10-24-2018, 09:06 PM
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IT'S A WICKED TWISTED FABLE
IT'S A WICKED TWISTED FABLE
There is something dark and dangerous lurking under the dragons skin. But now a days, this is nothing new, there is always something wrong with everybody, wasn't there? A tragic past, and dangerous edge. Little souls filled with too much grief end up warped somehow, a little off or too dangerous, too shy, too something. Argus knows this well, too well for their own mind riddles with guilt from it- still reeling with it all. Because right now their mind buzzes with pleasant attention, animals around her are calm and mind and so very sane it feels like a dream. She can pretend that the world has not broken her four times over and that argus was her first ever name. But she will always wake from pleasantries as this- pleasant things that she doesn't deserve. And her mind kicks into gear- the constant thrum of power turns constricting- turns controlling and she wants to rip it all apart. This serenity let her mind drill deep into the stranger's all around her and peal back each one's morality until they are an impressionable- weak willed slave.
Because no matter how peaceful the world is now, hurting others is a part of her. It always has been, before this shinigami-hollow stumbled into her life. She lived in a clan of blood and enjoyed the same hobbies one that only aligned with the cruelest of non-fiction. Nursery rhymes to get little kids to behave turned real. A nightmare coming full circle, one that did not care wither you were good or bad- just that you were worth the time to kill.
Argus when little was just a little lonely, just a little hurt, and she found a comfort in hurting others, in killing others. Her first kill happened when she was 12, a long awaited revenge plot to the three thundeclanners that tortured her when she was 6 moons. When she met Ichigo, when she was infected with the beast and taken down herself, the remaining sanity she had left crumbled easier. Restraint- control, were such foreign concepts to them then. When these new instincts surged she didn't resist. She followed them gladly, she lived her life the same she would have without it, and if she cling a little deeper to her friends? If she finally had a reason to hunger battle and bloodshed more than just a mere craving to fill the empty boredom? So what? She was a monster when she first walked into camp from her birthing den, the first word she ever learned- spat like a mantra as she passed every open barred cage. Cruel faces and even crueler hearts at someone who had just lost everything. Only now she had another label to call it, only know she couldn't deny it as easily as she could before. Mother? Father? Brother? All her family, all her support crumbled under her feat, and all that was left behind was the hatred of desperate people and the shadow's of murderer's to live up in or die in the desert they were born in.
And so she lived, no, she thrived in these desperate times. Malleable and impressible, with only hate from every corner but those bloody- bloody paws offering her guidance, teacher her how to handle the flush of heat- guilt - hurt - dread i don't want to do this i never wanted to hurt anyone by bottling these emotions up and carving into the one's that mocked her harder- make their punishments more gruesome, their deaths more of a mercy than the cost of living in a world like theirs. Prove them right, then prove them wrong. Show how monstrous you can be, and how merciful it is to have an end that is neither quiet or undignified.
No, none of them lived long enough- from either sides then. All died young and beautiful and monsters or pure. All turned martyr's for their own home to rally again and thus, the cycle repeats. The killing never ceased then, did it?
Argus has lived eons in comparison to the flicker fire of her comrades. Watched such violent deaths and came out stronger for it, because of it. She knows how each name of her fallen comrades like the earth atop atlas’ spine. Alike so, It settles deep into her marrow. Names collecting dust as their bones settle out of reach and it is a festering gaping wound. These names. Names once so dear carry memories and regret and regret. Once Argus has raged for them, these precious people- fought alongside them and cried out hollowly in their passing. The red God's justice held no comparison to the once-lupine's fury, the ending wraith that still clings deep- ever deep into her soul. She waged war with the living, as if their deaths could bring one- just one -please kanato please you didn't deserve it- alive. But she has learned to live alone, for there was nothing left in the calamity of her life, in wars there are casualties. And when you make a living off of war you learn to live with the dying- the dead. Even after war in the semblance of peace, Argus still carries the scars of such a brutal upbringing. Such a brutal way of life-changing it's instinctual and habits still hold true.
She is still a killer, she is still unkind and mean and cruel.
