- Dec 31, 2022
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.°☀ AND IF IT EVER STARTS TO FEEL BAD, LITTLE FANG
// uhhhh CW for some gross descriptions of gore / eye trauma / dead bodies / prey eating & lots of discussion of death
One, two, three.
Azaleapaw, Juniperfrost, Wolfsong. Murderer, murdered, murderer.
Sunflowerpaw's teeth sink into flesh. Taste of blood on their tongue. Grasp at the meat and pull. Rip it away. Stringy sinews, the sound of flesh tearing away from itself. Meat separates from bone, blood drips down their chin. Already dead, no resistance. The empty glass-eyes of a mouse stare up at the young apprentice, watching mutely as they tear into its flesh. Blood on their paws, not their own this time. They've never taken a life, not cat nor prey, left to feast on secondhand murder. Or -- no, not murder. It's different when it's not a cat.
One.
Azaleapaw, bloodsoaked. Two bodies lying before her: a rabbit and a rogue. Both throats torn open just the same.
They'd been the first to find her, her elegant fur coated in not-yet-dried blood. The rogue caught the rabbit, the apprentice caught the rogue. She's the same age as them, kittypet-born and ever the target of scorn. They're not so different, really. Why, then, have Azaleapaw's claws been called to kill when Sunflowerpaw's own remain unbloodied? Why did they fear the sight of her bloodsoaked form when she seemed to revel in it? There is mouse-blood in their mouth, reddening their teeth. They lick their lips. Did it taste the same, when her teeth sunk into cat-flesh? When she tore the throat from this stranger, ripped the life from her eyes?
Two.
Juniperfrost, skull-smashed. A gathering of clanmates, a declaration of evil. Murmurs of reassurance: safety, among stars.
The warrior's death was not clean. Death in anger, haphazard and brutal. An act of passion. No prey-kill would be so mangled, blood spilling from the ruin of a face. An unseen culprit, a molly spoken of in rage, promises to return what she had wrought. What kind of cat, they had wondered, could be capable of such cruelty? Punishment for a fabricated crime, ripped across the border and brutalized on some strange whim. Evil, Sootstar said. They accepted it readily. Evil, incomprehensible and terrifying. Boogeyman cat haunting nightmares of kits shown death too soon. RiverClan, an unseen menace, cats capable of such horror. Not like them, not like WindClan, ever the target and never the instigator.
Juniperfrost was already gone from the body, by the time they found it. There's relief in that. They know pain now, like they didn't when they saw him. Sunflowerpaw fears idea of remaining in such a mangled body, the consumptive pain just as incomprehensible as the evil that caused it.
But no, he'd gone to StarClan. Paradise, peace, a wonderful place. Half-crazed smile on their brother's face as he speaks of it. All worth it for StarClan, he says. Seeing their loved ones again; they've none to meet among the stars, and they fear the day they do. Sunflowerpaw cannot quite share in their brother's enthusiasm, knowing the road to reach the skies is so gruesome. Death is not a kind act, Hyacinthbreath did not bless him with star-stuff. There is nothing divine in that mangled corpse.
Three.
Wolfsong, their mentor. Sunstride beside him. Another body before the two, the stench of its blood drowning all else.
This death was deliberate, in a way the other two were not. Slow, cruel. An eye ripped out, mirror of Wolfsong's own. A tongue ripped out, no words to cry protest. Both ears torn to shreds. A face disfigured with far more care than Juniperfrost's. Evil, pain, incomprehensibility. But no, this act was carried out not by some unknown menace, but a cat that Sunflowerpaw knows. Trusts.
ShadowClan, Sootstar had snarled. Outsider, Vulturemask spoke calmly. He did what a warrior should be doing. This sight did not inspire fear, nor rage, as Juniperfrost's body did. It was different, when the cat was not WindClan. No pity for the dead, for the mangled, when they are not of WindClan's own. It makes sense, in a way. Evil never offers sympathy to them. There is no shame in returning what is done to them, surely. Sunflowerpaw does not pity the cat who died at their mentor's paws. They can't, they can't.
