[Fawn]

Name: Rookfrost
Age: 38 Moons
Gender: Toms
Clan: LightningClan
Rank: Medicine Cat

Body Shot

Description:

'Soulless' isn't quite the most flattering of descriptive terms, but it's a bit accurate. Rookfrost is a large, long-haired tom with fur as black as the devil's fingernails, and his eerily gray, fulgurant eyes give him a slightly haunting appearance. Though he is a Medicine Cat by career, he does give off the appearance that he's more likely to sell your soul than heal you, but he can't really help that. Not that he'd want to. Every bit as formidable as a warrior, his physical appearance does not fit his occupation, his large paws look too big to be of use, and yet his precision and steadiness of paw are unrivaled. He looks more like the Clan deputy than a Medicine Cat, but he lives up to the saying that looks can be deceiving far better than he should.

Rookfrost's fur is dense and is set in varying lengths all over his body, his tufted ears alluding to his thick-furred physical appearance, complete with a strong, boxy muzzle, black whiskers, black nose, and eyes that gleam like gray icicles. His features and body type are quite masculine, mimicking his father's pelt color and build, though having also inherited his mother's furlength and eye color. If there was ever a reason to personify death, many LightningClan warriors like to morbidly joke that Rookfrost would be that personification; perhaps it's the cold stare set against a backdrop of solid black fur of which there are seemingly no edges, his fluidity of movement akin to a shadow that glissades across the forest floor. His steps are just as quiet, though he carries with him an aura strong enough that many cats tend to feel him before they see or smell him.

His fur is longest across his chest and covering his tail, like a mane and plume, respectively. Despite being obviously feline, there is something also birdlike about his appearance, the striking color and sleek gloss to his pelt is reminiscent of a large raven or the gray-beaked rook for which he was named.

Though it seems irrelevant right now, the word "Rook" is also a verb meaning to trick or deceive. Keep reading, and you'll come to realize that his name is far more appropriate than either his parents or his Clanmates will ever know.


Description Summary: A long-haired black tom with intense gray eyes.

Personality:

I'm a monster, I'm a machine.

The world is in grayscale. To a highly scientific mind with little merit in the emotional, nature, weather, the cats that inhabit the forest – all are viewed with a certain level of detachment and overwhelmingly strong curiosity. For lack of confusion, let's understand Rookfrost's curiosity with his fellow feline Clanmates; on a scale of one to ten of how interested he is in your social life, Rookfrost would place in the negative numbers. It's not what you say that he's interested it, it's how the world effects the feline body, more often than not, your body. A strange plant gave you a stomachache, you say? Where is the plant? What did it look like? How long has it been since you've eaten it? May I cut open your stomach to examine it? Though Rookfrost never quite gets to that last question, it's always there, right at the tip of his tongue.

Though he's got a heart that reads in subzero temperatures, none can claim that he's dispassionate in regards to his own work. To him, there is nothing finer, nothing more satisfying to his intensely analytical brain than to analyze the world and the cats around him. Due to a complete and total lack of notes and things for documentation, Rookfrost has to rely on a photographic memory and a certain knack for remembering detail. While it's good to make note that Rookfrost pays serious attention to the structure, the movement, the genetic differences of his Clanmates, it's not so much how they live that sets his mind whirring, the gears of some monstrously formidable machine turning, it's how they die that sets him off like a scent to a hunting dog.

With this complete and total absorption in the experiments and hypotheses that dominate his thinking near constantly, it's easy to see that Rookfrost has a certain amount of disregard for the feelings of his fellow Clanmates. Nothing is more important to him than the pursuit of his craft, the thirst for answers, the probabilities and possibilities and theories endless so long as he can keep coming up with questions to ask. Having no real taste for social interaction, Rookfrost actually enjoys himself more when in the company of the dead then sharing tongues with the living; a sun-bleached skull, a maggoty piece of prey left forgotten, those are some of the things that would lure him from the social gatherings to go and find out what they have to say instead, though neither one is capable of speech anymore. Despite his morbid pleasure in the dearly (and not so dearly) departed, Rookfrost, for all intents and purposes, keeps up a guise of a well-brought up gentleman who's simply cheerless in personality but utterly dedicated in craft. While he is not much for conversation, he can be expected to perform spectacularly in any situation.

