ɪ ᴊᴜsᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴄʏ - open/joining

[adomania]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 55%; line-height:115%; text-align: justify;font-family: calibri;"]If there was one word that could accurately describe Chain... it would be tired. He was tired beyond words, a kind of wary ache that seeped deep into his bones and settled in the pit of his stomach uncomfortably. It was the kind of tired that made you want to scream, that made people throw themselves off of buildings or stab others to make it stop. Others called it depression... he just liked the word 'tired' better. He didn't feel sad. He just felt... well, tired. But there was a restlessness to his fatigue as well, guilt digging into his sides to spur him on and make sure he didn't quit no matter how hard life got. He wasn't looking for much anymore, but he felt that he had to make up for what he did nevertheless. If he went down, he might as well try to get a spot up there in heaven where all the good men went... hell, he'd even take purgatory or the void. But it wasn't because he was scared of hell, or didn't want to go there. Sure, a lifetime of suffering wasn't exactly nice but in the end it was what he deserved. The only reason he didn't want to go to hell was because of who with no doubt was in it. Chain didn't want to see his parents, not ever again. They were the ones who near cost him his life, who ripped away his innocence... and all because he was deemed weaker than his siblings. It seemed all of them gained the godly powers that they had... Chain had been left with nothing but his own two paws and a clear head, but that had never been good enough.

If he had to go to hell, it was their fault for abandoning him and giving him no other choice but to kill. He had murdered many on account of self defense, and then more for different reasons when he joined a group who could take care of him if he promised to follow their orders. It gave him a place to live and put food on the table... who was he to disagree? By then he was still a young man with nothing but death to look forward too. It seemed like the best option in those dire times, no matter who he killed and no matter the abuse that some of the members thought he should go through. It gave him a meager self esteem by the end of it, but Chain still couldn't bring himself to care. Sexually, verbally, physically abused? Hardly a change from what he had to endure in the company of his "family." He had simply ignored it as well, numbing himself to the pain until it seemingly didn't affect him at all (though how much truth there was in that, Chain didn't know. Only a therapist could truly tell him if he was alright, and he hardly had the opportunity to seek one out.) The guilt soon had disappeared as well, leaving him with nothing but a shell of a personality and a heart full of murder. Regrets were thrown to the wind and he learned exactly what it took to make people break, to watch people suffer like he had. If only he had some sick pleasure out of it, maybe then it would have been justified. But no - the only reason he did it was because he was left with nothing else, no visible way out that would ensure his safety. He didn't even seek happiness by that point... it was all business, a means of staying alive.

But eventually the illusion broke. It was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown at him and the world suddenly became real again. The screams, the blood, the tortures... it started to haunt him not only at night but at day, the shadows peering at him accusingly, the faces of those he had killed staring up at him with a silent plea. He had killed mothers, killed fathers, brothers and sisters. He'd massacred entire families, and now they were there haunting him. For the first time in his life, Chain had felt afraid. He was afraid of who he had become, of the destruction he had caused. He was afraid of himself. Only the promise of redemption had stopped him from giving into his depression and killing himself. Only the promise that he could somehow make another life better.

So Chain had finally woken up, arriving at a cruel place he never expected to find himself in. He had expected to die young, to be forgotten somewhere in a ditch with no honor to his name... but now things had turned around. Now he could die in a ditch forgotten, but knowing he had made a difference. Maybe there was still hope. But finding it was the hard part, for he couldn't bear to stay in one place too long of fear that he'd bring misery to those he met. He had taken to wandering, trying to find somewhere he belonged or someone he could try to help. It was how he had stumbled across The Typhoon, arriving once again by chance at a place he could only hope he wouldn't destroy.

There was a familiarity that came with the night, a bittersweet sensation of both knowing something and not knowing at the same time. It was like a hug from a mother that was just too tight, or the constriction of a snake around your body that didn't quite touch "deadly." Chain never trusted the night, but he had grown familiar with it on many fronts. The darkness offered him shelter from prying eyes of those of the present, but gave access to an easy path towards his head for faces of the past. Because he couldn't sleep, the dark had become familiar and he could travel even in shadows he could almost feel without so much as a misstep. But at the same time, those shadows weighed down on him like a pack of bricks, forcing his breathing into a labor and his head into panicked static.

