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jabbers-wild-world · 3 years

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WARNING: Contains character backstories, may be heartbreaking and/or otherwise sad and even tragic. Read at your own risk.

Raito

Compared to the rest of his friends, Raito’s story is the least miserable. He had a fairly happy kittenhood for the most part, with perhaps the exception of his father walking out on him and his mother, and the occasional struggles here and there. Possibly the worst of his story is the injury he suffered three years ago, inflicted on him by a castle guard at the command of the Cat King.

Raito was simply standing up for his mother, for the most important cat in his life, and in his frustration and struggles to get his words out in the right way, it became a misunderstanding of a threat against the King, and one hint of agitated pacing became seen as an attempt to attack, and so the King instructed his guards to remove the dangerous youth, though it was really meant simply as a dismissal, and not an order to do real harm. However, one guard chose to interpret the instructions differently, and after removing Raito from the King’s sight, began taunting and purposefully aggravating him. Until Raito snapped and tried to hit him, and the guard got what he wanted. An excuse to cause lasting damage. So he broke Raito’s leg, and when questioned following his actions, played innocent and claimed self-defense, and that the kid was more dangerous than they’d thought.

Raito has since recovered, but his leg never truly healed properly, and occasionally he suffers some aches and pains, and there are even times where his leg will simply give out on him while running. And up until recently, he had actually kept pretty quiet and simply dealt with the stigma he now carried as an aggressive punk and a delinquent, as he just minded his own business and looked after his mother, especially after she had fallen ill shortly following the incident. But as of last year, his mother has passed away, her illness getting the better of her, and with no help from the rest of the kingdom because of her son’s unfortunate reputation. And now, after meeting Akiru, Raito is striking back against the system that he believes failed him, and his mother.

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Noir

There isn’t actually much known about Noir. He just simply appeared one day, beaten and battered, and exhausted. However, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding and apparently breaking a law he had no knowledge of, he was almost immediately arrested.

He was heavily interrogated, berated for answers, but he had none. Because.. he doesn’t even remember his own story. So, inflicted with apparent amnesia, and harassed for no reason except misunderstandings and things he had no memory of, Noir did develop a bit of a negative opinion of the Royal family, and their guards, and the system they run the kingdom by.

While he was released after interrogations finally proved in vain, he still roamed the kingdom with everyone now suspicious of everything he did, and it made life difficult. Not to mention he still had no memory of where he came from, or anything about himself, except his name and that he was alone, with no family to look after him. And now, after meeting Akiru, he’s becoming less of a rogue wanderer, and more driven to take down the system than ever.

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Yukito

Yukito’s story actually doesn’t have as much to do with the Cat Kingdom, and more to do with humans. However, there was some recent revelations that did trigger some negative feelings towards the Cat Kingdom and its government. But first..

He was born on the streets, among humans and their society. His mother did her best to take care of her kitten, and unfortunately his father had died shortly before he was born, due to an accident with a truck. His mother was never quite in the best of health, but she loved and cared for her little one with all her heart. Until she too was no longer with him, after illness and hunger claimed her.

Yukito would likely have died as well, if he hadn’t been found by a human woman who then pleaded with her husband to let her bring home the starving stray kitten. And she did bring him home, caring for him and helping him recover from the brink of starvation. Unfortunately, though, she too was taken by illness, and Yukito was left with only the man to look after him. And he did, if perhaps a bit more absentmindedly, and even a little dismissive of the feline. But it was with this man that Yukito developed his fascination with art and painting. The man was an artist, and was often very distracted by his work, but.. Yukito didn’t entirely mind that. He would forget about everything when he watched the man paint. It was like magic.

But.. one day, when he tried to join in with the beautiful creations the man made, tried to assist with a painting he had been working on for weeks, the man lost his temper as Yukito left paw prints and smudges across the painting. He threw the young cat off him, terrifying Yukito into a mad dash around the room, knocking over paints and canvases, and other finished works. In a matter of a few short minutes, everything had been ruined, and Yukito found himself tossed out on the streets.

Eventually, after wandering alone a while, he found his way to the Cat Kingdom, and actually managed to make somewhat of a life for himself by painting beautiful pictures for others. However, one day he overheard some conversation, that he soon learned was about his parents.. and the fact that they had been exiled from the kingdom. Exiled, and made to suffer. That was Yukito’s opinion of it, and it was his belief as well, that they had been wrongfully accused, and unjustly punished. And after meeting Akiru, he’s now doing something about it.

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Akiru

Akiru was unwanted from day one. While he was the only one of his mother’s litter to survive, and that being the only reason she kept him at all, even his father looked at his son with distaste, and it stayed that way for much of his life. If he wasn’t being ignored, he was berated and criticized, and scolded for even something as uncontrollable as his appetite (which is actually significantly large).

