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| - Three murderers step forward, known well for all the torment they have caused, be it to satisfy the murmurs in their mind, the passion under their pelts, or their overwhelming urge to prevail in challenges that always end with blood. Thus, a trial begins. Speak first, Rookclaw. Whispers the deputy father, Oysterstream. From the mishmash of three pelts, one color makes itself distinct, as a creature dark as midnight ripples forward. His movements were almost ghostly in Luna's watching aura, for although he was night-touched, his pelt was whiter than the coldest frost. His eyes glimmered with want, his chops were licked raw with desire. Before this court, you utter naught but the truth. Tell us everything you know, tell us how all this madness started. Oysterstream murmurs again, mew cracked with sorrow. Tell us why you, Rookclaw the Murderer, are innocent of taking my daughter's life. ⚔ Ah Ah Ah- I'm looking at you from a distance ⚔ "I suppose if I'm to tell you why I am innocent, I must first tell you how I came to be a guilty cat. It started with the very first moment I discovered who I was. It may seem so trivial, now, with all I've done. You wouldn't think such a small... accomplishment... would mean much in the bloodied face of all this glory. And while that shocking moment does hide beneath more recent, more intricate pleasures (of which I can explain later, if you wish, my deputy) I wouldn't doubt for a second that it, and it alone, was the reason I took this beautiful, violent, yet unvengeful turn. You remember, Oysterstream, don't you? When we were still young and innocent little brats, traipsing through camp like we owned the world? Dreaming about our warrior ceremony, bragging about our new mentors, being our fussy and self-important apprentice selves of so long ago? Thought you would, it hasn't been as long as it feels like. So then you must remember when we were given our lone hunting assignments. It was our first time hunting out in the open wild, with no trammeling mentor eyes to hold us back. I had some... minor apprehensions at the time. Living the sheltered life of a kit for so long had groomed my urge to have comforting fur at my side in the great beyond, someone to steady myself on when I felt like falling. Being free from watchful gazes should have been a delight, but it wasn't for me. That was until the squirrel came along, then all was bliss. It was actually pretty impressive at the time; most apprentices (including yourself, Oysterstream) would come back with mice or very small voles. I, however, would soon return with the proudest achievement of them all, a plump yet delicate squirrel dangling lifelessly in my hungering jaws. I was told by my “betters” to pass my talent off as the squirrel being very old, thus explaining its poor reaction time, as not to cause any jealousy amongst my peers. But even when I did explain the catch in such a way, we all knew the truth that was so feebly veiled. That squirrel was only a little older than a baby, anyone could tell that much at a glance. It was clear that my reflexes were unusually swift for my age, even when my own young, stupid head fought to keep up with them. Those particular attributes, I think, served me awfully well later on, wouldn't you agree? Ah, yes, the fate of that pretty little creature I mentioned... frankly, I don't know quite where to begin. I could go on and on about how the fresh autumn light filtering through the trees illuminated the squirrel's elegant body to perfection, the sun's rays dancing across the bushy-tailed animal's fawn fur in only the softest and gentlest of manners. I could go into flawless detail of how sweetly it cleaned itself, ever in a state blessed ignorance to what stalked it in the deep green leaves mere mouse-lengths away. But all that, dear friend, is of no importance to me. Its precious final moments of happiness are worth nothing compared to the glorious, glorious elation I created in the place of utter peace. As quickly as the squirrel had been enjoying the fall serenity, it lay dead in my paws like a broken twig. Through quiet observation in an unrefined Warrior's Crouch, past several tense seconds in a balancing act between failure and succession, and a single, exhilarating flight through doubt, we'd found our way to this wonderful moment in time, all the while dancing together as one in this unforgiving wild. Such a dance could snap one in half, as it did to the squirrel. Split once at the midsection, and a second time at its gaping neck. Oh so deliciously broken, a voice whispered in my ear, seductive and manipulative in all