He never knew if he hated the dark or loved it. Could an individual do both?

He has come in the dead of night to join, humming a thoughtless tune that quietly muffled the air around him. It was not a song he had ever heard before, strewn together with sounds he had never sung. But it felt right, and it kept the voices at bay. So he continued to hum, scarcely more than a passing shadow in the territory already shrouded in darkness. He could have been invisible for all anyone knew, he could have not even existed.

He mused over the thought, tasting it experimentally on his tongue. It was bittersweet, like a lot of things in his life seemed to be.

It wasn't until he lit up the spark that he became visible, sunken features illuminated by a single, haunting light. Tired eyes reflected sickly in the glow, staring into empty space as if through it, a desperate attempt to seek out something more. He couldn't find it, though, no matter how much he tried to peer into the void. All he had left was to embrace reality instead of trying to actively ignore it. Chocolate eyes refocused with a tempered sigh that escaped feathered lips, soon squeezing shut against the pain that made itself known to his head once more. No physical wounds inflicted the said torture, however, and that made it actively worse.

There were no cures to a broken mind.

Others had told him he had wounds that dug in deeper than he had first thought. They had methodically explained to him what PTSD was, and that him actively ignoring his problems was not him getting over the problems that alienated his childhood, but rather a coping mechanism to keep himself from falling apart. It was what caused the voices to whisper bittersweet words into his head at night, what caused his muscles to act upon instinct one too many times and prepare for battle when there was nothing to fight. Nothing to fight but his demons, that is, and those had an ethereal grip on him that could not be fought off with the methods that Chain knew of. Unless he wanted to throw himself violently into a wall multiple times to stop the voices altogether, let them die with him... he had nothing.

He had stood long enough for the fire from the butt of his cigarette to die down, the smoke clinging to nothing but his fur and all but gone from the air. Eventually he allowed himself to reopen his eyes, waiting for them to refocus on the dark outlines of trees that hid everything he knew lay behind them from view. Chain still peered through the cracks in the forest, trying to locate the obscured image of the islands that he was making an attempt to eventually call home... but it was impossible, especially with the ever fading light of the stick between his jaws. He let it dwindle down even more before letting it drop to the ground, extinguishing it with his paw carefully so as not to start a forest fire by accident.

A breath, then two more of clean air helped get enough oxygen into Chain's mind and give it a sense of clarity, and the dire wolf let his eyes graze over the clearing once more, patient despite how long he had already been waiting. He didn't have any sense of privilege, and he had learned long ago how to wait and sit quiet until he was spoken to. He could wait for hours if he wanted to, and given that he had no other place to turn to... he wanted to stay here. This was familiar despite the ironic foreignness of it as well.

Another soft sigh escaped his parted lips, and he readied another cigarette to lift to his jaws, bitter thoughts swimming in his head. He'd be chain smoking yet another night away.

[VANDAL R.]

Vandal wakes up again with a bitter taste on her tongue. While she doesn't blame the cacophony of customers in the sitting room below, she's beginning to feel like her first night back in the Typhoon wouldn't swim so well. She's already tried seven times to get some shut eye, and seven times she's woken up by the sensation of falling, by a dark voice just barely audible in the back of her head, by customers requesting for more mead from the bar - again, she doesn't blame them, she made the choice to stay in the Capricorn Tavern because she's, honestly, too embarrassed to ask Pinchy if he can let her stay for a few days. She appreciates that her brother has welcomed her back, she is, but she knows she shouldn't take advantage of his kindness - no, this is something she has to deal with alone.

The mutated maned wolf slowly shifts off of the hammock she requested to be put up, stretching her wings until each tip nearly brushes either wall of the small room. She stands in the middle for a second, thinking, before nosing through the small knapsack Pinchy dropped off for her and grasping the pack of cigarettes (Marlboro Blues, she loves her brother so much) as well as a common lighter. For a second, she wonders if she should bring anything else - like, say, a weapon - but she's already next to the door and she's too lazy to look for one. She figures her talons are sharp enough, anyway.