Akiru grew up going through periods of significant weight loss and near starvation, and his own wanderings to feed himself and his voracious appetite to keep himself healthy. His parents paid him no mind, except to harass and punish him for things out of his control. Even speaking out of turn was prohibited, and worthy of his father’s violent retribution. But other than that, he was pretty much non-existent in their eyes.

Until recently, that is. He finally got his parents’ undivided attention last year, but not at all in a good way. One evening, he’d been on his way home from his nightly wanderings, and was met with an encounter between two cats that wasn’t at all going well, particularly for the female cat, who was receiving some very unwanted attention and pleading with the male to leave her alone. Akiru grew up as a quiet, unassuming, obedient young cat who simply minded his own business and avoided trouble. But what he saw brought out another side to him, one that was more bold, and determined, and had a will to make right all the wrongs he came across.

And he did just that. Or.. at least tried to. He pushed his way between the two cats, putting himself in the path of the male cat, the female protected behind him. And soon he was locked in a fight with him, and before he knew it, he’d knocked the other cat down in the struggle, even drawing blood. But unfortunately for him, the cat he’d fought with had sway with the castle guards, and was actually a noble in the Cat King’s entourage. Akiru was arrested, and punished for his apparent ‘assault’ of the noble cat. But that wasn’t the worst of it..

That incident, was exactly the excuse his parents needed to completely abandon him, and disown him from the family, leaving him with nothing, and no one. While he may have been thankful to be rid of their abuse, they were still his parents and it had been his home. Now he had nowhere to go. Well, until he made a few friends, that is. And with all their stories, and his own, to fuel a need to rebel, to take justice into their own paws and set things straight.. Akiru is now leading a band of thieves striking back against the system that had wronged them all.

#abuse mention #abuse tw #death mention #neglect mention #neglect tw

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couchcushings · 7 years

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5, 13, 14, 29

5. since how long do you write?

Oh lord like idk since I was 12 really?? But long before that little Chelsea was dreaming stuff up and telling herself stories at bedtime.

13. hardest character to write

*sideeyes bram van helsing* Uh well someone has been causing me writerly trouble lately but overall I have more trouble with my OCs because they start to get wildly OOC from how I designed them. The little bastards.

14. easiest character to write

I have this weird thing where if I listen to someone/read them for long enough I can hear the words with their voice. Which is apparently A Thing. But at one point the answer was Dr. Miguelito Loveless because he had such a unique dialogue style that it was hella east to just hear things in his voice. Right now? Golly, right now it’s probably one of my OCs but most recently it was HM Murdock.

29. favorite story/poem of another author

Right now I’m hella into Lovecraft like I’m literally typing out one of his stories so I can get the feel of his heady-ass unnecessarily purple-as-fuck prose. It makes my head hurt if I don’t hydrate adequately before I read it. Favorite story by him is, currently, The Statement of Randolph Carter because it’s so short and perfect and it has a gr8 ending. My favorite poetry is by Stephen Vincent Benet and I’m just going to link you to some because otherwise I’ll talk about it all night. And I’m leaving my favorite piece of poetry by him under the cut because it’s hella long.

