Ambrose Argus

Secrets and Lies

• The Birth

  
  Ambrose is a genetic melting pot, a byproduct of selective breeding, alchemy, and just a touch of magical influence. His lineage can be traced back to Lycia, though to what extent the mythological status of the chimeric birth are true is open to debate... Though possibly not in Ambrose's earshot. To Ambrose's credit, he does not believe that Echidna even existed, let alone that he is somehow related to some sort of divine horror.
  
  Whatever the true history, Ambrose was born of a forced liaison between a Leonine male and a hapless goat miss. The woman in question was fed enough tinctures and potions to make an apothecarist blush. Whatever was in the concoctions caused her child to grow rapidly, and for her to lose her life in the process of birthing him.
  
  Ambrose was born as he is now, three headed and lethal. His mother was extremely young, and so the tribe wished to know why she had died, rather than merely become catatonic: A look inside her body revealed hundreds of tiny puncture marks from Ambrose's tail. His first kill, and before he was born, no less. His mother was burnt and her ashes painted upon her son, as was the custom for a first kill. Usually, only a portion was used and the flesh eaten, but the risk of toxicity was too great.
  
  Only one person knows of this story, as recounted back to Ambrose, unabridged. If this person spoke out, Ambrose would be destroyed, mentally. It is the one instance of regret Ambrose has in regards to a kill.
  

  
  
  

  The Name

  
  The tribe Ambrose was born into a tribe of sennibals, whom believed that they absorbed the strength of their enemies through eating their flesh and painting themselves in the ashes of their victims. They are not given names until their first kill, referred to only as 'whelp' or 'cub'.
  As Ambrose's first kill was before he was born, the precedent of naming him cub or whelp was lost: Instead, he was given a title, rather than a true name: Ambrose Argus, Immortal Monster.
  

  
  
  

  Genocide

  
  As a youth, Ambrose was told many lies, to keep him placated: He was a delicate child, having no mother to dress his wounds, and a father who was too busy hunting, rather than teaching his son. As such, he became the property of t he entire tribe, and was nourished by few, and worked as a slave by most. This was not out of hate, but to harden him: Those that made life easier on him were soon found missing, or turned into the night's meal.
  This was until Ambrose was eight, when he was finally taken on a hunt. proving himself time and time again afterwards, he soon marched up the hierarchy of the tribe, his knife founding it's home towards the upper reaches of the totem. When at home, a hunter's knife showed their position in the tribe, in relation to the headsman, whose sword lay atop the totem.
  More power and respect meant more knowledge, and bigger hunts. It was on one such hunt, at the edge of sixteen, that a rather venomous old Lion let slip the details of Ambrose's birth, and his mother's death. Of course, the slip was furthered by Ambrose skinning him slowly from the feet up. Once he knew what he had done, the Argus left the main tied up, to prolong his suffering, and set his inconsiderable skill to revenge. Revenge for his mother, and punishment for the folly of creating their destruction.
  that evening, over heir meal of furre and human bodies, Ambrose threw his knife at the one above his own, declaring a challenge.
  The man was strong, powerful, but Ambrose was fast, and fueled with such anger: The knife in his bicep was ignored, and the man died, keening his last with Ambrose's snake buried deep in his throat. Whilst usually a challenge was not to the death, the beast inside wanted blood. Sitting down once more, he removed the knife, and the dead man's wife dressed the wound for him. Well.. Now his wife, as everything passed to him. once he had another mouthful of food, then came another challenge. Another near death. Another wife, and children.
  This continued for three more bouts, until the rest began to bow out. Ambrose ordered them to wait for him now, in the main tent, and forbade anyone to leave the camp. Eyes watched from slotted windows as Ambrose took the role of second, and then wrested the sword from the totem. A challenge for leadership was different: To the death, with the current leader choosing the weapons to be used. Ambrose was given the choice of his knives, or his own hands.
  "You had no hand in this. You've earned a good death. I've earned the kill." It was the last thing his tribe would hear from him.
  Hours of fighting, of back and forth savagery. It was here where Ambrose lost his eye, plucked from his face in one fell slash that tore the eye from it's socket. It was not the Lion that won, that day: It was the true birth of the chimera that cleared the way, as all three heads worked in unison, consciously giving control to the Lion side for the first time. Goat teeth snapped, Snake sunk fangs, and Feline claws tore into the chest of the dying elder. Devouring heart and, with it, the strength, Ambrose was slowly roused from his bloodthirst by the heady cheering and roaring of the tribe.
  As leader, he had one order. It was unvoiced, but a single finer pointing to the main hut once more let them know: Inside. Baring the door, he took torch to thatch, and watched his tribe burn to ash.
  Returning to the man who had started this, slowly pouring his life out into the dirt, Ambrose was pale. Not from sickness, or regret, but from the ashes of the village plastered to his body. Carrying the sword of the headsmen on his back, and the dying man on his shoulder, he fastened him to the totem, and left him to die.
  In that moment, Ambrose named his mother as he saw fit: Amaranth Desdemona. Immortal, ill-fated, misery.
  He does not know that his mother's people still exist, or that he has family left on her side, from her brother's children. If he knew, he would do anything to protect them.