She makes her way down the hall quietly, easily sliding down the staircase and through the bustling, half-drunk crowd of ale-smelling customers downstairs. When the front doors swing open, Vandal is quick to slip out, breathing in the colder ocean nights and letting the sudden change in noise volume soothe her sensitive ears. She closes her eyes, lets her nose point the way, and wanders off somewhere into the Typhoon's territory - adventures shouldn't be planned, after all, a planned adventure is nothing more than a chore.

It doesn't take her long to come across Chain somewhere in the depths of who-knows-where, really it's not like she cares much - somehow, all roads will always lead back to her brother, no matter how far she goes. He doesn't smell like someone from her group but the way he smokes so casually in the darkness is an identifier - not a threat (at least, not a threat to them). "Heh, you lost, friend?" Vandal flashes both neon-green eyes at the stranger, the sides crinkling gently in a wry smile. She traps her the filter of her cigarette between her teeth and crushes the mint capsule in between, lighting up when she's sure the material has soaked it up.

Each puff comes with a cold sensation across her tongue and down her throat, lingering in her chest before puffing out again in a thin cloud of nicotine. "Hope you don't mind if I join you in the dark - almost didn't see you if it weren't for uh -" Vandal motions to the light of the cigarette, then to her own glowing markings, the tattoo on her chest, the gills on her neck, her eyes - bright, illuminated in a sea of shadows. She doesn't ask for his name yet, though, she figures there'd be time enough for that. Hel, she knows he'd probably offer it up if he wanted to, Vandal's just out here to smoke and - okay, fine, fine, maybe she could at least do some sort of introduction. "Vandal Roux. Just woke up on the beach this morning. You are?"

TAGS • VANDAL ROUX OF THE TYPHOON

[ARGUS]

[align=center]

DOES THE BLANK STARE-
SCARE YOU MORE THAN THE FROWN?

---

[div style="background-color:#BG COLOR;width:90%; overflow: stretch;text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt;color: #E0EEEE;"] Argus could be defined by words it would be as simple as their own name. While others were born with one, and slowly filled into it- into a animal around it- they were not. No the name they were born with was lost to time. Only remembered by herself and.. few others. Ones that would do best not to say based on her own sanity for the time being. No she chose her own name, and she wore it like a title between the mantle of her shoulders like all the other names before it. Obscuro, Zactov, Calla, Katastre. It was easy to hide behind them, hide the past sins that she committed under each, change their appearance and shift the focus elsewhere, until each name became the title of a story told by mothers to kids to curious for their own good. To mothers who thought to long about leaving their kids- a reminder to what could happen- what would happen if they turned their back on their family, what might happen when they finally turn around and see nothing but ash. Argus was just another title to carry until the burden got to big- their body count too large to count and they chose another one. Argus was another tale that had yet to be told. One that they were living through- but weren't they all? Just stories untold, in time unseen until there was nothing else between them and death; the end of their story. At least with each name change they could choose their own end in the story. With each name a blank slate- a new empty page.

Of course there was a reason for this. For their 'inability' to give a true end. One false move- one wrong direction. Other's will prey and beg and plead for a chance of picking their own demise- others took it as a challenge. So overcome with their own fear or so lost within their own head- Argus often wonders if it was a one time thing- some twisted form of a lottery to how you died- and more to how you end up in the situation like they did. Usually, when someone ended their own life- it was because they wanted die. Of course there were accidents at times, there were times they could wish to take it back but Argus- Whisper at the time had nothing to regret. Nothing she was being selfish for because there was nothing left for them then- so then why- why was it- why them?.There were others like them out there- situations where a mortal was suddenly gifted with immortality- and some would be grateful- thankful for the chance to outlive everyone you loved- everything you ever tried to become turn into ash slip through your paws.- Reap your sons and daughters until they were ghosts - until you had nothing-

There were many things that people wished for, many explainable things that couldn't shouldn't be said out loud. Argus' divinity was one of them- not because it was some great gift given to them in a moment of mercy. Argus- Whisper turned into Obscuro, and she lived the life Whisper couldn't have. She lived what Whisper had ended and eventually- she found reason to live. She found love- she found family- she found everything Whisper wanted and then she didn't- like most tragedies- most anything real it was taken away- ripped from their grasps until they were in turn left gasping. Until there was nothing but a giant gaping hole left were there should have been four small kids telling them about how their day went.