INVOCATIONAmerican muse, whose strong and diverse heartSo many men have tried to understandBut only made it smaller with their art,Because you are as various as your land,As mountainous-deep, as flowered with blue rivers,Thirsty with deserts, buried under snows,As native as the shape of Navajo quivers,And native, too, as the sea-voyaged rose.Swift runner, never captured or subdued,Seven-branched elk beside the mountain stream,That half a hundred hunters have pursuedBut never matched their bullets with the dream,Where the great huntsmen failed, I set my sorryAnd mortal snare for your immortal quarry.You are the buffalo-ghost, the broncho-ghostWith dollar-silver in your saddle-horn,The cowboys riding in from Painted Post,The Indian arrow in the Indian corn,And you are the clipped velvet of the lawnsWhere Shropshire grows from Massachusetts sods,The grey Maine rocks--and the war-painted dawnsThat break above the Garden of the Gods.The prairie-schooners crawling toward the oreAnd the cheap car, parked by the station-door.Where the skyscrapers lift their foggy plumesOf stranded smoke out of a stony mouthYou are that high stone and its arrogant fumes,And you are ruined gardens in the SouthAnd bleak New England farms, so winter-whiteEven their roofs look lonely, and the deepThe middle grainland where the wind of nightIs like all blind earth sighing in her sleep.A friend, an enemy, a sacred hagWith two tied oceans in her medicine-bag.They tried to fit you with an English songAnd clip your speech into the English tale.But, even from the first, the words went wrong,The catbird pecked away the nightingale.The homesick men begot high-cheekboned thingsWhose wit was whittled with a different soundAnd Thames and all the rivers of the kingsRan into Mississippi and were drowned.They planted England with a stubborn trust.But the cleft dust was never English dust.Stepchild of every exile from contentAnd all the disavouched, hard-bitten packShipped overseas to steal a continentWith neither shirts nor honor to their back.Pimping grandee and rump-faced regicide,Apple-cheeked younkers from a windmill-square,Puritans stubborn as the nails of Pride,Rakes from Versailles and thieves from County Clare,The black-robed priests who broke their hearts in vainTo make you God and France or God and Spain.These were your lovers in your buckskin-youth.And each one married with a dream so proudHe never knew it could not be the truthAnd that he coupled with a girl of cloud.And now to see you is more difficult yetExcept as an immensity of wheelMade up of wheels, oiled with inhuman sweatAnd glittering with the heat of ladled steel.All these you are, and each is partly you,And none is false, and none is wholly true.So how to see you as you really are,So how to suck the pure, distillate, storedEssence of essence from the hidden starAnd make it pierce like a riposting sword.For, as we hunt you down, you must escapeAnd we pursue a shadow of our ownThat can be caught in a magician's capeBut has the flatness of a painted stone.Never the running stag, the gull at wing,The pure elixir, the American thing.And yet, at moments when the mind was hotWith something fierier than joy or grief,When each known spot was an eternal spotAnd every leaf was an immortal leaf,I think that I have seen you, not as one,But clad in diverse semblances and powers,Always the same, as light falls from the sun,And always different, as the differing hours.Yet, through each altered garment that you wore,The naked body, shaking the heart's core.All day the snow fell on that Eastern townWith its soft, pelting, little, endless sighOf infinite flakes that brought the tall sky downTill I could put my hands in the white skyAnd taste cold scraps of heaven on my tongueAnd walk in such a changed and luminous lightAs gods inhabit when the gods are young.All day it fell. And when the gathered nightWas a blue shadow cast by a pale glowI saw you then, snow-image, bird of the snow.And I have seen and heard you in the dryClose-huddled furnace of the city streetWhen the parched moon was planted in the skyAnd the limp air hung dead against the heat.I saw you rise, red as that rusty plant,Dizzied with lights, half-mad with senseless sound,Enormous metal, shaking to the chantOf a triphammer striking iron ground.Enormous power, ugly to the fool,And beautiful as a well-handled tool.These, and the memory of that windy dayOn the bare hills, beyond the last barbed wire,When all the orange poppies bloomed one wayAs if a breath would blow them into fire,I keep forever, like the sea-lion's tuskThe broken sailor brings away to land,But when he touches it, he smells the musk,And the whole sea lies hollow in his hand.So, from a hundred visions, I make one,And out of darkness build my mocking sun.And should that task seem fruitless in the eyesOf those a different magic sets apartTo see through the ice-crystal of the wiseNo nation but the nation that is Art,Their words are just. But when the birchbark-callIs shaken with the sound that hunters makeThe moose comes plunging through the forest-wallAlthough the rifle waits beside the lake.Art has no nations--but the mortal skyLingers like gold in immortality.This flesh was seeded from no foreign grainBut Pennsylvania and Kentucky wheat,And it has soaked in California rainAnd five years tempered in New England sleetTo strive at last, against an alien proofAnd by the changes of an alien moon,To build again that blue, American roofOver a half-forgotten battle-tuneAnd call unsurely, from a haunted ground,Armies of shadows and the shadow-sound.In your Long House there is an attic-placeFull of dead epics and machines that rust,And there, occasionally, with casual face,You come awhile to stir the sleepy dust;Neither in pride not mercy, but in vastIndifference at so many gifts unsought,The yellowed satins, smelling of the past,And all the loot the lucky pirates brought.I only bring a cup of silver air,Yet, in your casualness, receive it there.Receive the dream too haughty for the breast,Receive the words that should have walked as boldAs the storm walks along the mountain-crestAnd are like beggars whining in the cold.The maimed presumption, the unskilful skill,The patchwork colors, fading from the first,And all the fire that fretted at the willWith such a barren ecstasy of thirst.Receive them all--and should you choose to touch themWith one slant ray of quick, American light,Even the dust will have no power to smutch them,Even the worst will glitter in the night.If not--the dry bones littered by the wayMay still point giants toward their golden prey.

#replies #liggytheauthoress #hi my name is chelsea and i only like one poem but its a novel length odyssey style telling of the civil war and its rad

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