the right ways. ⚔ Not one for human connections ⚔ To this day, I've never forgotten how the blood from that kill crept across my open paws. It was like red spider's silk, rolling down my claws in tiny beads of shimmering crimson. Those drops alone stained the entirety of my toes, dripping down until most of my paw was coated in the velvety substance that was the squirrel's life. For many minutes, I could only stand there, seemingly rooted to the ground by tendrils of mud and ichor. My heart was beating at a pace no sane cat's ever could, the drumming in my chest a bizarre symphony that confused even me at the time. What on earth is this feeling? I wondered, stunned to silence. It was as if the entire world had turned scarlet around me, teasing me and taunting me in ways alarming to the young apprentice I was. At least, it should have been alarming. But it wasn't. It was... breathtaking... The terrible but phenomenal lust that filled my soul as I savored the feel of crunched bones and silken lifeblood in my grasp was unexplainable, for it was and still is a sensation too strong for words to describe accurately in the least. What I can say is, you haven't lived until you've killed something... anything... and taken the time to enjoy feeling the liquid seeping from your victim's veins, tasting it on your tongue, and listening joyfully to their heartbeat grow weaker and weaker until all is silence. This, my friend, is true beauty, came the voice again, a dangerous grin audible in its demonic whisper. I felt invisible paws around me, gripping me, tugging me. Never forget this feeling, young Rookpaw. Cherish it for as long as you live. I was eventually forced to take the squirrel in my jaws and return it to camp, no matter how much I desired to remain there, deep in the forest, relishing in my glowing passion. It was actually you who had called out to me, Oysterstream, your yowl echoing through the woods and breaking the spell of my ardor. Even though my first of many bloods had been so unfortunately been cut short by your spell-breaking little mewl, I never dared forget that feeling. Far back when, I sometimes wished it gone, other times, I yearned for it to consume my entire being in the voice's sweet, sweet lullabies. The voice sounded like the smoothest honey, vibrating like chimes in my accepting eardrums. It could convince me to do anything. Unspeakable things... unforgettable, extraordinary things... So, it was at this point that I became obsessed with the feeling. I would hunt for my clan every day, often leaving camp for long periods at a time and returning with several heaps worth of mice, rabbits, squirrels, voles, any smaller creature that lived and breathed was both my clan's meal and my own bloody plaything. In a way, it was healthy, I suppose. I could take all my pent-up mental hunger out on animals that were definitely going to die anyway, the ultimate satisfaction earned in a currency of liquid ruby, while also cramming my clan's single, gaping mouth full of juicy (if very mauled) nourishment. All the while, the voice would urge me on, giggling with its own manic pleasure as a series of different types of prey were slowly killed in my festering rampage. My clan was head-over-heels for me. Everyone from elders to kits called me a saint, telling me I was so incredibly selfless for feeding the clan so fervently and barely taking anything for myself. Little did they know that by the time they were stuffing their faces with my catches, I'd long since had my fill. And you know what? For a while, I was entirely content with the current state we were in. It was working out quite wonderfully for the three of us (me, the clan, and the voice) and even now I must agree that, during such a time in my young life, I wouldn't have had things any other way. But when that uplifting, sweven-esque kindling in my chest began dimming with each passing mouse or rabbit, to the point where even the most violent of kills elicited no more than a tiny flicker of excitement deep inside of me, I knew that I had to find a better type of prey. Something a bit more responsive so I could once again feel my greed be fulfilled. Foxes were an option, as there were an unacceptable amount of them on our territory, and I'd furthermore be servicing the clan while also servicing my deeper need. But with that would come a couple of troubles: One, I hadn't really the slightest clue how to fight. Even now, though I cringe to admit it, a one-moon apprentice would probably be of more use to the clan in war than I would ever be. In my defense, the voice in my head was often insistently loud during battle training, repeating over and