In leaps and bounds- between centuries and a millennia, life is given meaning and looses it. In these gaps Argus finds names that belonged to friends and lives the life that were taken too early. They find their own sanity- morality, and they loose it all when there was nothing left to fight for, when there was nothing left but themselves- until they devolved into something rabid and well known- a common bogie man made real. Until they found reason again.

There was no sense, no logic. Just an endless cycle, the world took upon it's own mantel. Common themes of hate and revenge- Mercy and insanity were all mortal constructs- but Argus was mortal born, and she had yet to shake it- shake the raw emotions and the desperation for connection- for belonging and animals who understand. Argus craves many things in her life- things she can only get a glimpse of before they dispensary, there are things that they fear and there are many- many nightmares between them. Memories of a time when things are simple and savage- purely animal and instinct that every person- every person with sense battles. A line no one was meant to cross that Argus has crossed many many times.

You did not have to immortal to be a monster, or genuine to be a mother, or mortal to be caring. But there should not be something that was all three. There should not be an immortal monster, a fake genuine mother with no more kids, and only apathetic when they had nothing less to loose. There should not be Whisper, Obscuro, Katastre, Calla, but for now- there should be an Argus. There is and Argus. In the end, that is how it is. The world keeps turning and the Shinigami keeps walking, keeps reaping. Keep gaining connections and stacking her cards until the house of them all crumble away into ash.

Of coarse, this was neither here nor there. right?

It did not matter if Argus shook inside their own pelt trying to remember who they were or what they were trying to be here. It did not matter than they couldn't remember which names were their own and which ones were the ones they should be morning- did not matter so long as they remember who it was they were living for- because they could do nothing else. Remember their name that day- and continue. They lived because others couldn't, because there was no afterlife for them. Feet planted deeply into this plane, no matter how bloody- how twisted and vile- there was no leaving.

The night was peaceful, with it came none of the usual things Argus usually associated. A reprieve for now where in place there would be soul deep hunger and senseless need to gorge on something immortal. To further plunge whatever dream state- day brought where Argus pretended to be mortal with her cremates- pretended to be something other than hollow- soul devouring monster that they were by nightfall. A rare occasion- a gifted abatement. Where they would not go to sleep but rather walk- look up at the stars and let their mind blank into nothing.

Meditation wasn't common enough for them as it used to be. Their mind a closely guarded bomb going off with too many thoughts- too many emotions brimming and only steeping with time. It was nice to sit back and let it all filter out. Even recently, with the new position weighing on them it was hard to get time to relax- much less feel so tranquil. It was often time forced, or more commonly forsaken for pushing on. So she valued it when it came. Breathing even, slow- red eyes bright scarlet in comparison to the rusted copper they usually were. Wings soundless as an owl in flight.

Of course there always was a level of awareness during this time of night that couldn't be shut off- a paranoia that was purely instinctual, the bird-eyed view of the clan did wonders to ease it until she detected movement along the still ruined shoreline of two unfamiliar forms. But of course she was aware it could just be some of the many newcommers that seemed to be flooding in recently. People she hadn't had the time to greet or meet properly. Now was a good time as any to come and catch their names, and it was with that thought in mind that they began their decent.

They let their wings tuck into their sides and for a breath-halting moment they were free-falling. The air crushing any chance to breathe away from them and the ground coming in closely- for a moment the rush of power in their veins was gone and there was only the erratic heartbeat. The moment was shattered a moment too soon for their tastes- wings opening flaring open and catching the last breeze of updraft and giving them a more softer landing than a pure angled decent would have.

It was close enough to pick up on the strangers conversation, Vandal- another relative of Pincher introducing herself. THe white lupine took the moment to step closer to the pair- wry amusement and the matching pair addiction the two shared while Argus remained free of it. Smoking didn't really doo much for them- but then again little did now a days.

"I flew in here a good while ago, was hell for my wings the following week let me tell ya." The quartermaster offered her own way into the clan, although didn't specify a time. A low amused chucke cut off as she offered her own name. "Name's Argus, question is if you are intending to stay here?"

