubra into the callous hands of his grandfather.

Eyes flashing satisfactorily at the memory, the present Raikage strode towards the windows behind him, his stance easily relaxed from an outside perspective, but beneath the loose leader robes he wore, his well-muscled body lay tense, forever ready for an attack. Looking down at his creation, the bespectacled man allowed a cocky sense of pride to warm his strongly-wound chest. When he had taken over Kumogakure, all he could focus on was the creations his grandfather had felt appreciation for; death and battle. The expansive army he created was intimidating and as Unubra observed their tiny, speckled bodies moving through their practicing formations in the training grounds, did he allow himself to feel appreciation for them. Kumogakure had an expansive army of shinobi, and the idea of another country attacking them with the hopes of winning was laughable in his eyes. They were severely trained shinobi, and like the Spartans trained their young, the Raikage showed no sympathy for the fragile, stating that weakness was intolerable. He was not so cruel as to kill children by law, however, oftentimes, those that were weak found themselves dead anyway, under suspicious reasons of course.

Becoming bored with the set regime, he allowed his shrewd eyes to redirect themselves towards Shuuren District, a bustling area of life and culture. It was by far his favourite, and one could often find the Raikage’s presence in the present Theatre, enjoying often colourful displays of culture and nationalism. Although the man was hardened to the ideals of a soft society, Unubra appreciated the fine arts and with much time and commitment, was he capable of bringing forth his outside love to his village. Kumogakure had become a cultural mosaic and the Shuuren District itself, grossed a vast majority of the village’s revenue. As it was located at the highest height from the Gougan area, it allowed tourist’s a better view of the country and its offerings as well. Kumogakure No Sato was a beautiful village and as he watched it with a bias, self-confident eye, Second Raikage couldn’t help but feel wary.

Power, it causes people to do insane things. This observation of the greatness of the village before him, covered by clouds, causing the air to be moist and welcoming cool on the back of one’s throat, troubled the usually stoic leader. He had heard rumours from his loyal subjects of the existence of traitors, scurrying around in the darkest corners of the village that even his eyes could not see. It was this exact notion that had caused the man to begin his train of thought down this specific tangent and as his eyes strained to look at the village below, Unubra Raikou smiled to himself, the corners of his mouth pulling up severely in something sadistically reminiscent of a previous expression of joy.

“What silly children lay their nests in my mist,” he murmured quietly, his breath steaming up the glass before him, “Poor little birds that are surrounded by skies so big, and so beautiful that they can only grasp for freedom.” Idly, his fingers stroked the leaves of a nearby plant; gentle, coaxing, loving, “They cannot help but reach for the expansive blues. But as their wings stretch, and the wind coaxes then like a seductive siren’s voice; they jump.” The plant exploded into flames, “And as they fall so gracelessly, do they realize; they have no chance, they have no power, and like a caged animal, they have unbeknownst – been clipped.”

Still watching out the window, the flames licking at his fingers, The Second Raikage smiled.

“Poor, little birds.”