10-31-2018, 11:30 AM
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IT'S A WICKED TWISTED FABLE
Aaaaaa! Fineally got her back into gear! If you want to skip introduction / lil info, jump to the last two paragraphs! //
Argus was a creature of habit, it pulled her farther than any clan loyalty every would, farther than any family tie she had grown and severed. All about her creature-comforts. Simply put, she grew up valuing her instincts more than anyone else did- it kept her alive as a kid- taught her to hunt and fight. For that, she was mostly an outcast along other groups who valued their own sense and witt to much to listen to something as carnal. Now, that instinct was a second skin, she learned how to think and feel secondly, how to hurt- hunt and kill firstly. The consequences of that will never leave her, it will always be her impulse- her muscle memory to attack rather than probe. It makes her control of her own body seem like a battle of wills, and the power that coursed through her blood boil with a need that most sensible- senselike animals seemed to not have. It frustrated her, it drive her wild countless of times but it made using them all the more powerful- all the more thrilling and rewarding to let that instinctual surge run free. Those instincts tell her to use her powers- use her claws and her teeth and pry- dig fray. Put together minds like careful janga, flicking away block by block with her own crazed- careful steady hands until it was a skeleton of its former self. Poised to fall at the next player's turn- a ticking time bomb waiting to go of inside it’s own clan. Against their own clanmates- a monster lurking under their skin. It was simply- what argus did. She played with people, not in a way that could be seen. It was not a skill that came from instinct or even one that she stole from another soul she had eaten- but it was a gift. A carefully wrapped little how-to in a dandy little book that stood center in a spiderweb of strings attacked. Its price is not something she will ever get back, it is not something she can direct at a soul person- it was consistent constant mantra inside her brain. An itch that grew fervent everytime she stared into someone’s bright sensable eyes and saw curruptable. It was a habit, it was paid in full and it was a gift. A gift she stubbornly refused to use. It was-
Evil. Something dark and familiar, it breathes into each slumbering heart of this dreaded night and it will drag them all into the dark. Until they submit into the oblivion. Some will rage- will use claws and destroy in it’s wake. Some will bawl, words bubbling between choked breaths as they writhe and wriggle away, slinking into the light of day: spineless. The root of all evil is fear, fear contorts into rage- creating villains to twist from those spines. Fear controls, it converts- it is a driving force for many, and once- it was the driving force of her. Still, sometimes they can see it, flashes- glimpses in the twinkle of someone they passed by, and a thrill will run through them. Simply the memory of those days. No one expects fear to be exciting, but truly, there is nothing more exciting than a little fear in life. To be ruled by it? Simply… exquisite.
That was a different name then, a different coat of fur. A more deeply buried secret than that of their first name. And few handfuls even know they changed it. But those memories are the first ones they ever were to visit, the most alive. They bubble under her skin, the pseudo-high of delirium ghosts and coos into their ears, and sometimes- sometimes it takes all their concentration no to be dragged deeper into their mind. Sometimes- it’s hard not to remember that they were in the typhoon, that this is a new word- and the old one is gone. And that name- is gone.
It holds no power here, and she pretends she isn’t afraid to think it aloud.
Everyone has that secret side of themselves. The knee jerk reaction to violence- to spread more of it. When hurt- to hurt back. It was that- that which you never were to give it a name. Names hold power, and it already had yours. It had your life as much as you let it- feeding it with fear and poisoned apples. That, was Zactov.
Zactov was the monster never meant to see the light of day. Dark, malicious thing, bread of hate and abandonment and fearfearfear it was suffocating and frightening. Made of the perfect mix of compulsive and cunning, creative and knowledgeable. The manifestation of all their hurt wanting to hurt back in outcry. It fed on the actions they did- and all their sins dripped as a poison from Zactov’s jaws like nectar. Zactov knew she wasn’t supposed to see the light of day, and was content to watch and feed and grow. But little bursts of freedom was never enough for her, was it? No, no never. Freedom was an addiction and now- now nownownow - !