[W]isker

[PINCHER]

If there was one thing Pincher would ever be able to relate to, it was the sense of entrapment by guardian figures. Specifically his father and uncle. Ever since he was a child, Pincher faced the cold splash of reality when his father had stripped him away from his home on the island and from his mother and brother. He remembered the night they had all left. All the yelling. The threats. He remembered his mother screeching that she would never let him be taken away from her but then again when did his father ever listen to anyone? His father had scooped Pincher from his bed in an old treehouse, telling him to keep his trap shut unless he wanted to die and with his uncle tagging along, the Dalca brothers left with the little Roux. After that, the chaos had begun to taint Pincher's innocence with a quickening pace that one could find in sickness. It spread and spread, choking the child to the point that he had to open his mouth and allow all the darkness to crawl in, passing his throat and gripping his heart with the same desires. He slowly became what his father had longed for, a replica of his sinful desires and craving ambition for power. Where had that little boy gone? The one that had been called Deniz until some embarrassing nickname decided to overtake him, forcing him to eventually accepting it as a name that he would be called by many despite the history that it held.

Pincher. A name. A title given to creatures that would snatch from others for their own gain. And perhaps, that's what Pincher did and maybe, still does. He no longer focused on stealing so much for his temptations due to the piles of work that he had cluttered inside his head. Ever since becoming Captain, Pincher had slowly forgotten what he had been in the past and it was something he found comfort in. He didn't want to be haunted by the past that lingered in the back of his head and even in the shadows that were created by the sun's rays onto the rich jungle that he was currently stepping through. He had been returning back and forth through the day to return items that everyone had gathered during the tsunami incident, aiding his crewmates with ensuring that everything was made clean and at least salvaging what was lost. Yet as time passed, fewer and fewer crewmates showed up to help but the male wouldn't complain about it since he knew that they were exhausted. All the recent hard work in recreating the base camp had begun to make his sore muscles scream for rest but the wildcat pushed on, his mind sticking to the goal of at least placing some of his own items back into his submarine home.

His deep oceanic blue eyes were locked onto the checklist that was settled on top of his desk as he glanced at the possessions he had managed to find. Some were obviously damaged such as his switchblade, the one given to him by his father and frankly he didn't feel too much dismay about it. Despite it being the few gifts his father had offered him, it would never satisfy the rage that Pincher felt for him even after ending the life of the one that had brought him to existence. He still felt the bubbling anger of being stripped of whatever made him happy. As a child, he had desired to become a mapmaker, one that would travel all around the world to see the wonders it had to offer and to document said wonders. But when his father and uncle had heard what his dream had been, their only response was incredulous laughter and snorts of cruel humor of seeing his dream as a joke. A fucking joke. Pincher's lower jaw tightened at the memory of the twin brothers and he snatched up the switchblade, glaring down at it's damaged blade before tossing it over his broad shoulder, deciding it was best to focus on the present and the future.

Dwelling in the past meant nothing but trouble and all that he wanted was to finish the tasks that had already begun to pile up inside his skull as the sleek male stalked out of the submarine and towards the jungle, his ivory white paws softly sinking into the warm golden sand. Pincher's cool cyan blue eyes slowly flickered up to notice that the sky had gone dark, the blanket of cosmos now covering the world and a small frown settled on his muzzle. Damn, he really had been working for hours now? He allowed a soft sigh to escape his jaws before allowing the jungle to overpower his figure as he stepped into the lush vegetation, long tail swaying lazily behind him. He inhaled the cool night air, the mingling taste of the sea and humidity of the jungle but then the scents of others caught his attention, his velvety round ears pricking with a sudden alertness. He was able to distinguish two of three scents, his forked tongue sticking out briefly to absorb the scents before sliding back into his jaws. The scent of his recently returned sibling and his quartermaster's. The third one was a mystery, one traced with the familiar scent of cigarette that clung to his own dark battleship gray pelt. Was there a possible joiner? Or an intruder? His eyes narrowed and the predator quickened up the pace, curiosity overtaking him as he pushed past large elephant ear leaves and wove his way to reach the others.

