a test of conviction . writing storage

[Whisper]

Just gonna,,, dump stuff here for characters. Inspirational quotes, poes and th blah. Feel free to chat and talk here.

things that can be seen here;
Argus' backstory (outlined)
Hebi's backstory (outlined)
Innortis Backstory (outlined)
graphic testing
sketching
random musings
lots of written

[Sorrel]

you know my ass be trackin

[Whisper]

Argus history . part one of ?

Let’s go back

Argus, before her name was a necessity born of savagery and revenge- Love driven minds. When everything was soft, warm, and childish. Before she was Argus she was Zactov ( a trail where no one was the judge and the world was to blame ; the court ruled unfair and Zactov was suppressed, deep down where she now rattles at the cages deep within their mind) but first, they were Whisper.

Whisper. Was a name banished from a wolf stumbling into love. Whisper was born with winter in their eyes and a melted heart of tar, sticky black. Hard to not get caught in, hard not to sink into and die. A brother they will never remember the name of, a mother whose memory is only known in passing, and a father that took it all away from them in a battle of ‘whoever falls in love first wins, whoever falls into comfort losses’. Abandonment sat heavy on their tongue, made their black tar heart twist painfully in sorrow. There was winter in their eyes, but there was no room for the cold in a desert. No love found between empty dunes and forgotten babes swaddled by the storm.

Remember when everything was simpler?
No, nothing was ever simple with us, was it?

It was hardened sand and collapsing homes, burying a grave for themself until their paws ached and calling it a den. Whisper made a burrow near a river, and spotted a clan their mother claimed but Whisper had no avowal to. They danced in Whisper’s quiet and stained their winter eyes red like the river. Bleed corpses into nature and into Whisper’s heart. Whisper was a lonely kid, starved for attention.

Home, it is now such a foreign concept to them now. Nothing could make do compared to the sand burrow, where walls were sealed by blood- how do you think they walked the sands without a care? It was never temperance, it was through pain and blood.

Whisper was weary, small timid- afraid. They watched as the clan dropped bodies into the river and feared. When the bodies were stripped clean- they made do with lizards and rattlesnakes. They learned to temper their own water with the sweet tang of blood. Whisper craved company, and the dead were all still as the gravesite they were dumped at.

Remember being alone?
But we were always alone, weren't we?

One day, they woke up with a shadow over their head. Wings are nothing to glorify over, they appeared in their sleep, and the sudden fear of what next. They were unaware of the connotations of wings and angels, of anything other than the buzzards that circled head - death.

It drove them out of isolation, timid stuttering and clumsy footing- but so eager fever bight - Whisper was ready to make friends make a life. It’s just that in sangre ruins lives are only taken. ( death was always in their nature , their fur hid the blood, their wings foretold a buzzard’s eager beak. Whisper’s last name was Harbringer - they were an omen to it long before- )

There was no such thing as innocence, growing up like that
You either survive, or you die

Whisper died screaming, but the creature that took her place was silent.

With only a thin sliver across her throat. Obscuro was born - knowing the world was wrong.

---

it was the wrong choice, that name we picked,
a wonder we ever lived past you, hmm?

the name was self fufilling, harbinger they called her. varies- they whispered about. in the clan those names meant something. to obscuro: whisper was a name given to them but obscuro was their choice- their life in their own hands and they somehow made it darker than anyone could have thought.

they abandoned their names: harbinger, ecuador, varies, these were family names that only failed her, that pushed her to kill for friends and kill for survival. kill for protection and killing- blood was the currency of the world. obscuro didn’t refuse to pay it, they refused to pay the debts the sins of their parents brought them. whisper was a name chosen for them by someone who would never be there again never knew the potential pooling under their skin and fanning across their back, and obscuro refused to die quiet.

they wanted a monster, and you showed them.
they wanted a clan covered in blood, and you made that reality.

lessons in pain were made between bamboo bars and dying breaths of prisoners gasping for air. obscuro found their company through the expression of other’s pain on public display. claws ripping tender flesh and teaching the anatomy of a body by the wish to extend the pain in someone else's’ life just to ignore the pain in their own.

power was a precarious balancing act of fear and need-need-need. they woke up hearing the roars of ghosts no one else could see, and a blade put to their hip that had the name obscuro was too stubborn to use. no- obscuro used their claws- slashed and rendered through bone masks and monstrosities and followed ghosts to a world that would later condemn them. power was found in second hand addictions, in the press of a sword through the living and the rushing feel of swallowing a soul whole.

obscuro found themselves on the other end of one such clawed beast. who swallowed souls and with hollowed out heart- reached for hers. the secret is that obscuro had found the secret long ago, that obscuro was never fully shinigami to begin with.

( death was such a key part to their lives. they became one with the single scar across their throat, they became something else- when they started killing for little other reason than a want to belong )

[Whisper]

I'm... not even going to say this is backstory, but an introspective piece made through the eyes of Innortis... Warnings for blood and death

something soft fills the air does not mean it is necessary innocent in nature. Snow brings cold, that only in death someone can escape from - finally warm; blood clotting and stained in perfect white. Childhood tales warn you not to near, not to taste. Temptation wears thin your sense, and between childish foolishness and the own internal pressure building inside your psyche- you admit defeat. the taste of death is not overwhelmingly unpleasant, but the sharp tang of it has you first recoiling- first to flee. even if the corpse was freezing the the same ice that trapped it's life, you do not falter. determination pools into your bones, and you bend down again, stance widened, you lean down once more. you're reasoning with yourself now, the taste is not addicting (but it could be, you see the appeal) but you can't quite figure it out. The taste isn't something familiar, or maybe it is. The description floats on the edge of your tongue before it leaves again. It leaves you empty, hollow in a way you cannot understand. you have this need to pin it down, instincts securing the kill- the taste until it is a sear in your memory. another bite couldn't hurt (could it?). blood seeps further, and suddenly you realist the body you have neared is still alive, still breathing. something is there, under your skin. it bleeds into your blood like molten iron and ice blended perfectly, it frazzles your brain. adrenaline makes your decision sluggish, but the reaction instant. the struggle is nothing, one moment you are innocent, and the next your not. simple curiosity has made this, no that's not quite right- fear made this. fear curls into foggy eyes and writhe. Snow crunches under the body; struggling to get a hold, the only sound beside the quite of the scene. (the sound of snow is deafening; it's all you've known). your close enough to the throat to feel the pulls fade. the thrum of it rattles through your teeth as you clamp down desperately. you cannot see properly, despite the angle but you know. know that this animal is dying, that his eyes are fogging over and that between the bitter cold- warmth fills him finally from the entrance of your teeth. It is not a poison, at least; not a physical one. death weeps from your teeth as life looses all foothold. you feel drowned, drowning in a sea of red. The taste bubbles from your single act of panic. The sin is not watered down by snow- by the purity of innocence. you remember where you are, who you are. You see this for what it is, childlike wonder; at first. But the taste, it's something you know now at least. you let go. licking the remains of the flavor, chasing it on your maw. the cold has never affected you, like it has others. It is something that can be negated, like a switch, the cold does not bother you , it never has. but cold seeps into the body quickly, it saps the air and the warmth of the body you stand above. and with a careful huff, you tred along, you move forward, with nothing else to do. That adrenaline left something in your system, despite the cold, despite your own warmth, you shiver as it settles. not into your bones, but warped around your spine. curled atop your shoulders. it is a comfort as much as a threat. a loose noose that can easily choke or lead. you are not a monster ; yet, but you have taken a step towards it. the world looks a little bit darker. suddenly the snow doesn't seem as bright, as blinding.