Tear another chunk from the mouse. Its body is riddled with holes, picked nearly down to the bone. The kill was clean, bloodless. A snapped neck. No cruelty, for such a small creature has no evil within it. No pity, for such as life is not worth respect.
It's eyes are still staring at them. Slowly, as though dazed, a lilac paw moves. Claw in its eye, delicate movements. Sink into the dead and empty socket, feel the squish of it. It's so small. Quick movement to rip it out, stringy meat trying to cling to body. Easy to snap. Is this what it felt like, for Wolfsong? For whatever took his own eye? They feel a little sick. Even already-dead, the act feels wrong, feels too close to the evil of a faceless killer. It felt strange to see Wolfsong's paws stained from such an act, feels strange now to repeat it. Their paws were not made for killing, they think.
War is on the horizon, always some threat looming over the Clan. Scrawny ShadowClan, wounded RiverClan. Easy pickings. More blood will spill, they know. Perhaps their own paws will be the next to be bloodsoaked, should they find the courage. There is not cruelty, in the small body of Sunflowerpaw. There is no want to dismember, to tear out throats and eyes, to end the breathing of a creature that looks just like them.
A spark of shame nestles in their chest at their own revulsion. They're not a kit anymore, they can't keep cowering.
Death comes to all of them, they know. Vulturemask speaks of it with glee, eyes fixated on what lies past it. Sunflowerpaw cannot see so far. No solace among the stars. But maybe they can learn to move past the fear, the squeamish resistance. They will be called to fight, they know. They've always been eager, never quite understanding what it would entail. Protection, bloodshed. Keep others safe by tearing out the throats of those who would do them harm. They will, if they must.
Push away the resistance. Young paws cannot remain unbloodied forever. It will get easier in time, they hope, to look upon the sight of the dead. If the evil, the outsiders, must die first to keep their loved from being the next body to mourn, that is something they can accept. Coat their own claws red with blood of the death-worthy. Don't fear it.
Pick the cleanest bone from the mouse's body, keep it to place by their nest. Bring death somewhere comfortable, no more running from it. The mouse is left half-eaten as Sunflowerpaw takes their new treasure back to their flower-woven bed.
They've lost their appetite.
One, two, three.
Azaleapaw, Juniperfrost, Wolfsong. Murderer, murdered, murderer.
Sunflowerpaw's teeth sink into flesh. Taste of blood on their tongue. Grasp at the meat and pull. Rip it away. Stringy sinews, the sound of flesh tearing away from itself. Meat separates from bone, blood drips down their chin. Already dead, no resistance. The empty glass-eyes of a mouse stare up at the young apprentice, watching mutely as they tear into its flesh. Blood on their paws, not their own this time. They've never taken a life, not cat nor prey, left to feast on secondhand murder. Or -- no, not murder. It's different when it's not a cat.
One.
Azaleapaw, bloodsoaked. Two bodies lying before her: a rabbit and a rogue. Both throats torn open just the same.
They'd been the first to find her, her elegant fur coated in not-yet-dried blood. The rogue caught the rabbit, the apprentice caught the rogue. She's the same age as them, kittypet-born and ever the target of scorn. They're not so different, really. Why, then, have Azaleapaw's claws been called to kill when Sunflowerpaw's own remain unbloodied? Why did they fear the sight of her bloodsoaked form when she seemed to revel in it? There is mouse-blood in their mouth, reddening their teeth. They lick their lips. Did it taste the same, when her teeth sunk into cat-flesh? When she tore the throat from this stranger, ripped the life from her eyes?
Two.
Juniperfrost, skull-smashed. A gathering of clanmates, a declaration of evil. Murmurs of reassurance: safety, among stars.
The warrior's death was not clean. Death in anger, haphazard and brutal. An act of passion. No prey-kill would be so mangled, blood spilling from the ruin of a face. An unseen culprit, a molly spoken of in rage, promises to return what she had wrought. What kind of cat, they had wondered, could be capable of such cruelty? Punishment for a fabricated crime, ripped across the border and brutalized on some strange whim. Evil, Sootstar said. They accepted it readily. Evil, incomprehensible and terrifying. Boogeyman cat haunting nightmares of kits shown death too soon. RiverClan, an unseen menace, cats capable of such horror. Not like them, not like WindClan, ever the target and never the instigator.