The sick satisfying little pops of bubbles as one looked into the abyss to see the demise of the drowned men. Of themselves. Whisper was not different, Obscuro was not different. They both thought they could change it- but Zactov knew better. Zactov knew that there was no changing the path of a train without building new tracks, and here- there was no foundation- to earth beside that which held the tombstones of the dead- no one to build it beside those crying for revenge- for war.
She was powerful, she did not hesitate, she did not do mercy. She was every twitch, every dark thought that glanced across your mind. She was eternal, she was the infection that would spread across the world and shatter what little semblance to hope these creatures had left- and she would do it gladly.
And she felt it in the air. Power surged like a calling tide. Minds to twist, moralities to do away with. Innocence to be corrupted. There were things to be done. - so little time too. The world was dying did they not see? The world was turning darker- the people reaching out and sinking their teeth deep into each other- infecting one another with a venom of hate and love, Zactov was here to add to it, destroy anyone who attempted to halt the spread, she was the superbad when there was too much good in the world- when there wasn’t enough evil in the world but common petty thieves and bloody hands with good intentions.
She was bad intentions, bad heart. Chaotic energy wrapped in blackened fur and claws- her eyes were an amour as much as a betrayal of who she was. One bright baby blue and the other a mix of toxic green with dark blue. But nownownow-
Bone marrow. A porcelain mask to the red-redredred of their eyes. All ten of them swirling darkly deeply out of tandem, Fur- and claws and scales clacked and rustled and bristled together- liquid muscles rolling in perfect harmony. Teeth clicked together, tongue slithering out for another taste- ah! A fresh night like this was to be savored- but Zactov was all instinct and bound cruel intentions. She dragged it out and gorged. For the night was long, but her days longer- the day stretching, and when she looked up into the sky she smiled a crooked little way.
Because what you never knew was that zactov was once whole, and at times her eyes bled to the surface all three of them raged in self-indulging fury. Cried out in the perfection that was they, no longer divided but together- together in their fear and their hate. Together they bathed in others fear and reveled in the puppets zactov wove. It was glorious it was wonderous, it was so freeing and kind. The world was shadowed with hate for the longest time, and there was nothing better to surrender into its grasp.
It was just as good to be alone, good to bathe in this blood to satisfy her own wants. Argus could wait, Obscuro could appreciate, later, and whisper- a huff of air- the little brat can suck it up. Selfish creature as she was, it was time to finally take the time and enjoy herself without the woes in her head.
Tonight the night was a tranquil bed, the sea a perfect reflection of the sky and Argus looked upon it, committing the sight to memory. In the desert, the sunset was beautiful but over the sea… over the sea the night sky was something tangible to them, and Argus could pluck a star from the simulacra with a dip of her ivory claws. Months of letting her instincts run, sense came trickling here. A quiet soliloquy to the hushed waves. Thoughts spreading like an awareness, the approaching land ahead was small on the horizon but steadily growing. And a familiar ping went off in her senses translated to home. The typhoon. Within the months Argus had left, she had grown. The illusion of time was steady and long but now through the reflection of the sea Argus could see them. The fur along her spine whipped around, armored scales cracked in fracture line scars of battles that we're at best hazy to the dragonet. She left here maybe the size of a dog- of pincher when he was- well, a pincher. And now she was bigger than, much bigger. Almost the size of a small horse, and much, much larger. Serpentine like form dancing in the wind as large skin-taught wings pulled against ivory hollow bones. The time that she left was a great reprieve, and she could not regret leaving- 5 years since her birth into this cruel world and vary rarely had she allowed herself time to breathe. Shame curled along her scales now though, because she had been trusted here- and left without a word. Did they think her dead? Traitor? There was only one way to find out, was’t there?
Along the beach, the shinigami-hollow landed along the sands. Brazen scales glimmering in the dim light of the night like a beacon. She walked along its’ borders, until she could spy the ship's onyx hull by the void it cast in the star speckled sea. And she halted, simply watching the tranquil night and enjoying it for what it was, until the time to be confronted, and whatever she was labeled as now were to be brought to face. She would face it unflinching, for Argus had never really cared what others thought of her beside a select few, and maybe- maybe the typhoon was one of them now, and whatever negativities she was seen with before could be eroded away with a fresh new start.