Like a muddy, icy puddle in the middle of an early frost, his emotions are just as shallow. While everyone else assumes for the world that when he laughs at a joke, he truly thinks it's funny, or when he shows a glimmer of concern over another cat's well-being, it's the truth, the actuality of the situation is that he's simply playing along with the warrior charade. As though born with neither empathy, remorse nor guilt, Rookfrost's functioning is almost robotic in nature, as if someone made a mistake in his programming and he just didn't get those vital emotional pieces in his assembly. Though there is no such thing as psychiatrists in the world of warriors and amongst the hundreds of cats living in the forest, had there been one, Rookfrost would've easily been diagnosed as nearly a complete sociopath. While he fits about 80% of the description – complete with superficial charm and manipulative tendencies – he lacks the 'out of control' characteristic and the grandiose sense of self.

It's difficult to say whether or not he's a sociopath or something else entirely, the picture, like a blurry chalk outline, is never quite clear – just when you think you've at last made out what it was, it starts to rain, and the image is soaked into the concrete or running off into the street. One thing that remains tucked away beneath a surface of calm, calculated 'all business' behavior, is just how dangerous his obsession with his craft is. What he wouldn't do for science and the chance of discovery is so short a list, it's completely empty; the warrior code is something he has never, in his entire life, ever remembered. Though his memory is considerably greater than the average warrior's, it's as though Rookfrost has discarded the information completely – regarding it as nothing more than a hindrance in his pursuit of a thousand truths. Working entirely outside of the warrior code, Rookfrost doesn't feel anything beyond his own morbid passions spurring him onwards as he kills, maims and collects for his dark career path.

Unbeknown to the Clan, Rookfrost lives a very Doctor-Jekyll-and-Mr.-Hyde lifestyle, as the high-born Medicine Cat of LightningClan, he tends to the sick, the old, the young, he delivers kits, he's soothes sore throats, he never leaves his work unattended. Never neglectful of the work he's been assigned, in the eyes of his Clanmates, he is an excellent healer, while not the most sociable, he has done nothing that would make this view of him change in any way. When the Clan sleeps, however, so too does the guise of the brilliant, businesslike healer, a cold, amoral being who's dedicated their whole life to the pursuit of science comes stalking out of the woodwork instead.

In the farthest reaches of LightningClan territory, in a fallen tree that's been eroded over time, is Rookfrost's other den. The closest thing to taking a peek inside this cat's brain, the interior is decorated with the remains of various animals; skulls of assorted sizes, a menagerie of butterfly wings, insects preserved in sap, fangs, claws, and unidentifiable (to all but him at least) bone pieces and fragments, dried out rat tails and the gnarled old paws of cats are all neatly organized within his hollow.

Talk about having skeletons in your closet.

It can be assumed that a great many of those objects of scientific research were not donated willingly. What seems to be the most interesting of items, however, at least the most...immoral, is the medium-sized skull of a cat hanging from a twisted root growing out of the inside of the hollow. The difference is obvious. The skull had not belonged to a full-grown cat, but rather, a juvenile – which begs the question, who had paid so high a price for Rookfrost's dark intents?

Only StarClan could say – if they could bear to watch him, that is.

What came with the machine like personality and analytical brain with the far-reaching IQ, however, was a disbelief in StarClan from the moment he'd heard of it. Though the concept of nine lives tends to disprove his theory that StarClan doesn't actually exist, Rookfrost considers them meddlesome and given too much power. As a result, Rookfrost has closed his mind and his heart from their prying paws and all-seeing eyes, in a way, shutting them off from LightningClan. Rookfrost does not rely on omens to decide anyone's fate, and considers the highly religious members of the forest to be a downright mockery of all that he stands for. It's safe to say that Medicine Cat gatherings are almost as loathsome to him as regular gatherings are. Rookfrost will never shake with fear at a lightning striking a tree, or a pawful of clouds covering the moon – StarClan be damned, for all the care he could give, he has no desire to play into the 'mystic ancestors' schtick. It's not as though he hasn't shared dreams with StarClan before – Rookfrost would pad through the Dark Forest out of a general curiosity of what it's like, and still have the gall to stroll through the Forest of Endless Hunting right after – the Medicine Cat simply decided that they were too bothersome for his tastes, and shut them out entirely.

Guiltless as always, StarClan has been unable to reach him ever since.