over again that this sort of learning would only fill my brain with useless crowfood and damaged tissue. To get what we want, said it, you must be swift and agile on your feet, for stalking your prey- whatever your prey may become in the future- must always be the same as when you hunt. If you hunt your opponent as well as you hunt for your meals... then you will have no need for battle skills. Pounce. Snap. Spine. Dead. Feed. Considering foxes are both built for battle and fully capable (not to mention willing) of filling their face full of cat meat, I don't even know why I considered them for a moment. Yet in my head, all my choices seemed to stop abruptly at dead ends. Badgers, eagles, hawks, martens, and every other type of living creature I could imagine were either not a possibility in this area of the forest, or daring to shred them into my joy would cost me most of my fur and flesh, or merely end me altogether. Oh, there has to be something, I'd thought, surely there must be something... ⚔ Trace the blade to your stomach push it and it's bliss ⚔ Stupid me! How simple the answer was! Other cats... they could be my prey! That is certainly an option, and a very clever one. the voice whispered in my ear, and I detected an edge of pride in the somber tones. I felt the tense knot in my chest seize up and then dissipate, entirely resolved. With a sigh, it passed between my teeth and out into the ether. Where I had felt panicked before, I felt nothing but excitement and anticipation. But, the voice said, startling me, should you choose to accept this as your true identity, a murderer, you will never be able to return to normality. I support you wholeheartedly in this decision, of course, and I urge you on with every step. But this is the point of no return, Rookpaw. What shall it be? Up until this point, the voice had never really given me a choice before. Or rather, I wasn't told I had one to make. It shocked me enough that my claws, which only moments prior had been unsheathed and kneading eagerly into the damp grass, had slid back into my feet as the nervous energy collided with the delight in my soul. Oysterstream, you and your leader may think me a total and utter monster, and maybe I am. Correction: I most definitely am. But I have feelings too, I can get flustered too, I'm not evil. We all have our cravings, by which we are driven. You were driven by your ambition, Stonewhisker was driven by your love, the list goes on. I am no different from you, you see. I am no different from anyone. I was driven, in that moment, to feel like myself again. So I told the voice what I wanted. It chuckled. As you wish. ⚔ Unlike certain unnamed defendants here, I didn't, and still don't, spend hours of wasted time plotting out every last move I make before a kill. Especially when I was foolish and young, time was of the essence, and I needed to make my choices quickly, even if slight inefficiency surfaced from it. Surprisingly, without too much help from the voice, I was able to choose who would fall prey to my instincts that night, and did I ever choose well. The cat was an ugly old crone by the name of Patch, a partially deaf, partially blind former rogue our clan had taken in out of pity. Ever since I was a kit I'd hated the stupid she-cat, for her shaggy ginger pelt smelled heavily of Twolegplace rubbish and the most rotten of crowfood. She was the epitome of rudeness, snarling at just about any cat that looked at her the wrong way and whispering dementedly in the corner. We always dreaded getting in trouble, because we knew we'd be punished to serve the horrid piece of foxdung for the day. There was no teasing about it; seriously, if you were unfortunate enough to be Patch's servant for even a sunrise, you'd almost instantly have the sympathy of anyone you came across. She was really that terrible. Was is the keyword there, and what a lovely keyword it is. That word repeated like a drumroll in my head as I slunk, silently, in the shadows of the forest, grinning to myself as I watched the elderly she-cat wander into view. During the night, every night in fact, Patch would hobble out of her stinking nest and slowly stumble out of camp in a slobbering haze. It didn't matter if it was pouring rain or blizzarding; like the unchanging cycle of seasons, her unexplained procedure would not be put on hold for anything. She would disappear until the first small shreds of sunlight peeked over the distant hills of our territory's far reaches, and as if by clockwork, she would return, more disoriented than when she'd left. I'd witnessed her following this routine since kithood, for I remember awaking late into the