[Insidious]

S A N D V I P E R

When Ravenstar had come and personally requested he help out with the training of some of the apprentices, he simply could not refuse. Had it been the way that her ravishing, pale amber eyes had glimmered? The way that she had asked so nicely just for him?

Most definitely not. The returning of her love was a work in progress at best, though he was not one to dwell in the impossibility of it. After all, there had been a lot of warriors she could have went to instead of him. He had been first pick, and he planned to keep that streak flowing in easy continuance.

With an amiable sweep of his golden head - maybe there had been the slight flutter of ethereal green eyes, though who could tell? - he had followed through upon the request of his entrancing leader without second thought, a warrior captivated to perform her little tasks not because of authority, but because of a beauty so few others cared to recognize.

And if other toms valued their heads, it would stay unrecognized.

“Juncopaw,” there was something irresistibly flawless about the way that his voice sounded: smooth and professional, sharp and to the point. The liquid blackness succumbed to the lively hue of his green eyes, swallowed into the shade of the apprentices’ den as he calculated the whereabouts of the one he sought. “Ravenstar has requested that I assist in your training, so if you’d be so kind as to come with me.” He somehow managed to make the idea of training sound all the more inviting, as though tempting the apprentice farther out of his den, baiting him with the likes of a mousetrap, prepared to snap closed around his petite neck as soon as he stepped into the daylight. His thoughts were rather morbid, though nobody could guess when they were hidden away, disguised and seemingly nonexistent, behind a smiling face. Nobody would ever guess that each sharp tooth had an unusual taste for blood, unconcerned with whether or not it was pumping through the veins of ally or foe. All it took was one false move for the viper to strike, or rather latch.

“The loss of your mentor was such a tragedy,” the warrior moved with spidery precision, his voice carrying the non-sympathetic words over his shoulder and into young Juncopaw’s ears. He didn’t mourn the deaths of his Clan mates. Death was a natural occurrence; he pitied the poor fools that sulked over the unalterable. “But I do so hope I am able to carry on your training sufficiently with a pleasant jump into the world of combat.” In seconds flat the golden tom had turned on his heel, so quickly and so fluently that it would come as a surprise to any that the bone hadn’t popped out of its socket - he was so lucky that he didn’t feel the mortal’s pain.

“I don’t believe in playing nice. What can you possibly learn when you know you don’t actually have to worry about the foe’s teeth and claws?” How he hoped he wasn’t scaring the apprentice. He wouldn’t even hurt a fly - too much. He let this unspoken threat sink into the ground on which they walked upon, waiting to see how long it’d take before Juncopaw ran for his life, tail tucked and all, before finally chuckling, so openly, so heavenly, to ease the learner’s mind of its worry. “I don’t expect you to actually face me with your inexperience, so worry not! I will be sure to hold back, but you do no such thing.” Make me bleed for all I care. Show me that you can actually tear up my flesh and be a decent warrior.

Taking up the defensive, Sandviper bowed his head and parted his jaws - was there something particularly lethal about the glisten in his eyes? - gesturing with a curt tilt of his head that Juncopaw could attack when he was ready. “Your move. Let me see how it is you’d approach a fight with a cat that is waiting for as much.”

Fawn

[Fawn]