History:


Progeny:

Blackclaw had always been a serious warrior. He took everything with a military-ish rigidity that made it difficult to get close to him - Blackclaw always taking to things by himself, not a lover of groups. Behind that rigid exterior that clung to the warrior code like a man lost at sea clinging to a raft, was actually an older warrior who was a bit awkward when it came to members of the opposite sex, who was ambitious but hesitant at the same time. Blackclaw had always fancied a high-born she-cat of LightningClan by the name of Blueflower. Prim, proper, beautiful - she was the epitome of feminine in his eyes, the perfect mate to someone so stoic and duty bound, Blackclaw being a man's man, Blueflower being the genteel lady on his arm.

It took him until he was about 38 moons that he finally plucked up the courage to speak with her. She was about 6 moons his junior, but that wasn't much of a deterrent, nor should it be. What surprised Blackclaw the most, however, was not just her willingness to talk to him, but the fact that she had been admiring him from afar just as he had been admiring her. It was a pleasant, suitable match. She offset his gruffness, while he renewed her strength in the Warrior Code.

When the two were both in their very early 40's, they had their first and only litter of one kit, for which they named Rook, for that pitch-black pelt and, unknown at the time, that underlying level of darkness in his heart.


The Catalyst:

Rook-kit's childhood was incredibly normal, for the most part. Blueflower, a but self-centered, felt her son was the best kit in the whole nursery, and her sometimes haughty behavior left the other queens exasperated. Rook-kit gave her no reason to think otherwise, as he was just as obedient, yet playful, happy yet inquisitive as any kit his age should be. Solid black with a dense fluffy pelt, he stuck out like a sore thumb next to his lighter Clanmates. It's difficult to say if his normal behavior and normal life would've remained just as predictable had it not been for an experience he had at the age of 3 moons.
He had been playing by himself outside the nursery, and LightningClan, returning home victorious after a battle with StoneClan - though at a terrible price - bore between the warriors of the raid party, a fallen comrade. Blackclaw had been one of the warriors in charge of the attacking group, thus Blueflower had been content with allowing her son to play outside the nursery, the both of them waiting for Blackclaw's return. She hadn't anticipated a death, and while she tried to wrap her tail around her kit before he could see the fallen warrior, it was already too late.

Transfixed by the sight of the battered, bloodied blody, Rook-kit's curiosity had been sparked into a raging inferno. Why was the warrior dead? What had killed him? Had he bled to death? Had a blow to the spine been the end? Had he fallen off the rocks and gotten his neck snapped? Why did injuries that badly lead to death, surely a strong LightningClan warrior like that could've recovered?
Though it's a bit of a stretch to say Rook-kit lost the rest of his childhood that day, it would be perfectly accurate to say that he began to look at the world in a different light. Cats could die. The lives of his Clanmates, his mother, his father, everyone around him could be ended in a matter of moments, or stretched out into a matter of moons by illness or long-term injury. While it should've frightened him, it excited him instead. He just had to know why!

It was during that time that Rook-kit began to act differently than the perfect little kitten his mother bragged about so much. He seemed curious about the limits his own nursery mates could endure, and played too roughly during games, often-times biting too hard or scratching too fiercely all to guage the reactions of his peers, to find their limits. Though his mind was by no means anywhere as developed as it was today, during those remaining moons in the nursery, he experienced a great deal of mental growth that, after it alarmed his mother, Rook-kit began to keep to himself. Blueflower tried to chalk up his roughhousing to toms being toms, but it was clear that the other queens weren't buying it. Fearing that Rook-kit was going to grow up to be a menace, Blackclaw actually seemed a little pleased; taking it as a sign that his son was going to be a fearsome warrior someday, with much more potential than all the other apprentices and kits, surely.


Tutelage:

Rookpaw was, much to Blackclaw's disgust, given to an average warrior by the name of Windstripe, a tom of a generally friendly disposition and all too ordinary training methods. It was one of those situations where the pupil was already smarter than the teacher, but it wasn't to say that Rookpaw's experience with Windstripe was totally useless. He did make the discovery that once a cat's Achilles' Heel is damaged, it takes a considerable time for it to recover - especially if said tendon becomes enflamed. Damaging his mentor's back leg hadn't been a pointless action made by an apprentice who had a certain disregard for the feelings of others, it had been - as Rookpaw put it - an appropriate response to a situation in which he'd been goaded into.
Windstripe had mistakenly told his apprentice, on the evening of a battle-techniques assessment, to "Give me everything that you've got."

Having taken it more literally than he should've, and spurned on by his own curiosities about the limits of the feline body, Rookpaw gave Windstripe exactly what he asked for, and then some.