But time has a way to whittle everyone down, even the sharpest blades can be dulled, and it was not her killing intent or her lethality that shifted but the wars, the viewpoint of them. Personalities lash and petty arguments turn into full blown genocides across borders. Animals too fearful to act out or attempt to reconcile misdeeds because-what? Because the past repeated itself. People only focus on the hurting and how to stop that hurt, the easiest way to do that- is to hurt someone else. As a pup she lived by the code that justice was just a reason to kill for the weak willed, but now grown up, 5 years later, she knows that they will use anything as an excuse to spill blood. Anything to hurt others and in turn be hurt again. In this new age filled with hurt and pain and grief, Argus finds her own claws hesitate to do what she has always done, what she will always do in the end. Now when she raises a clawed hand she remembers the look of her own friends faces, remembers their own timely ends their just ends. Violent ending in violence. She thinks of how selfish this world has been how cruel how violent and wants something else. Five years and five times Argus has run away trying to bury the past that haunts her. Five names that every nursery rhyme knows and all those names once big enough to send shivers of fear just from utterance of it. Five distinct cracks deep into her soul cry out enough. Let this c e a s e.
But there is something living under their skin, it clicks in their ear and it slithers it's tongue to taste the beginnings of war. Pushing prodding poking writhing to feed- to eat. And my, ichigo. What a soul you have. Maybe this should be taken more private, more secluded, but the small dragon prefers the security of the crowd here, it keeps the thing at bay- the thing with a name and it howls in hunger that she dares not even think. She has always been brazen and loud and boisterous in her youth and impulsive in her latter years and her eyes burn with an emotion she cannot name. It rages in her lungs and the hollow cries out in savage dialect to destroy-
"You act like there is something left to say. What do you want from me? A conformation that i spat on your grave? That i have wronged every memory i had of you? " Argus' voice does not raise, but somehow it is worse at a monotone. "Do not apologize to me, for even when wrong do not show your throat for someone's forgiveness, or you may only know the bite of being not forgiven" An old proverb of her home, ancient like the times war used to rage, when clans were volatile and power more plentiful than now the trickling stream they seem to be. "Let us call it even." It is brash and to the untrained eye aloof, but argus holds on to her grudges with all her might that even the dead cannot escape her. To simply let go of the hurt- to offer such a chance is a gift and a challenge. A small puff of air escapes from behind the mask, and it shiners in the air like a mist in the chilly air. "I have not changed, ichigo. Just grown weary" And truly she hasn't, she is still the same, despite the name. She is still a monster and a killer but she does not let the hollow control her killing. Broken and shattered and so very warped but she is still here. A testament to the past that has yet to break her or the future that she will brace for. But there is history, a relationship that was never truly beyond acquaintances that felt partway responsible and part wrathful. Maybe this is a way of making amends.
Because no matter how peaceful the world is now, hurting others is a part of her. It always has been, before this shinigami-hollow stumbled into her life. She lived in a clan of blood and enjoyed the same hobbies one that only aligned with the cruelest of non-fiction. Nursery rhymes to get little kids to behave turned real. A nightmare coming full circle, one that did not care wither you were good or bad- just that you were worth the time to kill.
Argus when little was just a little lonely, just a little hurt, and she found a comfort in hurting others, in killing others. Her first kill happened when she was 12, a long awaited revenge plot to the three thundeclanners that tortured her when she was 6 moons. When she met Ichigo, when she was infected with the beast and taken down herself, the remaining sanity she had left crumbled easier. Restraint- control, were such foreign concepts to them then. When these new instincts surged she didn't resist. She followed them gladly, she lived her life the same she would have without it, and if she cling a little deeper to her friends? If she finally had a reason to hunger battle and bloodshed more than just a mere craving to fill the empty boredom? So what? She was a monster when she first walked into camp from her birthing den, the first word she ever learned- spat like a mantra as she passed every open barred cage. Cruel faces and even crueler hearts at someone who had just lost everything. Only now she had another label to call it, only know she couldn't deny it as easily as she could before. Mother? Father? Brother? All her family, all her support crumbled under her feat, and all that was left behind was the hatred of desperate people and the shadow's of murderer's to live up in or die in the desert they were born in.
And so she lived, no, she thrived in these desperate times. Malleable and impressible, with only hate from every corner but those bloody- bloody paws offering her guidance, teacher her how to handle the flush of heat- guilt - hurt - dread i don't want to do this i never wanted to hurt anyone by bottling these emotions up and carving into the one's that mocked her harder- make their punishments more gruesome, their deaths more of a mercy than the cost of living in a world like theirs. Prove them right, then prove them wrong. Show how monstrous you can be, and how merciful it is to have an end that is neither quiet or undignified.
