SO WEAK AND POWERLESS { .:*・°☆ } ———

they are the abandoned. the black sheep.

a family unto themselves. they are the two. no, they are the one. that is all they will ever need to be.

they are the filth of this world. the grime and the muck. they are cursed unwanted. what does it mean to be loved? they do not know. they have been abandoned; that is all they know. it is all they deserve. perhaps the little lamb does not belong anywhere. what would have been rich coils of ebony fur has been matted with sweat and blood. cuts. bruises. scrapes. signs of a person unloved.

the two headed being, strung along on a rope; a lamb to the slaughter. there was no fight. a quick, expert lunge of ivory, saliva-tipped jaws against the throat, pressing against their youthful body with the might of a ferocious beast. suffocating. shoved against the gritty, heated dirt and already weakened by a starved body from moons of wandering amongst the wilderness left to their own devices. it's a wonder they've survived this long. perhaps it would be better for them to die at the hooves of their family. at the hooves of a dam that never loved them. it was all over for them the moment the pittian crossed paths with them. now this is their fate.

the left head stared in wonder and misplaced awe at the strength of the bring before them while the right snorted it's head derisively. oh how they had longed to be that powerful; how they longed for the deadliness of the predator; and oh, did they long with a twisted sense of need. they were weak and soft, but the one that had captured them? was not. the left head's maw twisted open in silent wonder.

there was no time to dwell upon that. the beastly child is captured, and unsure of what cruelty may await them. but they are used to brutality-- the agony. there's something hauntingly poetic about being 'freed' from the clutches of a volatile family only to once more be captured again.

the two shove the concern deep into the pit of their stomach. steel themselves with iron resolve and come along quietly. feeling is useless, and they have long ago learned to numb themselves to the ruthlessness of the world. who would care of the misery of a freak? it is what they deserve, they tell themselves. shed no tears or expend no fear for those who would care none for their wellbeing and would rejoice in their unfortune.

alien. they feel like an alien. they are numb and hollow and silent as they are ushered into the lion's den. their tongue sits thick and dry. heavy in their mouths with disuse and lack of water. parched lips. dry skin and chapped horns. they are the epitome of ragged and disheveled.

polycephaly heads press together in silent reverence and awkward, quiet comfort. if they are to die, let this be their final destination. death would be a mercy. especially unto one such as themself.

"look at this twisted looking cud-chewer," a gruff, feminine voice, like sandpaper againsy stone. there is a tight jerk of the rope. the nameless child (mother never did bother with giving them a name. they were cursed) stumbles forward and half-kneels into the dirt. crumpled and too exhausted to stand again. the heat has already beaten them. it is merciless as it slowly but surely saps their strength.

"reckon we can put em to good use?"

the first head averts it's glazed eyes, while the right one lifts it's cranium in mute defiance. silent. calculative. attempting to absorb it's surroundings with smoldering eyes. yet there was a detached presence about them. instincts urging them to stand brave in the face of danger.

they did not know much of the civilizations of this world. they only knew isolation and the privacy of themselves. two brains. one whole, and it never occurred to them of the possibility that there were far weirder things out there. things that were just as cursed as they.

// ayy intro for mori who has just been captured into the pitt as a slave. feel free to feed, tend/talk to, show them around, put them to work right away, or whatever

both of their heads felt dizzy and lightheaded at once. they ache with somber wariness, leaving them weak and tired. their heart was already beginning to speed up, ready to issue a lazy orchestra of heart beats ringing within their two sets of soft, velvety ears. it was with great and utter inner will that forced the beating heart to a crawl.

a wolf pup. comparatively small in relation to moribund's long limbed frame, though they were a predator, and far well fed than the mutated beast who had been wandering within the desert for far too long. they were not built for the unerring cruelty of the world. so weak were they, that all they had been good for was to be guided like the sheep they were. even within the company of their herd, the numbers within their family was what had kept them safe. so long as they did not raise a bleat against their kin in protest to the punishment, the sin of their abominable appearance would not be rewarded with exile.

that deal now, however, was as good as gone. their mother could stand the sight of the horrid child no longer. their disownment was a death sentence. power was in numbers. numbers was in family. the world was no place for a lone sheep. especially one such as themselves, with two wretched heads.

but their exile was well deserved. nothing could atone for their sin of being born.

the right head's gaze was almost wild; flickering over the lupis child with an urgent sense of feverish cunningness glinting in that guarded, hooded gaze. the left head, however, merely squinted at the dweller, unable to speak for the merest. their tongue caught in their tongue. was it fear?

they finally find the courage to respond, swallowing thickly down one of their throats.