It seemed that his sister had managed to find his gift for her, the cigarette brand that they both enjoyed. The temptation to have his own cigarette was growing but he simply held a matchstick hanging from the corner of his lips as the male slipped out of the murky darkness of the night and slid to halt between the two winged wolves that were focused on a stranger that also appeared to be a wolf, except a direwolf like his sibling. He glanced towards the two females as they offered their backstories on how they had arrived to the rich volcanic island and it caused a low rumbling chuckle to bounce off the back of his throat as the soot gray jaguar's muscles slowly relaxed at how relaxed his crewmates were. It was nice to see that they were comfortable with strangers, it showed their fearlessness if there was ever any danger. His own figure seemed to slightly relax as he noticed that the direwolf that had decided to trespass also had the smoking habit that he and his sister had, his left ear twitching as he wondered what had lead Chainedsmoking to...well, smoke. He allowed a light nod as he added "Name's Pincher Roux. Since it appears border scents are shit at the moment, this is Typhoon territory." Perhaps it was truly a joiner that simply didn't give a fuck? Who the hell knew when it came to the crewmates of the island. They were all different and Pincher was curious on how the male had arrived and why. But for now, he simply waited in the dead of the night alongside his trusted members, glowing glacier blue eyes locked onto the stranger.

[align=center]

© MADI

[adomania]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 55%; line-height:115%; text-align: justify;font-family: calibri;"]Chain knew exactly what it meant to escape who you were once were, to become something... else. One name eventually turned into another, who he had been fading into obscurity, until nights spent by himself made him question who he was, exactly. Some memories were so prominent that he felt them as strongly as if they had been made during his time as 'Chainsmoking' even though back then he had donned a different name.

You left behind parts of yourself when you wanted to survive, however. Gabriel was long gone, as was reaper. The innocent boy was quick to be replaced by a murderer, who was just as quick to change into the tired man he was today, who wanted nothing more than to dig himself into a grave and finally let peace overtake him. But there was always that voice, stuck in the back of his mind, whispering sweet nothings to him and telling him "no, not yet." It wasn't his time, not until he did something to make up for the wrong he had achieved in his life. That, or if he finally broke enough to find some sick pleasure in killing that he had yet to find. A reason, any at all, to either earn his place in heaven or finally work himself to the grave and end up in hell. Perhaps that was what kept him going, to find a purpose before he left this life so that it didn't hurt so much once he did. To do what Argus had done, but without having to literally die in the process. He wanted to return to Gabriel, to call himself that but to forget the weight of the memories that Gabriel carried with himself, and that was impossible.

The dogtags around his neck suddenly felt heavier, and he shifted on his paws slightly as the names seemed to seer into his skin, the echoes of his past still hanging around his neck like a noose waiting to finally off him before death actually could.

Even if he wanted to, it was hard to kill a man who was half dead to begin with. Just like with Argus, the cigarettes did very little for him anymore, as did the alcohol and drugs. None of it worked anymore, didn't do anything more than simply kill some of his cells and then speed up his regenerative process, but it was a habit that he couldn't break, and sometimes he hoped that it would still work anyways. What did he know of helping others? His paws were red, not unlike those of medics that brought people back to life but so much different in the end.

The only blood Chain ever had on his fur had been his own or one caused by death. He was no savior, no saint who warded off the reaper and gave new hope to the dying. He was that which they feared, a martyr and an angel of death. Where he went carnage soon followed, counted by the thrum of wardrums in his ears and each thump of a body hitting the dull ground. Counted by the sleepless nights, by the smell of death that clung to him like a cloak, by the whispers that surrounded him each day reminding him and accusing him and they would never shut up -

A breath. It did wonders to relax him, the fading remains of nicotine still stimulating his senses and providing a sense of calm with each inhale. The screams faded into the background once more, clawed hands receding into the shadows they came from. But despite it all, he had stood like a stone as his fears crept up on him in the dark, eyes unwavering from the darkness which sheltered the unknown. He hadn't spared the dead even a glance, ignoring them to cope. The smoke kept them at bay, gave him something to focus on instead. So he lit the second cigarette, a low flame igniting the darkness once more as chocolate eyes fazed out to stare into nothing once more.

