03-26-2017, 09:38 AM
Ribcage has always been a follower, of sorts.
As a boy, he had little choice. It came to him as necessity, with survival clattering like bells warning of intruders down his spine. In truth, he is lucky to be alive. If it were not for Lilin; for mother, though at times she was unhinged and she would cast off waywardly, following ‘Wind’ and her nose, doggedly searching out her—(mother... or, grandmother; his ties are knotted and blood-soaked, but they are his all the same).
His tiger came to him eventually, but even then, he was an untried and meek cub before the war tempered his claws and teeth.
More than anything, perhaps, it was by the grace of the Chamber that Ribcage is still alive. That hive of bodies and strong, iron pine trees, warding off what ragged wolves and toothed enemies would mean to get at the meat inside those protective bones. His family was safe, if anything, for the caves tucked at the outer edges of that kingdom, deeply-carved and well hidden. The cave he had them stowed away neatly in after the Reckoning does it’s job. He had made sure no animal called it home (had sorely missed his ability to dispense of anyone who thought they did); it isn’t perfect.
It lacks the meatshields that the kingdom offered.
He lacks the claws and teeth.
His lip curls when Kirin speaks again, “dog?” he tilts his head around, “No.” It is a cruel joke, to not be able to show him right now. When he was a boy, he was feeble and vulnerable—mother used to make him bear down on his siblings and on those who she found unsavory—in his other skin, he is savage and dangerous. “Tiger.” (The long he stays in that body, however, the deeper he loses himself in that mind.)
Ribcage cannot see any antipathy that might pass across the handsome features when Kirin speaks of Killdare, or the Chamber. He nods his head, but he cannot imagine a world in which Killdare would speak particularly highly of him. Ribcage was always held at the outer, frayed edges of the kingdom, tainted, probably, by the strangeness of his mother.
The black stallion listens, intent, with the same blank, hollow expression on his half-made face. Kirin’s words stir, of course, and his ears shift and flick, emoting where his eyes cannot. He wears them—dear Lilin, Rake and Woven—like a perfume and their well-being like a sword ever held at his throat. “I see.” He cannot pretend it does not entice him, “I have been...woefully under equipped to watch over my own family,” these words burn, and no manner of calm can quell the acidic disgust in them. “If they will be protected in your new taken home, Nephew of Killdare, I can make sure anyone unwanted will think twice about seeking passage. One day.”
He can feel his claws kneading the dirt at his feet, like ghosts possessing his nerves. “I am Ribcage.” Named for the way his mother had eyed those tiny, bird-like bones when she found him newly birthed and unattended.
As a boy, he had little choice. It came to him as necessity, with survival clattering like bells warning of intruders down his spine. In truth, he is lucky to be alive. If it were not for Lilin; for mother, though at times she was unhinged and she would cast off waywardly, following ‘Wind’ and her nose, doggedly searching out her—(mother... or, grandmother; his ties are knotted and blood-soaked, but they are his all the same).
His tiger came to him eventually, but even then, he was an untried and meek cub before the war tempered his claws and teeth.
More than anything, perhaps, it was by the grace of the Chamber that Ribcage is still alive. That hive of bodies and strong, iron pine trees, warding off what ragged wolves and toothed enemies would mean to get at the meat inside those protective bones. His family was safe, if anything, for the caves tucked at the outer edges of that kingdom, deeply-carved and well hidden. The cave he had them stowed away neatly in after the Reckoning does it’s job. He had made sure no animal called it home (had sorely missed his ability to dispense of anyone who thought they did); it isn’t perfect.
It lacks the meatshields that the kingdom offered.
He lacks the claws and teeth.
His lip curls when Kirin speaks again, “dog?” he tilts his head around, “No.” It is a cruel joke, to not be able to show him right now. When he was a boy, he was feeble and vulnerable—mother used to make him bear down on his siblings and on those who she found unsavory—in his other skin, he is savage and dangerous. “Tiger.” (The long he stays in that body, however, the deeper he loses himself in that mind.)
Ribcage cannot see any antipathy that might pass across the handsome features when Kirin speaks of Killdare, or the Chamber. He nods his head, but he cannot imagine a world in which Killdare would speak particularly highly of him. Ribcage was always held at the outer, frayed edges of the kingdom, tainted, probably, by the strangeness of his mother.
The black stallion listens, intent, with the same blank, hollow expression on his half-made face. Kirin’s words stir, of course, and his ears shift and flick, emoting where his eyes cannot. He wears them—dear Lilin, Rake and Woven—like a perfume and their well-being like a sword ever held at his throat. “I see.” He cannot pretend it does not entice him, “I have been...woefully under equipped to watch over my own family,” these words burn, and no manner of calm can quell the acidic disgust in them. “If they will be protected in your new taken home, Nephew of Killdare, I can make sure anyone unwanted will think twice about seeking passage. One day.”
He can feel his claws kneading the dirt at his feet, like ghosts possessing his nerves. “I am Ribcage.” Named for the way his mother had eyed those tiny, bird-like bones when she found him newly birthed and unattended.
misery loves company and madness calls it forth
we can call this done if you'd like, up to you!
say Kirin gave him his name on their way to.. wherever or what have you :]
![[Image: sAxX94g.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sAxX94g.png)