cause it's judgement day― private

[sabitsuki]

[align=center][div style="width:450px;text-align:justify;margin-top:10px;text-transform:lowercase;color:#000;"][size=8pt][font=verdana]Any notes pertaining to Sabitsuki's birth, Twinruins, Miles, Shipwreck, Dreamkit, and Opiumkit.

sabitsuki's storage

[sabitsuki]

[align=center][div style="width:450px;text-align:justify;margin-top:10px;text-transform:lowercase;color:#000;"][size=8pt][font=verdana]crowd pleaser ― birth
taken from ff can be found here

It's time; you've known it for a while now, it's just that your mind has been blocking out the heaviest weight of realization, especially in these late days. Scooping up the darkest of the dread and shoving it back to the recess where all the more undesirable things you think about go. It's one thing among the pointless others that you're thankful you possess. It's like singing, when you go to find something to compare it to; your voice is okay, even bordering on good at times—it's honestly a pointless venture, not used much, but you're still glad you have it. Just for the sake of being able to say you aren't entirely boring. Singing, repressing dark thoughts. One in the same, as in they serve no real purpose in the long run but you'll never be heard complaining about either.

You should stop making comparisons like that.

Where were your thoughts before you went off on that tangent?... ah, yes, right. The source of your endless burying cycle. It started, you remember quite clearly, with the increased movement; just last night you got only a few hours of sleep before you were kicked—quite literally—into consciousness, and by then you were too exhausted to curse the stars outside so you just lay back and let it happen, admittedly feeling little pangs of worry about the strength, but considering how you didn't run very far with the thought you must have nodded off before you fully processed the situation. You hate to be so passive.

Your rest was fitful, the hours on your clock increasing in counting order each time you awoke bleary-eyed and searched first and foremost for your bearings in the little red-glowing device. It was downright depressing when you woke up. It was almost too much for your blurry-tired head to handle when you couldn't fall back asleep the last time you did. Somewhere in there, you cried.

That clock reads something around 9:40, you think; last time you checked it was 9:37, which wasn't too terribly long ago when taking the only six finished pages of your current book into consideration. The book itself is more of a novella, really, though that doesn't deter you from enjoying it. Within it contains a story of flying cats, sent from the city streets by their mother in search of a softer life in the forests far away. Wings. They capture your interest like no other, but even with those blessed with the ability of flight around you often, you've never gotten a close look at the things. You wonder how they handle—until, oh, oh god. The book of flying city cats goes, well, flying; you drag yourself sluggishly from the tangle of blankets you'd been nesting in to huddle in a more pat-down part of the mess. You don't attempt any further movement, because you aren't half as thick as people may perceive you to be and you know you won't be getting any farther. At least... at least you're in your room, right? All by yourself... yeah, yeah, you can do this, this will work. You got this.

The first knife-edge twist in your gut tells you that you do not got this in any way.

You knew it was going to hurt. You knew it was going to be the worst pain of your life. What you didn't know was how sudden, how hard the pain would hit you; you never picked up on how the feeling rippled down, made your claws unsheathe all by themselves and bury into the fabric below, like... like you don't have control of your body anymore. It's terrifying—terrifying, and agonizing, and—

—and it's happening. You can feel the first wave build, come crashing down with your barely contained cry, slipping between your teeth. They're here. Your firstborn. Right there. But you don't look back; not when you're scared of any movement triggering the inevitable dagger-stab early. Dagger stab? No, no; when you jump at the fresh pain the next round of spasms brings, you reconsider. You think you meant firestorm. The second child comes blazing into the world, but they don't end the show. You don't think you can do this any more.

Your screams feel like they're being hooked in your throat and ripped jagged from your mouth at this point, with no locked jaws to keep either them or the pitiful little sobs you make in anymore. You can't do it, you can't, and yet, somehow, another wave jitters down on blades, sinking into you, down to the bones, stabbing after the next child and pulling them away. And then...

...nothing. Nothing? No, nothing but you, and your crying, and the much softer crying from warm and tiny, tiny bodies piled up against you. Nothing but your shaking body to will back into the motion of turning your head, your eyes to tear open and fixate on the equally unsteady bundles at your side. One, two... thr—

...

...

The muted green of a blanket is very suddenly at eye level with you. You... weren't you just looking at... the kits, right. You find your neck stiffer this second time, though not in any way as painful as your previous aches, so twisting round to look to your stomach comes in disjointed movements as they did at first but in nowhere near the same level of pain. You're above it. The children, not so much; you have no idea how long you were out—as passing out seems the most reasonable answer for you gazing upon the kits one instant and having a faceful of blanket the next—but they're crying hard as ever, the three of them– four? Four of them? You could've sworn you hadn't had a tortoiseshell. You must have missed her. But you're awake now. You're awake and ready to see just what you brought into the world.