night simply to watch her drunkenly limp her way past the Nursery and through the outward-leading tunnel. That night was no different, only she was not so alone this time. Why she'd chosen to drift so far from camp, I'll never understand. I'd stalked her all the way to Snakerocks before Patch finally fell, panting, down upon her ancient limbs at the mouth of a small cavern. The half-blind queen seemed to peer deep into the belly of the boulder, as though she were searching for something with her near-unseeing eyes. I didn't wonder long about what it was she was possibly "seeing." After all, I wasn't there to speculate. I was there to help Patch serve a far greater purpose, which was more than she'd ever done in the lifetime I'd known her. I'd waited long enough. The need once again flared up in me, forcing my heart into that terrifying rhythm once again. I felt the blood pump faster and through my veins, filling every part of me with the fire that fueled my uncontrollable want. It was finally time. As soon as I was in the air, inches from my prey, screaming internally with all the fury and hunger I'd built up, my world went completely white... ...and then all was crimson. ⚔ So babe, take this virgin blade ⚔ YES. This was what I lived for. This and nothing more. The feeling was stronger than it had ever been in all my prey-slaying, as I felt the elder's soft, pliable flesh beneath my waiting claws. Each armed digit slid effortlessly past the barricade of thin fur and skin until it met blood... flowing, thick blood, not watery like that of rodents. Patch's heart must have been beating so quickly, for her veins seemed to pump out more and more of the vital substance onto my muzzle. I barely noticed the odor of rotting flesh that emanated from her fur, as it was swiftly covered up by the sanguineous scent that was slowly consuming her dying form. I did, as per usual, adore how the roaring streams of blood flooded her mouth, her ears, her nose as she struggled to stay alive. And while new in its own right, that particular aspect of it all was too familiar to be exhilarating. It was really her screams that sustained my rage. There's only so many variants of squeaks and squeals prey can give you as they die, and it was at about that point that I'd grown bored of the repetition. Honestly, the noises weren't even slightly voluminous, leaving only the clicks and clacks of cracking bones or collapsing muscles to keep my passion from ending early. But Patch was different, so different. She reacted so wonderfully to every move I made, screaming as I bent her spine out of shape, wailing as I slashed her StarClan-forsaken pelt into little bloodstained shreds, begged for mercy in barely decipherable gurgles as her own life spilled mercilessly out of her damaged heart. Don't stop now. That's a good boy. My mind was filled with the voice, its whispering fierce but not nasty or unkind. Reap your reward. Take all you can! And I did. Oh, I did, and StarClan themselves got to witness it to the fullest! All night I danced this fatal dance with their precious elder, even when her sobs and pleading were no more. Even as her heart was ripped from her chest and thrown amidst the vermeil spires of Snakerocks, we danced. As long as the stars stayed faithfully in the sky, their bright eyes glimmering upon Patch and I, there was no need to stutter for a second. After the ordeal, my head was buzzing. It felt like a swarm of angry wasps had taken the opportunity to build their nest in the chasms of my brain, further adding to my discomfort by stinging the inside of my head repeatedly. It suddenly seemed as though I'd been weakened, the incredible strength in my soul ebbing away into dust. I had to gasp for breath to stay afoot, drowning in exhaustion as the lack of adrenaline forced gravity's weight upon me. Eventually my breath did give out, and I fell in a shuddering heap right next to my former plaything, who would have shivered along with me had she not been so unfortunately dead. It's been a long night. The voice uttered soothingly in my ear, the cadence of it similar to the slow and gentle babble of a placid stream. Clean up your mess using as little energy as possible, and return directly to camp. Tiny beams of light began slithering into view as dawn made its first mark upon the day, and my eyes widened a little. If you don't return soon, there will be questions. And now, dear Rookpaw, is not the time for answers. ⚔ "ROOKPAW!" It was you, Oysterstream, then Oysterpaw, who greeted me at the camp entrance that morning, as fidgety as a wayward kit without its mother. You looked painfully worried, as you usually were at that