Unable to see the true emotional vacancy in his young apprentice, Windstripe assumed that Rookpaw had gotten a little carried away, or had perhaps been a little too determined to impress him. That was about as far from the truth as you could get, considering Rookpaw's impression of Windstripe was far from noteworthy (though he kept all of this to himself), he would've been more likely to impersonate a dog than go out of his way to please his mentor. That was also one of the most difficult times for young Rookpaw. He had to actually fake remorse and a feeling of guiltiness in order to avoid the stares and whispers of his Clanmates, not wanting to call attention to himself - not when the things he was prepared to do would go against everything they believed in.

Rookpaw was no fool. He knew the difference between himself and them, those sheep-like believers of StarClan and those who clung to the warrior code like it was going to disappear the second they let go. Rookpaw knew all of this, and he was smart enough to keep it under wraps.

With Windstripe out of commission, Rookpaw was given to a battle-hardened tom by the name of Gorseclaw, who could better handle the eerily precise battle tactics Rookpaw dished out during practices. Keeping up a coldly polite exterior, Rookpaw carried on through his apprenticeship with relative ease, though there was one situation in which his 'closet full of skeletons' came into existence.

The Blackness Sets In:

When Rookpaw was 12 moons old and left to hunt by himself, the warrior-to-be came across something that should've sent any normal cat running for the hills had they encountered this creature by themselves. It was a young male fox, old enough to be a problem, young enough for a more experienced warrior to perhaps chase off by himself. But Rookpaw was no experienced warrior, nor was he your average apprentice, either.

While others were bound to a strong moral and warrior code, Rookpaw was entirely void of either such obligation, and could attack with all the cold detachment of a trained killer. Though he was injured in the process, Rookpaw got his first taste of cutting something open and having a look inside. The fox was killed by a deep bite to the back of it's neck, but that was after he'd raked open it's belly, damaged a few vital tendons, and generally performed his own little experiment of If I do that, this happens.

When a patrol finally found him, Rookpaw faked a limp and a traumatic experience, making sure to get as much of the fox's blood onto him before he was discovered and escorted back to LightningClan camp. He was far from done with the fox, in fact, he was only just beginning.

The irony of the situation was that they all mistook his actions as that of a hero defending his territory from a fox, and he was given his warrior name because of this. Standing before the Hill Top, Rookpaw had become Rookfrost, so aptly named for his cool-under-pressure attitude (and his definitely cold personality) and sharp mind. It was while he was holding vigil as a new LightningClan warrior that he went back for the fox.

Unable to just bury it and dig it up whenever he wanted to examine it, Rookfrost instead found a hollow at the farthest reaches of LightningClan's territory, and instead stashed it there. Though the fox's corpse was eventually dismembered and later buried, Rookfrost had kept one of the fox's incisors at as a...trophy, of sorts.

A Quickened Pulse:

For all intents and purposes, Rookfrost was a normal LightningClan warrior who was exceptionally skilled in battle, decent at hunting, though not quite as fast as some of his comrades, he never came home empty-pawed. It wasn't a surprise to anyone that he eventually caught the attention of a lovely she-cat by the name of Petalfur. At 24 moons, Blackclaw and Blueflower were already nagging him to settle down, both of them eager to become grandparents - though Blackclaw was a bit more interested in his progeny becoming the new standard on what a LightningClan warrior truly was, and hoped any offspring sired by Rookfrost would do just that.

Petalfur and Rookfrost bonded together well - at least, that was what the appearance was. Though Rookfrost certainly felt a quickening of his pulse and the stirrings of his blood around her, these were only second best in comparison to his reactions to his craft, to the questions that kept him up at night and devoured his conscience like a plague. At best, Petalfur was only able to scratch the surface, only able to stir the heart of the cat he pretended to be, not the machine he really was. Still, he found her company pleasant, in an odd sort of way, and he began to finetune that superficial charm of his whenever she was around.

Their relationship began to blossom further when Rookfrost was given Wildpaw, Petalfur's younger brother, as his first apprentice.

The Master:

Rookfrost's relationship with Wildpaw was a lot less shallow than it was with Petalfur. He viewed Wildpaw as somewhat of a blank slate, not so heavily molded into the StarClan-loving ways of the rest of his Clanmates. While Rookfrost did not open up to Wildpaw as much as he pretended to, he did develop a certain amount of fondness for his first pupil.