A shuffle as a twig was displaced, the whisper of paws against ground; Chain's ears twitched upwards briefly, only to fall down a mere second after. Someone was coming. He felt the subtle shift in his form before even realizing he was getting ready for battle, muscles straining against his taught fur as a show of strength. He didn't move from his spot despite it all, staring calmly into the dark and waiting for it to birth that which hid inside of it. But whereas his eyes had been unfocused a mere minute before, no details escaped their sharp gaze any longer, the brown eyes now red and molten. He inhaled the nicotine, keeping it trapped inside of his jaws until his eyes started to sting, then releasing it with a long exhale.

From the smoke emerged a figure, and Chain watched it warily as it formed, still poised to kill if he had to. No recognition passed through his own features until the darkness made way for the female, although her presence did little to ease his strain. He said nothing as he watched Vandal walk over, simply took another drag of the cigarette and returned his gaze into the distance as she spoke, her own pressed against her teeth. Her words broke through the silence, earning her nothing more than an acknowledging rumble of his chest, and just as he was about to respond a beat later, a flash of white presented him with another creature that smelled of the same group as she did. So he was in the right place, then? They were all swooping around him like vultures now, carried by wings that made it easy to mistake them for angels if not for the sharpness in both of their eyes.

He subconsciously noted the sharp contrast that existed between him and the next creature to arrive, brow knitting together in mild discomfort and self-consciousness. their entire form flowed, beautifully held together by the effortless grace that seemed to be a very part of them. they walked like they had clouds below their feet, like one of the angels fell to earth and decided to walk upon it's damned paths. He envied their assets, the juxtaposition of his own flaws jutting out like a broken bone. His muscles were taught with the restlessness and stress of a man who knew war too well and had seen friends fall one too many times, they had deft form of someone who at least seemed to know their worth. He was a war-stricken man. A monster.

He closed his red eyes so as not to look at them, finding himself lost for a moment and yearning for the cigarette in his mouth to do something more. He didn't let the idea dwell, and as he felt himself relax he allowed himself to open his eyes just a sliver to stare back at Argus. He could offer nothing but a thin stretch of lips in retaliation. "I tend to wander," he responded, proud of the strength his voice carried despite his currently racing thoughts. "I did not really expect to find anyone out here, mostly just hoped."

He didn't expect to be remembered here, uncertain of his fate and whether or not he'd be able to stay for long. He wasn't someone who was remembered as an individual, a passing shadow, no more than a name and face that others could recognize. He didn't like letting himself be known, letting himself be tied down. There was more space for heartbreak, for betrayal. he had enough of those to last him a lifetime and more, and so many of those who he had loved had either found themselves under the barrel of a gun from one of his "friends..." or of his own. He was nothing but a curse in the taught form of a man, walking among men and waiting to take them.


His head lifted up as another approached, eyes locking onto Pincher's almost instantly only to fidget away with a slight furrow of his brow. Words failed the canine, paralyzed as if a snake was constricting his throat, finding it much easier to look at the woman who had approached him first, to try and ignore the gathering group around him. Instinct told him to run, or to fight, screamed at him that he was being surrounded and one wrong move would end up with all of them in the grave. All he could do was nod, still not meeting the man's gaze, instead turning it towards Vandal once more with a steadying breath as the second cigarette burned out into nothing.

A third one was quick to replace it, and it was obvious just where Chain decided to get his name from.

"Chain, no last name," the alias still felt foreign on his tongue, which wanted so desperately to go back to 'gabriel', or if not that then at least 'reaper.' But neither of them were him, something he had to keep reminding himself of. He was someone new, and he intended to keep it that way. "[b]I assumed this was The Typhoon but... I got restless and didn't want to wait, especially in the dead of night. You could say I'm looking to join."

[ARGUS]

[align=center]

DOES THE BLANK STARE-
SCARE YOU MORE THAN THE FROWN?