Juniperfrost was already gone from the body, by the time they found it. There's relief in that. They know pain now, like they didn't when they saw him. Sunflowerpaw fears idea of remaining in such a mangled body, the consumptive pain just as incomprehensible as the evil that caused it.
But no, he'd gone to StarClan. Paradise, peace, a wonderful place. Half-crazed smile on their brother's face as he speaks of it. All worth it for StarClan, he says. Seeing their loved ones again; they've none to meet among the stars, and they fear the day they do. Sunflowerpaw cannot quite share in their brother's enthusiasm, knowing the road to reach the skies is so gruesome. Death is not a kind act, Hyacinthbreath did not bless him with star-stuff. There is nothing divine in that mangled corpse.
Three.
Wolfsong, their mentor. Sunstride beside him. Another body before the two, the stench of its blood drowning all else.
This death was deliberate, in a way the other two were not. Slow, cruel. An eye ripped out, mirror of Wolfsong's own. A tongue ripped out, no words to cry protest. Both ears torn to shreds. A face disfigured with far more care than Juniperfrost's. Evil, pain, incomprehensibility. But no, this act was carried out not by some unknown menace, but a cat that Sunflowerpaw knows. Trusts.
ShadowClan, Sootstar had snarled. Outsider, Vulturemask spoke calmly. He did what a warrior should be doing. This sight did not inspire fear, nor rage, as Juniperfrost's body did. It was different, when the cat was not WindClan. No pity for the dead, for the mangled, when they are not of WindClan's own. It makes sense, in a way. Evil never offers sympathy to them. There is no shame in returning what is done to them, surely. Sunflowerpaw does not pity the cat who died at their mentor's paws. They can't, they can't.
Tear another chunk from the mouse. Its body is riddled with holes, picked nearly down to the bone. The kill was clean, bloodless. A snapped neck. No cruelty, for such a small creature has no evil within it. No pity, for such as life is not worth respect.
It's eyes are still staring at them. Slowly, as though dazed, a lilac paw moves. Claw in its eye, delicate movements. Sink into the dead and empty socket, feel the squish of it. It's so small. Quick movement to rip it out, stringy meat trying to cling to body. Easy to snap. Is this what it felt like, for Wolfsong? For whatever took his own eye? They feel a little sick. Even already-dead, the act feels wrong, feels too close to the evil of a faceless killer. It felt strange to see Wolfsong's paws stained from such an act, feels strange now to repeat it. Their paws were not made for killing, they think.
War is on the horizon, always some threat looming over the Clan. Scrawny ShadowClan, wounded RiverClan. Easy pickings. More blood will spill, they know. Perhaps their own paws will be the next to be bloodsoaked, should they find the courage. There is not cruelty, in the small body of Sunflowerpaw. There is no want to dismember, to tear out throats and eyes, to end the breathing of a creature that looks just like them.
A spark of shame nestles in their chest at their own revulsion. They're not a kit anymore, they can't keep cowering.
Death comes to all of them, they know. Vulturemask speaks of it with glee, eyes fixated on what lies past it. Sunflowerpaw cannot see so far. No solace among the stars. But maybe they can learn to move past the fear, the squeamish resistance. They will be called to fight, they know. They've always been eager, never quite understanding what it would entail. Protection, bloodshed. Keep others safe by tearing out the throats of those who would do them harm. They will, if they must.
Push away the resistance. Young paws cannot remain unbloodied forever. It will get easier in time, they hope, to look upon the sight of the dead. If the evil, the outsiders, must die first to keep their loved from being the next body to mourn, that is something they can accept. Coat their own claws red with blood of the death-worthy. Don't fear it.
Pick the cleanest bone from the mouse's body, keep it to place by their nest. Bring death somewhere comfortable, no more running from it. The mouse is left half-eaten as Sunflowerpaw takes their new treasure back to their flower-woven bed.
They've lost their appetite.
IT'S EASY TO EXPLAIN 'CAUSE THIS WORLD'S NOT TAME .°☀
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