Everyone has expectations. It's a part of life; negative, maybe, but a fundamental piece. You certainly had them for your kids, and looking at them now... you realize they meet none. The bitterness rises in your throat, narrows your eyes critically. The first is a she, huddled closest to your chest, and reminds you of the sky at noon: pale, with a bright patch of orange over her squeezed-eyes-mouth-wide face, crying out like an indignant christ child. The tiny wails make you uncomfortable; you shift your attention to the next, unnervingly quieter kitten. This one—a male, you believe—isn't as easy to compare to nature's beauty, but he holds your attention long enough for you to take in his dull brown, puffed like a cloud bearing unusual rain. The third is surprising solely in that he is of the colour those clouds you thought of earlier should be. You shift your weight to free up a paw, wipe the deep yellow of your blood away to see a cool white. Odd. The fourth, the blurred tortoiseshell, you do not touch with your single paw, but lean in closer to give her a distant sniff; you discover that she smells just the same. How she fits in with the others makes you want to believe there is nothing off. So you do. Four kits, yes. Four.

And, you remember, with as much pain as you felt bringing them to life, four kits you never wanted. Sure, looking down on them pressing to your fur makes you feel fuzzy and warm, but this moment, you and them alone, won't last long. In fact, the end is already long overdue. You'll get to coddle them for a few days, maybe weeks, and then? They'll be out and about, and as soon as they jump from your hold, they'll hit the ground running for sure, and you'll remember everything you feared before they existed in the outside. You can't take care of them. Miles never gave them thought. Ship... god, asking him to help is asking him to chain himself to this place, and you know how much he hates it here. He already comes and goes, freaks you out after disappearing for a week.

The soft cries of the kits—your kits—break through your veil of thought, and, somehow, someway, it moves you all the way to full-blown tears.


//don't feel obligated to match! I had a lot of muse here :^)

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[align=center][div style="width:450px;text-align:justify;margin-top:10px;text-transform:lowercase;color:#000;"][size=8pt][font=verdana]
New life was strange, but the albino feline was going to have to get used to that.

The kitten wriggled around next to his mother. He wasn't going to wail blindly like his siblings, nor was he going to feed until much later. He seemed thin for a newborn, but he was breathing just fine. Tiny paws wriggled much faster, dragging himself towards the warmth that he was quickly associating as someone that existed past his closed eyes.

The little kitten who would be Opium let out a shrill squeak. Life was good for now.

---

[align=center][div style="width:450px;text-align:justify;margin-top:10px;text-transform:lowercase;color:#000;"][size=8pt][font=verdana]You didn't quite understand what was going on, your eyes were closed after all. That was to be expected, you were just born. To who, well you didn't know. The person who gave birth to you is no longer here, meaning you couldn't smell them. Immediately after you were born, you had been taken by the scruff of your neck rather roughly. No name. They never gave you one, but here she was being carried in someone's jaws. Not that she cared, considering she didn't cry or whine. Odd. Normally children cried, when they were taken away from their mother, but she didn't. The reason was actually quite simple. How can you cry over something you never known?

Anyways the trip is long. Kits who are just born could not see or hear, but they can feel. You felt your body sway side to side, as whoever was carrying you moved. Darkness. Eventually it was go away, as she grew over time.

Suddenly she felt warmth. Although she didn't know why. All she knew was that her body was no longer being carried. The person who brought her here had most likely left, but then again she didn't know. When she attempted to move, she felt something next to her. Curious they wiggled towards the objects (kits). Bumping into something, you felt it move. However, you didn't realize you started a chain reaction of wailing.

Just because you were just born yourself didn't mean that you had no senses. You felt something warm come near you (Twinruins), so you mewled as you looked up. Eyes still closed. Once the thing went away, you pressed against something (Dreamkit). You were cold from being brought over here, so you needed something to warm you up. The thing you huddled with provided said warmth.

The soon to be Sabitsuki, or Sabi remained stoic throughout the whole ordeal. For now, life wasn't that bad. The scent of the other children mingled with their own.