"we do not think... we are owned by anyone," the  voice is raspy. softened with youth yet still rough like sandpaper skin. affected by disuse. 'ownership' over another was a foreign concept, and moribund had no complete knowledge of what it entailed. they weren't so sure if they wanted to find out.

the attention directed towards their being is more than they'd like to bear. there is water, brought by another wolf. the presence of two potential lethal threats sends both of their heads reeling with a desperate pang of fear, yet their visage remains stiff and solid on the outside. forced into rigidness. despite their hunger and exhaustion and thirstiness they cannot bring themself to drink it at first. what if it's poisoned?

'they would not bring you all this way just to poison you... would they?'

they cannot comprehend nor quill or tsuyu's subtle act of kindness. their mind dives towards all the ways they can be harmed with their kind offerings. they both cannot help it-- it is within their inner nature. they have learned that trouble follows them wherever they go.

one weary gaze slips towards the ground. lowered in defeat and submission. they have long ago learned to avoid further agony by tucking their tail between their legs and offering themselves wholly to the victor without struggle, though the right head wishes to lash out with bared jaws and a square teeth. it is a condition of learned helplessness.

they refuse to take from the offered water. they remain outwardly stiff. a sign of hesitance unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
"where are we?"

it is entirely instinct to fold in on themselves with compliance. though their body is weak, their soul is not easily shattered. they have gone through hell; felt the lash of pain more times than they can count, and have known not to expect anything else. there's always agony lying around the corner. the only thing they have learned is that complete and utter obedience determines how long this pain lasts. their defense mechanism; shortening the pain.

they are ignorant, and wholly uneducated, but moribund is no pushover.

the moment the wolf pup establishes the need for strong slaves, healthy slaves, it becomes apparently clear that there is no need to retain the feeble skin they carelessly shrugged on the moment they arrived. though their doubts about the offered food and water still lingered, to contain to needlessly deepening their deflated physique would get them nowhere.

with the uttered words, the lamb shed their hunched and humbled mannerism like a second skin and stretched, seeming to recoup an inch or two with their adjusted posture. spine, no longer aching with the meek and unassertive stance, gave a cadenced flex in their relief. their form was in no way intimidating or imposing, though it felt relieving to tower over the other two.

the cat that had been quiet before-- the felidae of alarming shade of green was the next one to speak up. she had come to moribund with the attention of telling the child straight-- only her words sounded redundant; a rehashed lecture in the form of a threat. the only new thing that had been passed on to the newly found slave was the issuing of a name.

blacktide.

the lamb barely had any time to ponder over it, absorbing the fellow slave's words. why the hybrid had mentioned lack of poison in the water, moribund wasn't too sure. they had been thinking it, but the youth was notoriously careful about revealing their inner emotions and thoughts. nothing good ever came of having opinions, as they had learned long ago. a single set smoldering gaze of citrine ice drifted over their body, wandering to places where phantoms of bruises still lingered.

the message was clear. you either learned to be resilient or die. that was the ultimatum that had been proposed and echoed by the two pittians.

durable. could they be durable? all moribund ever knew was how to be subservient. how to take pain and bite it back down. roll with the punches. never drawing attention to themselves. always bending to the will of the one in power like a tree against strong wind. breaking, but never bending.

that's all they've ever known. but they will learn. they will try.

threats and intimidation are not a foreign concept to the children. moribund found the origins akin to a boogieman story; if they were not good (or in this case, not useful), they would be gobbled up. did they fear death? they'd been subject to ruthless discipline; bones cracking under the blow of many hooves. beaten black and blue. but death was permanent. death was...

an escape.

while the child's first half pondered this shallowly, the body of union felt their veins bubbling and roiling with annoyance and agitation. the left head was unreactive, yet the right was thrumming with a slow, sluggish anger with the thought that anyone would try to cow them with such a tripe fate-- a mercy. always the more violent of the two. the more volatile, simmering with pent up, seething emotions. briefly the child directs a furtive look towards their other half, gaze lidded with indecipherable concern, before turning towards the two once more.

"yea?" the first head mutters, voice still soft yet burlesque. "we think we already understand the point," they do not address the unsuccessful attempt at menace. they are used to dealing with the threat of sudden demise; should only hope that their end would come fairly swift. do not let a flicker of fear or unease flicker across their outward facade or betray their true mood.

the left head relents first, sacrificing nonexistent pride, and stretching forth the first neck to lap at the water. the second head does not follow suit. does not need to. though their throat will be parched for the rest of the day, they both share a stomach, and they know they will be fine. to put both heads down, baring their neck for the world with their eyes cast away from what they know to be enemies-- it goes against their very nature. they have learnt wariness the hard way. trust no one.