It was around this time that Rookfrost earned the nickname of Deathclaw, for his precision and occasionally rising bodycount when it came to times of war. Though he always acted remorseful as though it had been an accident, his Clanmates grew weary of the warrior who had a knack for killing his enemies. It had started off as a joke, but there was one incident that changed the way cats looked at him - Petalfur, his parents, and even StarClan, included.

Wildpaw, with a small group of his friends, had sought to sneak out at night, having gotten a bit of cabin fever after the repetitive training sessions and lack of excitement. Rookfrost, who had also been on his way out of camp - though he was more than likely off to add to his stores - felt it was a hassle to confront the group of apprentices. Besides, there was a good chance the confrontation would attract the attention of his sleeping Clanmates, and he just wasn't in the mood to explain himself.
Letting the apprentices pass unnoticed, Rookfrost went his separate ways with his own private agenda.

Because of negligence and selfishness, Wildpaw, as well as a second apprentice, walked right into danger.
With all four apprentices getting mauled by a badger, resulting in two deaths and brutal injuries, had anyone known of Rookfrost's failure to stop them, they surely would've blamed him entirely for such a senseless accident. However, Rookfrost, perhaps out of a possible glimmer of guilt, did stumble upon the badly injured apprentices, and had it not been for his quick thinking and knowledge of healing herbs, the other two wouldn't have lived to tell the tale.

On some accounts, he was hailed a hero. In the eyes of Petalfur and Petalfur's parents, he was Wildpaw's mentor and as such should've been more responsible. There was a bizarre moment, in the final hours before Wildpaw's burial, that occurred. Rumor has it that someone stole Wildpaw's body before it could be buried - some, who were not particularly fond of Rookfrost, started to whisper that it was him, the very few having picked up on how different he truly was, but none could actually prove that he had done such a thing. The warriors of LightningClan assumed that a fox had made off with the dead cat, for he had died during leafbare and prey was scarce enough that scavenging wouldn't be out of the question.

Though Petalfur could never bring herself to blame him, they did grow apart because of this incident, but in light of such a travesty, Rookfrost at last had found his calling.

At least, the then-current Medicine Cat had.

The Doctor Is In:

The ancient LightningClan Medicine Cat by the name of Grizzledclaw (he had come out of retirement after the unfortunate death of Silentsong), offered Rookfrost the chance to become the next Medicine Cat, by studying under him until he eventually went to join StarClan. Though not a believer, Rookfrost knew a brilliant opportunity when he saw one.

Medicine Cats had a certain amount of leeway when it came to traveling as well as rights within the Clan; he would be able to wander off to his hollow more often, chalking it up to collecting herbs or something. His methods and his precision wouldn't be questioned, for Medicine Cats were 'blessed creatures' who knew far more than the average warrior ever could. Though he had very little learning left to do as far as the ways of a Medicine Cat went, he accepted the title of Medicine Cat apprentice with ease.

At 38 moons, Rookfrost has been serving as the full LightningClan Medicine Cat for 6 moons now, shortly after (finally) the death of Grizzledclaw, the ancient cat at last dying of old age. He is, by all means, an utterly brilliant Medicine Cat, though he lacked the social graces that some of his predecessors were known for, none can fault him for not being very talkative after the loss of his apprentice and the break-up with Petalfur. (In actually, neither cases had a particularly deep impact upon him, though it's possible he may actually feel a few shreds of guilt over the whole thing)

Though his path from kit to apprentice to warrior to Medicine Cat apprentice to full Medicine Cat was a rather dark one, he seems to have taken to his new job like a fish to water. To this day, Rookfrost acts as proof that a cat doesn't necessarily have to believe in StarClan to be an excellent Medicine Cat. Though it's not well known that he has any sort of disconnection with their spirit ancestors, it's obvious that he doesn't hold them in the same reverence that everyone else does.

Another thing that's changed in his life, is the downright hostility he now faces from Blackclaw, his rigid father. The senior warrior is infuriated that his son chose the path of a Medicine Cat when he could've been an outstanding warrior, perhaps someday deputy and then the leader of LightningClan, Blueflower angry with him due to the simple fact that Medicine Cats are not allowed to have kits. Both are frustrated that Blackclaw's family lines will die with Rookfrost, it's quite possible that, despite their seniority, the two may attempt to bring another litter into this world - a litter that won't ruin their bright futures by becoming Medicine Cats and letting their apprentices die.

At least, that's what they're hoping for.