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[div style="background-color:#BG COLOR;width:90%; overflow: stretch;text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt;color: #E0EEEE;"] //I'm in love with all this muse oml + Welcome to the typhoon c://

Argus was aware of the weary- tense set in the stranger's shoulders, the bags that rest under his eyes and the never quite unaware twitch of his body. If there was one thing Argus was aware of it was dissecting people- dangerous people. They lived with them for the longest time- as a kid, as an aspiring hopeful. Learning their place in the world and making a name for them self by a kill count and a iconic figure of someone to kill on sight for most other groups.

They didn't need a family to make mistakes, didn't have a mother who would tell them right from wrong or a father to teach them to hunt and defend themselves. They learned everything they knew by their own merit. In a time that they could still remember the exact shade of brown their mother's eyes were- or the apathetic or disdainful aura that seems to claok their father they had learned how to take care of themselves. How to hunt, kill, thrive- survive. Their mother game them the only thing they would ever need- a chance. And their father gave them all the reason in the world- to prove him wrong.

They were bubbly as a kid, open and free-spirited: until they weren't. When everyone else went home inside the rusted chained doors of the asylum Argus had returned to the hollowed fox den big enough to fit her small little frame, sat down before a giant pit with blood staining the sandstone- and learned. They did not need stability to be smart- did not need friends to live- did not need a family- to make a name for them self. They only needed a clan, a ladder to climb up and a book- to keep count. Greedily ruthlessly killing. It was easy to bury the guilt to murder of faces you couldn't even remember. It was easy to not be guilty when you knew nothing of who you killed beside the word enemy. It made them cold, it made them unstable- but it did not take family to break them or pressure them to become something entirely monstrous in it's own right.

Even now- they do not feel shame or guilt for killing. It was a way of life- it was a hard cruel way of life. But it was still living. Argus was still alive, if that made them a monster than there would be no changing it after all, no redemption to something a beast can not bring them self to feel sorry for.

No, Guilt comes from killing people they knew. Family friends- sisters- kids-lovers. It comes from destroying everything they touch. It comes from their inability to learn- their inability to change and the instability that they cannot do away with. Sure Argus could blame the lack of family for this. Could blame the mother that was never there and the father who's name now eludes them- but they have been dead since she was was learning what it meant to be a parent them self. But this is where the guilt came from- blaming themselves. Their inability to change and their cowardliness to even keep the name- the names of the one that they had forsaken.

Argus does not wish to return to who they used to be. One was a pup mourning the meaning of family, another was one mourning the life they built for themselves and the other.... was a mindless beast. At least there was some difference in who they were now- who they were becoming- a animal made new by it's name. Argus - the watcher. Not the parent mourning their kids, not the kid mourning their family, not the mindless beast. For them there was no innocence- no looking back. To devolve into one of their older names- into one of their others would mean forgetting all they lost- forsaking the ghosts that lead them here and the memories made here.

That did not mean they still weren't a monster- because Argus only saw themselves as the worst aspects of them self. Saw the way each scar on their form glittered black instead of red, the large gaping whole under her chin, and her eyes- wine red instead of blue- light pale innocent blue.

They were pure white now, near angelic- but it was nothing but a clever little ruse similar to a mask, to the name they wore now. Not entirely them- but not false either. Just an aspect to a multi-dimensional object. a face.

But a wolf of the mind non the less. Of course, spending time hurting others- you learn how to break people and to spot someone who was already broken. While Each mind was different the ways for twisting them were simple- you show them nothing but hurt and pain- you offer them an out to take it out on someone else- and then you watch the cycle repeat. You keep hurting and see if it makes it easier to live with the broken parts of yourself. You breath and live in spite of everyone who tried to make it otherwise.

You live for the dead, and die for the living.

"Hn, we're mostly a lazy bunch." The wolf responded with- picking up the sound of soft strides, not looking to turn around and instead feeling out the aura getting closer. Quick to add in the offer. "You're welcome to stay if you like." Ah, pincher then, though the deputy did note the newer body for the captain, not making any comment about it for the moment. "We live on an island Pinch, the border is pretty cut and dry." Or, they really hoped that clanmates didn't go pissing on the beach just to make the border. Though the railroad system would make sense- they stayed pretty clear from the entrance for... personal reasons most of the time.

Of course, when Chain spoke up about joining, the lupine could not hide the warmth in their own voice at welcoming a newer member to the crew. " Welcome home then, chain."

[W]isker