turning and turning in the widening gyre
the falcon cannot hear the falconer
things fall apart; the center cannot hold
Anticipation hung thick and impenetrable in the air, a heavy, metaphorical humidity that warned of the storm clouds gathering on the horizon – or rather, in the piercing amber eyes of a handsome gray tom. Despite the early hour, any lingering trace of fatigue had long since been chased away by the biting cold of the pre-dawn sky and the prospect – dare he say excitement? – of the battle to come. As he silently walked alongside his clanmates through the darkened forest, he stretched his senses, hyperaware of unusual sounds and scents. He felt the way his muscles tensed and relaxed, limber and warm and ready for a fight. He allowed extraneous thoughts to slip away, noted but otherwise shoved aside for perusal at a later date; concentration in battle meant the difference between life and death, and so he fell into a familiar mindset that welcomed him like an old friend.
There are certain truths in the world, specific inevitabilities whose coming is a
when and not an
if. Here are a few: There would be a fight. Owlstrike would spill blood. And he would, inexorably, emerge on the other side a victor.
He had played this game long before he had left the nursery; battle was merely a tangible manifestation of what he did best: identify weaknesses and exploit them. A chameleon in a fur coat, he had mastered the art of transforming himself as necessary to take full advantage of any opportunity offered to him. Adapt and survive, triumph and
thrive. And thrive he did. While the verbal arena had long since been his particular area of expertise, he had carefully nurtured his talent on the battlefield and found that he quite enjoyed the physical release of energy. Lacerating an opponent with claws was satisfying in a wholly different way than doing so with his words – and he could appreciate the effects of both.
A predator at his core, he had violence dancing through his veins and storm clouds in his eyes. He thrummed with restlessness, though his heartbeat remained steady and slow. Focused. Yellow eyes landed first upon Lionstar as he spoke, somewhat unnerving in their intensity as they carried the promise of bloodshed, and then shifted to Timberfrost. Though his eyes glowed, he schooled his expression to carry the resolute solemnity befitting of a warrior preparing to start a war and accept responsibility for all of the consequences that followed. They knew his reputation on the battlefield was formidable, but they need not glimpse how he thirsted for it – or for their leader’s blood. He was, after all, a steadfast warrior of TreeClan, and it was with every ounce of that (un)questionable loyalty that he gave a single nod and murmured,
"For TreeClan."Silent shadows, they moved as one to the border, each individual spreading out to find their own vantage point from which to attack. Keen amber eyes picked out a nearby evergreen with a branch that hung low almost directly over the border. The thick scent of the pine would hide any smells that would betray his presence, while his dark gray fur would blend in with the early morning shadows and remain hidden among the nest of green needles. Heartbeats stretched to lifetimes as they waited. And then, the fateful word:
“Attack!”mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
the ceremony of innocence is drowned
The night had been long for the pale orange warrior. A mostly pleasant meal with Roachpaw had turned almost instantly sour the moment he had seen Spiderbite enter camp, his neutral, almost open expression immediately morphing into one of utter disgust. Mothlight had sighed internally and done her best to carry on their conversation, but the atmosphere – or perhaps it was just her – had changed with the painfully fresh reminder of the complete disdain one of her siblings held for the other. Had she not volunteered to take Coyoteheart’s place on the final dawn patrol (the other warrior had twisted his paw while hunting earlier in the night and Shadowchaser had prescribed rest and relaxation), she would have been pleasantly carried away by sweet oblivion; in her dreams, at least, Spiderbite and Roachpaw got along. As it was, she felt like she was already halfway there, trudging along with heavy paws and equally heavy eyelids. Her thoughts were on the comfortable nest waiting for her back in the warrior’s den, safe and warm and peaceful—
And then the silence was shattered by an ear-splitting shout. Before the word had even registered in her mind, a heavy weight suddenly landed on her back, and entirely unprepared for the additional burden, her legs collapsed.
Claws of fire raked down her side, and Mothlight yowled in shock, twisting around to see a dark gray tom with piercing amber eyes grinning at her with his teeth bared. Cold splashed down her spine at the malice she saw reflected in their depths, causing her stuttering heart to sputter and stall for a moment longer before she whipped herself back into action. Fight now, think later. A pale orange paw with unsheathed claws came around to swipe at his face and those horrible yellow eyes. With the ease of a practiced fighter, he dodged the blow, but that shifting of his weight was all she needed to escape from under him and turn to face him properly, spine arched and claws unsheathed.
As he lunged toward her and she toward him, she became vaguely aware of the sounds of fighting all around her. It was a coordinated attack, a trap set by an enemy patrol into which they had quite blindly stumbled with the naivety of kits. Given the rising tensions between TreeClan and NightClan, they ought to have expected something like this and been better prepared, but no one had expected the former to strike first; their neighbors had a reputation of being as soft-hearted as the squirrels on which they so loved to dine. A claw caught her ear and a flash of pain had her hissing through her teeth as she backed away to put some space between them. He pressed forward, advancing upon her like a beast, relentless, until she lashed out at him again, giving him pause.
"Not bad, for a cat who scuttles around in the dark like a rat." Owlstrike grinned. Adrenaline rushed through his veins – there was nothing quite like the risk of imminent death to make one feel so alive – and he felt
good. He was at his best, toying with the pretty she-cat from NightClan. Though not quite a match for him, he could see evidence of a talented fighter; her claws were sharp and her aim true, but her reflexes were dulled after a long night at work. And it showed. He could see the exhaustion weighing down her limbs, slowing her mind, and causing her focus to waver. Had he wanted nothing but the challenge of facing off against a worthy opponent, he might have been disappointed, but never above playing dirty, he cared not as much for equal terms as for the victory at the end. That the she-cat was at such a disadvantage was evidence of a sound strategy, further proof of his own superiority and skill.
It had been so long. Yellow eyes blazed. The rush of blood through his veins, the steady drum beat of his heart as he advanced on the she-cat, the blood on his teeth and claws - he was in his element, and the battlefield was his stage. Under the bright lights, the chips in his almost perfectly crafted facade could be seen, and beneath the pleasant, painted veneer lurked quite a different creature. Cruelty ran in his blood. Malice beat in his heart. He breathed malevolence and cackled at the pain and humiliation of others. His language was complete and utter dominance, often cloaked in kindness and compassion, but always unchanged at its core. He could weave a story and worm his way into the hearts of his companions, but sooner or later the curtain would fall, leaving his victims to see that he had wrapped them in a web of their own design.
Life was a constant struggle between the strong and the weak. This was no different. War. Inevitable, it came for them all.
And he welcomed its arrival with open arms.
the best lack all conviction, while the worst
are full of passionate intensity