It was… a hopeful outlook
IT'S A WICKED TWISTED FABLE
Aaaaaa! Fineally got her back into gear! If you want to skip introduction / lil info, jump to the last two paragraphs! //
Argus was a creature of habit, it pulled her farther than any clan loyalty every would, farther than any family tie she had grown and severed. All about her creature-comforts. Simply put, she grew up valuing her instincts more than anyone else did- it kept her alive as a kid- taught her to hunt and fight. For that, she was mostly an outcast along other groups who valued their own sense and witt to much to listen to something as carnal. Now, that instinct was a second skin, she learned how to think and feel secondly, how to hurt- hunt and kill firstly. The consequences of that will never leave her, it will always be her impulse- her muscle memory to attack rather than probe. It makes her control of her own body seem like a battle of wills, and the power that coursed through her blood boil with a need that most sensible- senselike animals seemed to not have. It frustrated her, it drive her wild countless of times but it made using them all the more powerful- all the more thrilling and rewarding to let that instinctual surge run free. Those instincts tell her to use her powers- use her claws and her teeth and pry- dig fray. Put together minds like careful janga, flicking away block by block with her own crazed- careful steady hands until it was a skeleton of its former self. Poised to fall at the next player's turn- a ticking time bomb waiting to go of inside it’s own clan. Against their own clanmates- a monster lurking under their skin. It was simply- what argus did. She played with people, not in a way that could be seen. It was not a skill that came from instinct or even one that she stole from another soul she had eaten- but it was a gift. A carefully wrapped little how-to in a dandy little book that stood center in a spiderweb of strings attacked. Its price is not something she will ever get back, it is not something she can direct at a soul person- it was consistent constant mantra inside her brain. An itch that grew fervent everytime she stared into someone’s bright sensable eyes and saw curruptable. It was a habit, it was paid in full and it was a gift. A gift she stubbornly refused to use. It was-
Evil. Something dark and familiar, it breathes into each slumbering heart of this dreaded night and it will drag them all into the dark. Until they submit into the oblivion. Some will rage- will use claws and destroy in it’s wake. Some will bawl, words bubbling between choked breaths as they writhe and wriggle away, slinking into the light of day: spineless. The root of all evil is fear, fear contorts into rage- creating villains to twist from those spines. Fear controls, it converts- it is a driving force for many, and once- it was the driving force of her. Still, sometimes they can see it, flashes- glimpses in the twinkle of someone they passed by, and a thrill will run through them. Simply the memory of those days. No one expects fear to be exciting, but truly, there is nothing more exciting than a little fear in life. To be ruled by it? Simply… exquisite.
That was a different name then, a different coat of fur. A more deeply buried secret than that of their first name. And few handfuls even know they changed it. But those memories are the first ones they ever were to visit, the most alive. They bubble under her skin, the pseudo-high of delirium ghosts and coos into their ears, and sometimes- sometimes it takes all their concentration no to be dragged deeper into their mind. Sometimes- it’s hard not to remember that they were in the typhoon, that this is a new word- and the old one is gone. And that name- is gone.
It holds no power here, and she pretends she isn’t afraid to think it aloud.
Everyone has that secret side of themselves. The knee jerk reaction to violence- to spread more of it. When hurt- to hurt back. It was that- that which you never were to give it a name. Names hold power, and it already had yours. It had your life as much as you let it- feeding it with fear and poisoned apples. That, was Zactov.
Zactov was the monster never meant to see the light of day. Dark, malicious thing, bread of hate and abandonment and fearfearfear it was suffocating and frightening. Made of the perfect mix of compulsive and cunning, creative and knowledgeable. The manifestation of all their hurt wanting to hurt back in outcry. It fed on the actions they did- and all their sins dripped as a poison from Zactov’s jaws like nectar. Zactov knew she wasn’t supposed to see the light of day, and was content to watch and feed and grow. But little bursts of freedom was never enough for her, was it? No, no never. Freedom was an addiction and now- now nownownow - !
The sick satisfying little pops of bubbles as one looked into the abyss to see the demise of the drowned men. Of themselves. Whisper was not different, Obscuro was not different. They both thought they could change it- but Zactov knew better. Zactov knew that there was no changing the path of a train without building new tracks, and here- there was no foundation- to earth beside that which held the tombstones of the dead- no one to build it beside those crying for revenge- for war.