RP Example:

The Side of the Angels

The den belonging to LightningClan's Medicine Cat was an old badger set. The 'walls' had been expanded, and a circular hole about the width of a cat's face had been cut away from the top, allowing a thin, reedy beam of autumn sunlight to shine down. It was a paltry light source, but it worked well to eliminate the stuffiness that came with a den set in the earth, the entrance-way having been widened to accommodate the considerable size of the den's current resident. Protected by sparse sedge bushes on either side of the entrance like stout bodyguards, they did their duty well in providing the den with some coverage.

Like a shadow born on silent wings, Rookfrost left the sanctuary of the well-stocked, spacious den, gray eyes flicking with a distracted dismissiveness towards the fresh kill pile. Though a faint yowl at the back of his mind - the one that reminded him of his bodily needs for survival - conveyed the message that breakfast would be a good start to the morning, the overwhelming roar of discovery drowned it out in an instant.

His thoughts were already far away across the flat windy moorland of LightningClan territory, nestled into the dark opening of a hollow, kept company by the macabre collection of bits and pieces whose owners were indeterminable. It was still early enough that the dawn patrol was just now coming to formation, the loss of Emberstar leaving the Clan's deputy, Blazehawk, in charge of the Clan's affairs until he could make his journey to the Moon Tree. That sacred expedition was the last thing on Rookfrost's mind as he exited the camp, his noiseless steps carrying him away into the moorland, following after his thoughts like a puppy trotting after it's master.

The excursion was uneventful up until he had passed the trampled clearing, his pulse quickening with an almost feverish excitement now that his beloved hollow was just a short distance away. Despite the obvious gleam of his eyes and the quickening of his steps, Rookfrost had never been one to hurry along unawares, his obsession with his work overcoming everything else - even his senses - and he wasn't about to start now. The scent of a strange cat wafted over to him like the wretch-inducing stench of horse dung, for his nose wrinkled with just as much distaste, bile rising in his throat and blanketed in an emotion he hadn't felt in a long time - fear.

Hell bent upon keeping his secrets, Rookfrost's posture slid into a predator's crouch, gray eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, his heart stilling in his chest as he paused to pinpoint the strange cat's exact position. At last he found him, a small - perhaps apprentice-aged - black and white tom with cautious hazel eyes and a tail that was bent at the tip. Disdain hardened inside of him like ice, chilled further by his fear of discovery.

He descended upon the unfortunate cat like a wraith, dropping his full weight upon the cat and pinning him against the earth like a stake through a vampire's heart. The cat made to yowl in fright, but Rookfrost shoved his face against the short grasses, voice controlled but with an unmistakable furor.
"Utter a single word, and I will crush your windpipe with my bare paws." The fact that these words were delivered with the same volume as one would a lecture somehow made them that much stronger, all the quicker for the cat to realize that he was dealing with an unordinary, fatally formidable creature. "If you ever come near this place again, I will cut out your heart and eat it. Do I make myself clear?" Rookfrost removed his paw from the back of the cat's head, and the loner nodded vigorously, not trusting himself to speak, the heavy smell of urine an obvious sign that the kitten had wet himself in horror. At this point, Rookfrost assumed the cat couldn't have spoken had he given him the choice, fear had paralyzed his vocal cords.

Lifting himself bodily from the terrorized cat, the tufts at the top of his ears bent with the wind stirred up by the speed with which the loner fled, Rookfrost watching the retreating form until it was no more.

This was not a normal occurrence for Rookfrost, nor was he given the opportunity to flay open a cat with no connections to any of the Clans all that often. Still, he had no reason to kill the loner. There was no mystery, no intrigue surrounding the black and white feline - at least nothing of the scientific kind that would possibly spark Rookfrost's creativity. That, and killing him seemed almost wasteful, though had he stumbled upon his little cache of research projects, then his life would've been ended as quickly as his strength and speed could manage.

Though Rookfrost was presently on the side of the angels, expertly performing his duties as Medicine Cat as though he'd spent years honing his skills, there was never any doubt that he wasn't one of them. His exact nature was blurred along the lines of devil and mortal, with no room for anything heavenly.

Any more contemplation on what he truly was would have to wait until another time, because if his theories were correct, the moth cocoons he'd left hanging from the ceiling were due to hatch any minute...


Other:

Manipulated Living – Michael Andrews (Background Music)

What he sounds like: "Don't Make People Into Heroes" (the one addressed as Sherlock.)
&
The Side of the Angels

Notes: I apologize for the length! If you have any questions or concerns, please let me know! :)
Words: 5,482 Words
Tagged: The Doctor Is In