Juncopaw

Juncopaw rolled over in his nest. The nights were often long and unsatisfying in the way of sleep, lately; insomnia had started up shortly after his father's tragic death, and was only furthered by the loss of his tutor. Woken by the voice so full of charisma, velvety yet sharp, the apprentice had found himself following Sandviper scarcely before he'd comprehended doing so. A somber yellow stare settled upon the golden warrior, an ashen ear flicking in some semblance of apt attention as they crossed the circumference of the cavern, his focus elsewhere -- until a peculiar offer trickled into his eardrums. It wasn't an offer, really. It was an insistence. The insistence that if he were to become a strong warrior, more realistic battle lessons would aid him on his way to greatness; was this a test of some dark sort? Did Sandviper want to know how great his bloodlust was? If it had increased due to the close deaths he'd mourned through, or if it was even there at all? The slim sooty tom preferred to think of himself as analytical rather than aggressive. A thinker, not a senseless killing machine. Suspicious that Sandviper thought of him as some sort of warmongering, emotionally wounded young tom who could use a more violent training exercise than a normal apprentice would to get out his grief, Juncopaw spoke up. "I don't want to avenge Halfmask, if that's what you're getting at." A grave mew from a grave young tom. "I don't want to avenge Roughthroat either. I'll fight you but not because I'm all... pent up or unstable." Like everyone else seems to think I am. He had not been gifted (or perhaps cursed) with Starlingcry's passionate personality, he had taken after his father - projecting a more reserved, emotionally cooled persona than anything else. Vengeance was not the answer to anything. He disagreed with Blackwolf's choice to kill Sandstar as some sort of petty evening of the 'score'; was death the sort of thing a cat should 'keep score' with? That seemed almost... disrespectful. As if it were nothing more than a silly game, or a silly little battle over stolen prey. Halfmask's death was pointless, but weren't they all? You lived, and you died. Why did there have to be a reason or a point to either? Juncopaw's thoughts were remarkably dark for one so young, but perhaps in those shadowy moons spanning between Roughthroat's expiration and Halfmask's hellish demise, Juncopaw had glimpsed something. Seen into a void he had no business looking into; but he had looked nonetheless. There was no resisting that siren call, once you heard it. These losses had shaken him. Palepaw's accident had hurt him. Gracklefire's agony had left him empty, and what had filled him up in the absence of his innocence of youth, it was difficult to say. But it was dark, and it was cold, and it was somber. The charred remains of something that had once been whole.

12 Moons. Male. NightClan.

501 Words. Insidious

[Insidious]

S A N D V I P E R

If only he were as readable as a book. If it were that simple, then maybe Juncopaw would have stood a chance at glimpsing inside of his twisted mind and figuring out the method behind his madness.

Halfmask had died as quickly as the snap of a finger, or rather the snap of a neck. He hadn't envied her condition, though RainClan was deserving of congratulations for their artistic prowess. It was pitiful that it had cost NightClan one of their own, but she could rest happily in StarClan knowing that her death had been beautiful in its own extremely morbid way. So, no... they were not here to avenge a loss. If anything, he had treasured the opportunity to bear witness to a RainClan warrior's ferocity. How did it feel when it happened? Did she regret what she had been trying to do in her last moments when she realized that she was about to die?

"If we were going to avenge your mentor," the senior warrior dismissed coldly, "then we'd be training on the RainClan border." Revenge was a dish best served bloody, after all. Blackwolf had done more than enough when he killed their leader, Sandstar. Anymore revenge would likely result in a war, though would that really be so bad? It had been too quiet for his tastes lately. Nothing had happened since news of chasing out StoneClan had reached his ears.

"Now," he stiffened in his stance, impatient for the apprentice's pending attack. His recent lack of battle had done well in making him rather restless. Hopefully he'd be able to keep himself under control - this was only for practice, this was only for practice. If he repeated that enough times, he didn't see red in the corners of his eyes, and therefore didn't desire the young tom's flesh in a pile at his victorious paws. "I hope I have been satisfactory in my explanation so we may continue with this lesson."

He didn't avenge anybody. He'd kill for somebody, but it'd be done for the sake of satisfying his own misguided bloodlust.

"I'm not overly muscular, but I'm tall and quick. Remember that so you don't attack in such a way that I would easily be able to counter." Whether he said this because he wanted a battle that was somewhat real, or for Juncopaw's benefit, he, himself, would probably never even know. His eyes narrowed, a tongue that had tasted too much blood for its own good snaking across the outlining of his jaw in anticipation. He was ready to fight.

Practice. He meant practice.

Fawn

[Fawn]