---

[align=center][div style="width:450px;text-align:justify;margin-top:10px;text-transform:lowercase;color:#000;"][size=8pt][font=verdana]Hey who turned on the lights? One moment you're relaxing in a dark cramped space and then next, you're shoved into a bright cold world unknowest to you. Eyes and ears sealed shut, you do the first thing that comes naturally after being born- you complain. A shrill cry leaves your tiny parted jaws. You cry and cry until a new sensation reaches over your tiny pink nose. You have yet to come up with a word to call it, but it comes to you- a smell. A warm scent holds your wails hostage and drives you forward into a large warmth which you immediately embrace. The presences next to you are also warm and wiggly, but it's nothing compared to the big one in front of you. This one feels just as good as the smaller ones, if not better. It's much warmer and provides food which you also quickly take advantage of. Through your sealed ears, you can feel and hear a rhythmic sound. Thump, thump, tha-thump. What is that? It's loud, but nice. You feel a sense of protection all around you. When you were born, you were loud; you came out fighting- a trait that will carry over in the months to come. But now you've quieted, relishing in the warmth and nourishment provided by the large presence, which you've deemed Mother.

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[align=center][div style="width:450px;text-align:justify;margin-top:10px;text-transform:lowercase;color:#000;"][size=8pt][font=verdana]Miles knew. Call it some sixth sense that connected him mentally to those he loved, but he knew. It was time. Deciding to occupy his flame-point body, the tom scurried over to the scene with narrowed eyes. He felt his heart grow cold and drop to his stomach when he saw the sight of kits wriggling next to Twins exhausted body. His kits. He froze, lowering his head to examine the ground below him. They were his, but no one could ever know. Ship would come in and be where he should be in their life. The siamese grunted under his breath before inhaling deeply and approaching slowly. Brackenwings exclamation barely broke the clouded condition in his mind. He completely ignored Nightflower and sat down a bit farther off, just hardly within sight. His eyes were locked onto Twin and the kits. His teal orbs closed momentarily and if one was paying a lick of attention to him, they'd see a small tear drop down and land on the ground. When he looked up again, his gaze was filled with pain, regret, and need. Miles hunched over and shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He had no doubt Whitedove would come promptly. She was a good medic and had long ago earned his trust. He came closer and stood with stone cold eyes. His former joyful, happy teal gaze was long gone. A deep seeded bitterness planted in his chest. Twins tears which normally would've made him rush to his old lovers side now made him.. satisfied. His tail swiped over the ground and he looked at the children. An aurora of I dare you to say something surrounded him and was targeted towards Twin.

[sabitsuki]

[align=center][div style="width:450px;text-align:justify;margin-top:10px;text-transform:lowercase;color:#000;"][size=8pt][font=verdana]DREAMDIARY —
NAME. dreamkit captor.
NICKNAMES. dreamy, dreary, madotsuki ("true name"; will adopt later on in life).
GENDER. male (will transition to female later on in life. feminine pronouns will be used to refer to her in this application).
SEXUALITY. homoromantic asexual.
ALLIANCE. the exiles.

APPEARANCE. appearance-wise (though perhaps this could be said of her personality too), dreamkit is unremarkable to the point of generic. in a faceless crowd she would never be found, in a photograph she would be a sepia blur in the lower right corner, more of a mistake in lighting than a person. she is nearly indistinguishable from background; she might as well be a rock or a clump of earth for how onlookers' gazes pass over her.

there are no definitive points to start from when defining her, so she is best viewed as a whole. she is small and slight of figure, and colored with a soft shade of brown. not even chestnut, or hazel, or chocolate, or any other romantically named shade—just brown. upon her triangular face rests half-lidded eyes hued with a red so dull it seems a more pronounced shade of brown. she has long fur with a coarse, matted texture. she has a sloped posture and an aimless gait. she tucks her head and looks up through her lashes, in a way that would be coquettish if it wasn't so subservient. her teeth are slightly more pointed than they should be, her only characteristic that marks her vampirism.

what picture has been painted of her? is it smeared and formless, blurred and bland? does it seem more of a mistake by a clumsy artist's hand than an image? if so, good. because that is what she is: out of focus, shapeless, a banality on the greater order of things. what more can be said?