She was powerful, she did not hesitate, she did not do mercy. She was every twitch, every dark thought that glanced across your mind. She was eternal, she was the infection that would spread across the world and shatter what little semblance to hope these creatures had left- and she would do it gladly.
And she felt it in the air. Power surged like a calling tide. Minds to twist, moralities to do away with. Innocence to be corrupted. There were things to be done. - so little time too. The world was dying did they not see? The world was turning darker- the people reaching out and sinking their teeth deep into each other- infecting one another with a venom of hate and love, Zactov was here to add to it, destroy anyone who attempted to halt the spread, she was the superbad when there was too much good in the world- when there wasn’t enough evil in the world but common petty thieves and bloody hands with good intentions.
She was bad intentions, bad heart. Chaotic energy wrapped in blackened fur and claws- her eyes were an amour as much as a betrayal of who she was. One bright baby blue and the other a mix of toxic green with dark blue. But nownownow-
Bone marrow. A porcelain mask to the red-redredred of their eyes. All ten of them swirling darkly deeply out of tandem, Fur- and claws and scales clacked and rustled and bristled together- liquid muscles rolling in perfect harmony. Teeth clicked together, tongue slithering out for another taste- ah! A fresh night like this was to be savored- but Zactov was all instinct and bound cruel intentions. She dragged it out and gorged. For the night was long, but her days longer- the day stretching, and when she looked up into the sky she smiled a crooked little way.
Because what you never knew was that zactov was once whole, and at times her eyes bled to the surface all three of them raged in self-indulging fury. Cried out in the perfection that was they, no longer divided but together- together in their fear and their hate. Together they bathed in others fear and reveled in the puppets zactov wove. It was glorious it was wonderous, it was so freeing and kind. The world was shadowed with hate for the longest time, and there was nothing better to surrender into its grasp.
It was just as good to be alone, good to bathe in this blood to satisfy her own wants. Argus could wait, Obscuro could appreciate, later, and whisper- a huff of air- the little brat can suck it up. Selfish creature as she was, it was time to finally take the time and enjoy herself without the woes in her head.
Tonight the night was a tranquil bed, the sea a perfect reflection of the sky and Argus looked upon it, committing the sight to memory. In the desert, the sunset was beautiful but over the sea… over the sea the night sky was something tangible to them, and Argus could pluck a star from the simulacra with a dip of her ivory claws. Months of letting her instincts run, sense came trickling here. A quiet soliloquy to the hushed waves. Thoughts spreading like an awareness, the approaching land ahead was small on the horizon but steadily growing. And a familiar ping went off in her senses translated to home. The typhoon. Within the months Argus had left, she had grown. The illusion of time was steady and long but now through the reflection of the sea Argus could see them. The fur along her spine whipped around, armored scales cracked in fracture line scars of battles that we're at best hazy to the dragonet. She left here maybe the size of a dog- of pincher when he was- well, a pincher. And now she was bigger than, much bigger. Almost the size of a small horse, and much, much larger. Serpentine like form dancing in the wind as large skin-taught wings pulled against ivory hollow bones. The time that she left was a great reprieve, and she could not regret leaving- 5 years since her birth into this cruel world and vary rarely had she allowed herself time to breathe. Shame curled along her scales now though, because she had been trusted here- and left without a word. Did they think her dead? Traitor? There was only one way to find out, was’t there?
Along the beach, the shinigami-hollow landed along the sands. Brazen scales glimmering in the dim light of the night like a beacon. She walked along its’ borders, until she could spy the ship's onyx hull by the void it cast in the star speckled sea. And she halted, simply watching the tranquil night and enjoying it for what it was, until the time to be confronted, and whatever she was labeled as now were to be brought to face. She would face it unflinching, for Argus had never really cared what others thought of her beside a select few, and maybe- maybe the typhoon was one of them now, and whatever negativities she was seen with before could be eroded away with a fresh new start.
It was… a hopeful outlook
[glow=#212121,2,300]She's unstable![/glow]
[W]isker