Juncopaw

Sandviper did well in living up to his venomous namesake. The stance taken by the aged warrior was aggressive as well as lethally prepared – defensive with the impression that offense would strike like lightning, and Juncopaw would be left gasping for breath (and possibly for his life) if he made any rash mistakes. That analysis underway, as well as recalling Sandviper's words regarding wounding him for the sake of proper battle training, Juncopaw could not tell if there was seriousness in the charismatic tom's voice when it had slithered into his eardrums. Had there? The slender ashen tom took a few measured, careful steps; for a moment it looked as if he were unsure of whether or not the forest floor would vanish underneath his paws – but a look at Juncopaw's distinctive yellow eyes bespoke of scrutiny, an intent search for weaknesses. "I'm not overly muscular, but I'm tall and quick. Remember that so you don't attack in such a way that I would easily be able to counter." Halfmask had been of a similar build, though obviously a bit smaller than Sandviper, but perhaps the tactics he'd developed while fighting her would serve him some good against this unexpected opponent. Juncopaw aimed for Sandviper's back legs, and, as he circled, attempted to see just how fast the warrior was by darting forward to try landing a blow to the sturdy, fur-covered sinew of Sandviper's back left limb. His claws were sheathed. Surprisingly, Juncopaw found that concentrating on a battle took his mind off of other things; it was likely he was thinking too much, but without the alternative of being able to clear his head, not after so much continuous misfortune as of late, focusing as much as he was on this fight was a relief. It was unhealthy to dwell on the bad things so constantly, the smoky furred apprentice knew this yet it was still difficult to break that cycle once it had started. Hopefully here, fighting Sandviper in this clearing generously heaped with pine needles so that the smell surrounded him, would get him off the track his thoughts had been stuck on. An endless loop.

12 Moons. Male. NightClan.

362 Words. Insidious

[Insidious]

S A N D V I P E R

Finally, the apprentice charged forward, and the senior warrior felt one of the few things he could: lethal adrenaline. His pale eyes were calm and calculated, even as Juncopaw neared closer, and closer still - he had been moments away from swatting with a forceful paw, his claws aimed to rake across the younger tom's cheek, before he doubled to the side and went straight for his back legs.

Sandpiper was not known for hesitation. He immediately followed Juncopaw's momentum and whirled backward, the pressure of the young apprentice's paw pressed firmly against his leg only lingering for a short moment before the connection was lost. "Unsheathe your claws." In the spite of battle lust, his words remained of a neutral volume, as though fighting put no such toll upon him. He wasn't even yet trying to catch his breath as he struck out with all the lethality of a viper - to much the approval of his namesake - for the top of Juncopaw's head now that they were once facing each other.

Unlike the apprentice, his claws were very clearly unsheathed. He normally would have lashed out at a body part more vital than an ear, but he was forced to take the less appealing alternative for the sake of showing Juncopaw how serious he was on the matter of making sure he didn't leave today completely unscathed. He kept reminding himself that he was facing a NightClan cat, and therefore not an enemy to which he could do considerable damage without drawing suspicion or disapproval from his Clan.

If he so happened to nick the tom's ear as was intended - striking with enough ferocity that it'd surely come out of this ripped; nothing to complain about, however, for if he so desired he could have struck in such a way as to diminish with its hearing capabilities - then he'd take a step back and allow Juncopaw just enough time to prepare his weapon as had been noted a necessity before they had even began. Just enough time. If he was too slow, then Sandviper would lunge again and Juncopaw would be faced with the probability of a wound on his shoulder blade, and no means of countering the attack with his lack of an ability to retaliate without claws of his own.

Perhaps, now Juncopaw would understand how dangerous it was to face him. He didn't like to brag and declare himself invincible, though it was rather simple to fight with no remorse when he didn't have to worry about feeling the agony of another cat's teeth and claws. When they were finished here, the apprentice would truly understand what it meant to fight a cat that meant to do harm; he wouldn't be going into real battle as a warrior with nothing more than a basic understanding of what it was like to fight a Clan mate that didn't even try to draw your blood.

Fawn

[Fawn]