PERSONALITY. even as a child, dreamkit is listless. her name suits her to an extent, as she always seems to be in her own tiny world with little regard for what goes on around her. except she isn't daydreaming; she's just staring into space. her head is full of nothing. she hardly seems a living creature, as she doesn't think or express or move, at least not in a noticeable sense. her emotions are somewhat dulled and she seems disconnected from reality, drifting in some blank margin between space and time. her detachment from the world at least enables her to view it objectively, and as such she is highly perceptive, though she doesn't do much with the information she gathers. engaging with her is a struggle, as her interactions are limited to a minimum: she speaks only what she needs to and moves only when she is obliged to. she is simply there to take up space.

she is far from an interesting person, having no skills, interests, habits, or quirks of note. average isn't really the right word for her, since it's hard to compare someone as flat as her to the dynamic people that populate the world; neutral is probably better. there is nothing particularly good or bad about her, and in fact those words don't apply to her at all. she just is.

as she ages, though, still waters begin to run deep. though consciously she remains as dreary as an empty sky, subconsciously and unconsciously she is rife with complications. it's as if she is a thick layer of nothingness that disguises a nuclear core. for starters, she grapples with extreme gender dysphoria that only intensifies in the presence of those who identify as male, and as such she will "shut down" or react violently when she interacts directly with them. this includes her fathers though to a milder extent, possibly to their dismay. when she comes to terms with her gender identity, this severe reaction to males will gradually lessen but may not entirely go away.

it will seem that the amoral environment of the exiles doesn't affect her in the slightest, but in truth she silently deteriorates. her bizarre, brutal home will further isolate her from reality and corrupt her imagination into a vivid, morbid perplexity, which will later produce ghastly hallucinations. social situations will become confusing and frightening to her as well, further cutting her ties to the world. she will become prone to periodic shutdowns or violent reactions similar to the ones formerly produced by being around males. meanwhile, her emotions will slowly taper further away until there seems to be nothing left.

and it only gets worse from there.

TIMELINE.
• she is a quiet and absentminded but otherwise normal boy, living blithely under her fathers' care. there is a faint sense of being trapped in a body that isn't hers, her fathers' eccentricities are evident, and her bloodlust is emerging, but for a sliver of her childhood things are okay.
• gender confusion arises, and her struggle with it emerges in her refusal to interact with males. the exiles begins desensitizing her as well, corrupting her mind. this psychological deterioration is only evident in her unconscious at first, in the form of abrupt, surreal dreams. she begins to keep a dream diary, finding that the entries become progressively more morbid and detailed as time goes on. twinruins's developed pyromania will grant her a fear of fire in some way.

[sabitsuki]

[align=center][div style="width:450px;text-align:justify;margin-top:10px;text-transform:lowercase;color:#000;"][size=8pt][font=verdana]Name: Opium
Future Names: Opiumdust, Opiumaddict, Ect.
Gender: Male (Biological), Nonbinary
Appearance:

- Child

Opium would be smaller as a kit, maybe even the runt of the litter. His eyes would begin a very bright blue but eventually would fade into a dull, almost unnerving shade of pink. Because of how little he would eat (A trend that would continue onto his adult years) he would constantly be skinny enough to see his bones. Oh, he would eat enough to survive, but eating was never a 'thing' for him. His fur would be bright white and constantly in tangles and knots around his scrawny frame, making him almost look like a ghost of a cat than an actual living being.

- Adolescence

As his parent negligence (and the feeling that something was very, very wrong) continues, so to did Opiums bad state of affairs concerning physicality. He would eat a little more, but this time willfully choosing to stay bone thin. The stress of the negligence would make him look lime a ball of grime no matter how hard he tried to clean himself off (spoiler alert: he didnt try at all.)

- Adult

Miraculously, he would make it to adulthood. He would make himself seem presentable, but he grew too dependent on his scrawny look that he would keep it til his dying days. His features would be tall and thin, his legs able to bound over many things, and at this point he may have a few mutations or two like wings or horns.

Personality:

- Child

Opium as a child would be just as friendly, kind, curious, and mischievous as any other kit during his early days. He would have turned out as a steady individual if it were not for the neglect and reluctance he would feel from Twins. It would shake him a little to the core: How could someone be so callous to their offspring when every other offspring he met would have been well taken care of and happy? This would start to warp his personality very early and in a simple direction: It wasn't real. All that was happening? Didn't exist. So why should it matter what he did?

- Adolescence

This sort of thinking would carry through the rest of his life, but he would really start to show this in his teen years. Since nothing existed to him, he would start to become reckless and out of control. Murdering others? Check. Sleeping with anyone and anything? Check. Drugs? Oh, his biggest weakness of all. His addictive personality trait would betray him as he began to go into the great den of herbs and other things that could get him back to 'reality'.

- Adult

All of the things listed above would take a toll on his mental and physical health. But once it is revealed that their 'father' was a lie, it would send Opium completly overboard. Nothing was sacred in his head, and even 'dreams' must come to an end. His tiny grasp on reality would disappear and his lunatic antics would truly take hold. He would become ruthless on his quest to be 'awake', and no Clan would be safe. If he caused enough chaos to tear the world apart, maybe he could wake up?

Theme Song: Hollow - Cloudeater