age, but so much so that I felt the scantest bit of sympathy for you. You, just barely out of kithood and still so innocent in mentality, hadn't the slightest clue what kind of brutal savage you were staring at. In that ignorant time I was simply your older friend; the quiet, brotherly tom whom you entrusted your safety and life to. Not the fiend I wholeheartedly admit to being, both then and now. I'm not nearly so blind to my cruelty as you think. "Rookpaw, where were you?" You squeaked out the words so quickly I could hardly tell exactly what you were trying to say. But the concern in your eyes communicated to me very clearly what was on your mind; those orange eyes of yours never fail in revealing your sweet heart. "The camp's in chaos! Patch disappeared last night, and there's a mad hunt for her! I thought you were hurt, or someone took you, or-!" "Relax." I chided, swiftly draping my tail over your back to help alleviate your stress. My presence and comforting aura seemed to ease you, though I could never quite grasp what it was about me that made you so happy. Though confused at your clingy demeanor, I felt as if I owed you the reassurance of a real brother, which was what you seemed to comprehend me as being. "I heard about Patch. That's actually the reason I wasn't here; I was hoping I could help the patrols out by looking for her on my own." The voice again, this time urging me on patiently. That's it, just like we planned. I didn't like lying to the cat I considered to be a younger sibling, but the voice insisted we keep everything between us, and I wasn't one to argue. The fate of a murderer is known, and running from that hard truth was as futile as it was dangerous. "I couldn't find her, though, her scent vanished near the Great Sycamore." You looked somewhat hurt at this, though you didn't seem nearly as panicked anymore. With a hint of infantile whine, you responded. "Aw, Rookpaw, you should have gotten me up, I could have done it too!" I grinned at this, half amused by the pout on your lip, and half relieved by your easily manipulated personality. Again, it wasn't like I enjoyed deceiving you, it was just something you weren't meant to know back then. So my lies persisted, both in that conversation and for so many moons after. "Yeah, but your assessment today is way more important." I continued, fairly confident in the casual mood I was setting for us. "I didn't want to disturb you with something stupid like this when you could be resting up; you want to impress your mentor, right?" You hesitated, as if you were holding back a retort, but you were very agreeable that morning. "I, uh... yes." You admitted, your silvery pelt beginning to smooth itself out. I nodded, and with obvious finality in my mannerisms, I started to walk towards the Prey Pile, looking back at you with a beckoning expression. "I rest my case. Now c'mon, you little goof, let's get you a good breakfast. Leave the searching to the warriors; I want you well fed and ready to give your mentor a show she'll never forget!" "I'm NOT a little goof." You replied with an edge to your voice, but everything from your bright ember eyes to your now-bouncy step only belied your so-called annoyance. Again came a soundless purr as you skipped by my side, though the pleasing vibrations were inaudible to an ignorant you. Rookpaw, you've done exceedingly well. It said, the praising tone flattering me deeply. I can tell you've great potential to do many wonderful and terrible things. Just know that no matter what path you decide to take, which road of fate you choose to travel, I'll always be right by your side, giving you the strength to journey on. Your pawsteps are mine, and mine, yours. ⚔ Ah Ah Ah ⚔ Needless to say, Patch was the beginning of a slew of "disappearances," the label of which my victims were given. Of the twelve or perhaps thirteen cats that fell prey to my obsession, only two were ever found, and no one pointed a claw at me. Not until now, at least, since you've so clearly discovered my crimes, Oysterstream. But I shall have to stop my tales here and communicate the genuine issue, for I know it is not those past bloods that have landed me here in this court tonight. You want to know why I murdered Rainkit, why I would prey upon the most innocent of infants to satisfy my needs. Well, I didn't. Oysterstream, I've called you brother since the very beginning; do you honestly think I would take the life of your pride and joy? Even I am not mad enough to do something so treacherous. Blind elders, maybe, but day-old kittens? The very thought is enough to sicken me. ⚔ Ah Ah Ah
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