Juncopaw

The aggression displayed by the senior warrior had Juncopaw stepping backward with a hiss, fur raised and bristled as though brushed against the natural course of direction the strands took. Lowering into the lowest crouch he could manage, Juncopaw's pads sank into the damp flattened pine-needle bedding, scattering some of the flexible detritus as his claws slipped from their sheathes, an awkward side-step made to avoid the full force of Sandviper's talons. His ear still felt the sting at the tip, snagged briefly but no less painfully in his efforts to dodge. Any other apprentice would have understood the implications of Sandviper's behavior – would have noted the unnecessary risk of fighting with claws unsheathed, as if they were in a cat-kill-cat sort of world. Perhaps Sandviper came from an older time, where even the aggression and arrogance of Ravenstar was incomparable to the militant leaders of the past; perhaps it was normal to Sandviper to train apprentices this way. Juncopaw did not deliberate over this. He was not the sort of feline who was startled by the unexpected mean streak shown towards him – he simply learned to cope, learned to accept that the world was a dark place and happiness was, quite possibly, an illusion the others maintained for the sake of keeping their sanity. Juncopaw's heart was fluttering in his breast not unlike his namesake, but his eyes were narrowed and not clouded, though a healthy dosage of apprehension and adrenaline had snaked it's way into his veins when he wasn't looking. Fine. The older warrior wanted to teach him, then he would learn and display his adaptability, one of the defining traits that would perhaps set him apart from his siblings. Maybe. No move was telegraphed on Sandviper's part without the tom doing so deliberately – an apprentice with only 12 moons to define his lifespan (only 6 of which had been spent in actual training), he could never hope to best his opponent. He could not hope to come close. So he didn't; hope had never really been Juncopaw's specialty in any situation, he had been let down far too often to rely on a sentimental thing like that. Instead, the analytical tom's focus was on landed-strikes versus misses, wanting the former to be higher than the latter, so he approached Sandviper with an intent, searching look. Without (intentional) warning, the smoky-furred pupil lurched forward with the reflexes of a weasel, intending to clip Sandviper on the shoulder – aiming for a landed blow but not unexpected of a less than desirable outcome—eager to fight back against his opponent. If anyone asked, it was difficult to know if he'd say anything, but inside, Juncopaw knew the truth. Fighting with claws unsheathed added a certain realism that had it's appeals to a cat like Juncopaw, a cat who'd had enough of coddling and enough of emotions.

12 Moons. Male. NightClan.

476 Words. Insidious

[Insidious]

S A N D V I P E R

It was only when Juncopaw finally released his claws from their sheaths that he, in turn, would have seen the small flecks of a smile pulling at the corner of Sandviper’s lip. It wasn’t friendly, or encouraging. It was dangerous. It was telling of the tomcat’s hunger; of how, when he was caught up in battle, his stability was questionable at best.

He lived and breathed what Juncopaw was only practicing. Being born with this gift, with this sense of invincibility, had made it possible for him to appreciate and to crave what had others stomachs twisting and turning in knots. He didn’t have to live in fear of whether or not he’d meet the claws or the fangs of an opponent whenever he left camp. Someone could sneak up on him, but they’d find out in a matter of seconds how that had been his plan all along. He could sacrifice a scratch or a wound here and there, and he often did simply because he felt that it was his right, his obligation, to use this gift of his until it was worn dry. He didn’t have to live in fear of pain. Others, however, had to live in fear of the pain he could, and he happily would, bestow upon them.

The knowledge that Juncopaw’s claws, sheathed or not, wouldn’t change how much he felt his attacks made it all the more easier for him to fight in a way others were never expecting. He didn’t have to strategize the best way to minimize his injuries, because it didn’t matter how many he got in the end. What mattered the most to him was that others left afraid to ever challenge him again. He wanted everyone to look at him, and to live in this blatant fear that he could rip them apart before they could ever have him begging for mercy.

He could die any day.

But he would still go down invincible.

It was because of his liking of the unexpected that when Juncopaw lunged forward, he did as well - almost as if he wanted Juncopaw’s claws to sink into his flesh and meet their mark. Sandviper’s own unsheathed weapon was aimed for a relatively similar spot on the apprentice’s body, intending to sustain a grip on Juncopaw’s body - and Juncopaw on his, for this method of attack did allow the apprentice’s blow to land - so that his claws could properly hook into the tomcat’s flesh and prohibit escape. He wanted to take advantage of his shock, if such a thing had registered, and force Juncopaw to the ground, the senior warrior’s paws trapping him beneath.

If anything about his tactic was meant to be part of the lesson, then he’d muse how he was teaching the apprentice how sometimes you had to do something unexpected, even if it cost you an injury, for the sake of coming out victorious.

Even if it meant diving into the enemy’s claws.

Though, perhaps that was something reserved for cats like him? A tactic only the unfeeling could use.

If Sandviper was successful in knocking Juncopaw down and pinning him to the ground, then he could teach him all about this helpful thing called the belly rake that usually made a bad situation better. It was, really, too bad that all of this was for show. The belly rake was known to save lives, but it didn’t work on someone like him. Getting pinned to the ground meant, no matter what you did, no matter how hard you dug your claws into the delicate - the supposed to be delicate - underbelly…

It was game over.

Fawn