Arise, fair Sun to meet the Moon

Nightfall. For once, all was in balance.
Without demon or ambitious man to contest peace; a group overtaxed took a much deserved rest. Around the fire they gathered, intent on their own devices. Two slept, another pair played chess, and the last two sat in contemplation under the nearby trees.
They had chosen their camp wisely, sheltered in a small depression, it was protected from any major elemental storms or undesired eyes. The long grass, swaying gently in the breeze flowing in from above obscured their movements and masked the idle conversations taking place. The small plume of smoke rising up would not likely be seen, and that fact had put them at ease. Tensions that each traveler had been feeling since morning gradually faded under the group’s humble bonds of friendship.

Cherry blossoms fall
In the dark, under moonlight
What heart? Fled. Stolen…

As he completed the final stroke, his hands shook with suppressed emotion, barely managing not to smudge the elegant calligraphy. He set the damp paper in his lap to dry, snuffed out his torch and leaned back to watch, ignoring the bark that scraped at his back. Moments like these could rarely be associated the half-demon, but every warrior, no matter how hard his heart, had a passion. The only one to share his reverie with the falling petals was Kilala, and he knew she would not likely divulge his carefully hidden interest. He preferred to abstain from the process of being ridiculed. It was much bettered to forget about it, to concentrate on what needed doing.
Where there was beauty, where was no logic. Emotional as he was, he understood that well enough. Where there was conflict, he knew there must be stillness, like a pond undisturbed. This truth he knew better still.

“What?” An enthusiastic, if slightly annoyed woman broke what concentration he could muster. “You can’t move your priestesses forward!”
“I prefer to think of them as Monks. We are distinctly different,” A calm masculine voice. “subject to different rules.”
Not to be outdone, the woman replied with a cutting edge. “Is every Monk a two-timing lecher, or is that trait exclusive to Miroku alone?”
He sounded hurt. “Sango my dear, where did your tongue develop such barbs?” His tone became warmer. “My heart is only for you. Why-
“Just move your pieces back, fool. We replay the last series of moves.” Her affectionate tone brought Inuyasha back to serenity. He could understand their relationship, they hadn’t intended to be bothersome. A pair of star-crossed lovers could only make their adventures together more amusing, if their tirades didn’t get in the way. He eventually arrived at the conclusion that their private life was their own affair, and any battle prowess would only be strengthened by the love between the Monk and the Slayer, not weakened because of it. That was after all, the case when it came to his devotion to Kagome.
He closed his eyes as the last dawn-colored leaf fell, the breeze falling into nothingness. He could no longer hear the excited chatter of either chess player, their breathing had slowed to a crawl. They were asleep, he realized. Kilala lay purring in his lap, eyes closed.
He pondered torturing the tiny creature, but decided it was better to refrain, he was too tired to tangle with the prospect of having a mewling kitten transform into a beast two times his size only to bite his head off. His thoughts turned to laughter, and when the feline stirred he forced himself to be as rock. He leaned back against the tree, at peace. He would worry about the Jewel shards tomorrow. Tonight, he would have a much needed rest.

Just as he entered deep slumber, and the flames turned to glowing embers, a strange thing happened. It was to the relief of many that no sound or motion reigned over the night, that no breeze whirled the grass. It was as if the world was stopped, all things paralyzed for just an instant.
Of the many nocturnal creatures that made the valley their home, none dared move, as if many slowed their hearts and simply stopped breathing. Or living. A paradise for those who slept lightly. An ill omen for those who should have been aware, should have been watching. Who were now sleeping.
Thus, none noticed the wilting gasps of the nearby plants breathing final sighs.
A lament for those who were hunted.

The passage of Naraku was never without consequence, and as the baleful red eyes took in the camp, they were joined by a disgusted frown. Wreathed in his white fur, safe from the foolishness of lesser beings, he felt only contempt for the idiocy that lay before him, practically begging to be strangled in rest. But his mind, detached and cold, calculating; knew that sort of action was inelegant and barbaric. That approach was below him.
First he took in the Priestess, curled next to the little pest, the runt demon-fox. He would allow her to hold on to the Shards for a time. Those who announced their grand destiny before they were ready, tended to meet untimely ends.
He found the Monk and the Slayer not far off, wrapped in the same blanket. His frown went impassive. That woman could be nearly as callous as he himself, sharing the warmth of her crush by night. In the day he would be accused of lechery and summarily slapped down. Her mating games were amusing, but tiresome. He had watched them frequently, interested at first. Now they were vulnerabilities, weaknesses he could use against this pair when he deemed it wise to do so.
The only one missing was troublesome dog, the only real threat to him. Carefully, methodically, he scoured his surroundings until he found the half-breed leaning against a tree. With a curious hint in his predatory aura, Naraku noted and pilfered the small paper from its place on the ground, looking over the contents.

“Surely, great Inuyasha wouldn’t lower himself to create something so,” He searched his vast and complex mind for the right term. “feminine?” He digested what he found for a time, contrasting and comparing the ways Sesshomaru’s younger relation. Never had he seen a script wrought by a man that was so delicate, so appreciative of the calligrapher’s art. Every character was tinged with the beautiful curves of a woman. He found it difficult to believe that Inuyasha was capable of it.

He had always been passionate.

With that realization, that single thought, an idea struck him like a slap in the face.
His emotion was his weakness, leading to rash decisions. What then, would the warrior do if he was so overcome with these sensations he could no longer function?
The demon plucked a thing from the ground and lay it in the hair of his prey, taking the poem as his tithe. Even with the best laid plans, there was always room for improvement.