No, none of them lived long enough- from either sides then. All died young and beautiful and monsters or pure. All turned martyr's for their own home to rally again and thus, the cycle repeats. The killing never ceased then, did it?
Argus has lived eons in comparison to the flicker fire of her comrades. Watched such violent deaths and came out stronger for it, because of it. She knows how each name of her fallen comrades like the earth atop atlas’ spine. Alike so, It settles deep into her marrow. Names collecting dust as their bones settle out of reach and it is a festering gaping wound. These names. Names once so dear carry memories and regret and regret. Once Argus has raged for them, these precious people- fought alongside them and cried out hollowly in their passing. The red God's justice held no comparison to the once-lupine's fury, the ending wraith that still clings deep- ever deep into her soul. She waged war with the living, as if their deaths could bring one- just one -please kanato please you didn't deserve it- alive. But she has learned to live alone, for there was nothing left in the calamity of her life, in wars there are casualties. And when you make a living off of war you learn to live with the dying- the dead. Even after war in the semblance of peace, Argus still carries the scars of such a brutal upbringing. Such a brutal way of life-changing it's instinctual and habits still hold true.
She is still a killer, she is still unkind and mean and cruel.
But time has a way to whittle everyone down, even the sharpest blades can be dulled, and it was not her killing intent or her lethality that shifted but the wars, the viewpoint of them. Personalities lash and petty arguments turn into full blown genocides across borders. Animals too fearful to act out or attempt to reconcile misdeeds because-what? Because the past repeated itself. People only focus on the hurting and how to stop that hurt, the easiest way to do that- is to hurt someone else. As a pup she lived by the code that justice was just a reason to kill for the weak willed, but now grown up, 5 years later, she knows that they will use anything as an excuse to spill blood. Anything to hurt others and in turn be hurt again. In this new age filled with hurt and pain and grief, Argus finds her own claws hesitate to do what she has always done, what she will always do in the end. Now when she raises a clawed hand she remembers the look of her own friends faces, remembers their own timely ends their just ends. Violent ending in violence. She thinks of how selfish this world has been how cruel how violent and wants something else. Five years and five times Argus has run away trying to bury the past that haunts her. Five names that every nursery rhyme knows and all those names once big enough to send shivers of fear just from utterance of it. Five distinct cracks deep into her soul cry out enough. Let this c e a s e.
But there is something living under their skin, it clicks in their ear and it slithers it's tongue to taste the beginnings of war. Pushing prodding poking writhing to feed- to eat. And my, ichigo. What a soul you have. Maybe this should be taken more private, more secluded, but the small dragon prefers the security of the crowd here, it keeps the thing at bay- the thing with a name and it howls in hunger that she dares not even think. She has always been brazen and loud and boisterous in her youth and impulsive in her latter years and her eyes burn with an emotion she cannot name. It rages in her lungs and the hollow cries out in savage dialect to destroy-
"You act like there is something left to say. What do you want from me? A conformation that i spat on your grave? That i have wronged every memory i had of you? " Argus' voice does not raise, but somehow it is worse at a monotone. "Do not apologize to me, for even when wrong do not show your throat for someone's forgiveness, or you may only know the bite of being not forgiven" An old proverb of her home, ancient like the times war used to rage, when clans were volatile and power more plentiful than now the trickling stream they seem to be. "Let us call it even." It is brash and to the untrained eye aloof, but argus holds on to her grudges with all her might that even the dead cannot escape her. To simply let go of the hurt- to offer such a chance is a gift and a challenge. A small puff of air escapes from behind the mask, and it shiners in the air like a mist in the chilly air. "I have not changed, ichigo. Just grown weary" And truly she hasn't, she is still the same, despite the name. She is still a monster and a killer but she does not let the hollow control her killing. Broken and shattered and so very warped but she is still here. A testament to the past that has yet to break her or the future that she will brace for. But there is history, a relationship that was never truly beyond acquaintances that felt partway responsible and part wrathful. Maybe this is a way of making amends.
[glow=#212121,2,300]She's unstable![/glow]
[W]isker