[fancypost borderwidth=0px; width:500px; text-align:justify; font-size:10pt]/ rushed; sorry for any typos along the way!!
Why was he like this again? He had been doing so good. He had been normal- his old self... the one that did not become blinded with pure rage and paranoia to the point of waking in the middle of the night to the screams of whoever his victim was that time. The one that did not wash the blood of innocents away in the stream. The one who did not have to take him away from clans at night and instead into the loner lands to prevent hurting those who had not wronged him. The one who could relax his shoulders and give a genuine laugh.
He had never been the golden boy. He had time and time again been an infamous warlord, known for his brute strength and steady morals- anyone who crossed him would surely never again. He had reigned over clans, he had started and finished wars, he had taken the lives of many if they were guilty of some wrongdoing in his mind. He had been a feared figure. But he still had a light in him. He was capable of love and empathy, he protected his family with unfailing loyalty, he did not take lives just for the fun of it. He was a good man.
But, now? He was back to the point of standing on the edge, uncertain if he should jump or back away. He was not completely himself, but a mix of tormented memories and broken promises. He had risen from the grave for the third time, but this time, the reason was unclear. He had resurrected before, but always due to his own feeling of needing to protect his loved ones or avenge them. He had always had family and loved ones, and although Bane still did suppose he did now, they were fine without him. They didn't need Bane as they might have beforehand. He awoke from death with a great hatred for whatever had pulled him from those six feet under. Why wake him? He was dead, finally, at peace. He had suffered enough, marked up the world enough, bore too many scars and wounds to be treading the earth in such a purposeless life.
He had come back with a fraction of a new soul in him, as he did nearly every time. He was colder now, more dangerous and more unafraid of his actions, he was angry all the time and his claws ached to be used, teeth yearning to cause fatal wounds. He was changed, and Wolfsbane wasn't sure this change was welcome. With his new far more dangerous wishes and aches, came a new more traumatized side of himself. Horridly loud noises would send the tiger into a mess, involuntarily shaking as he tried to get away, for reasons Bane did not know. The scent of blood caused the male to want to keep going, keep destroying whatever life he held in his claws' grasp. He could barely sleep without ending up waking to someone getting hurt. He had to chain himself up to avoid such a bloody incident.
So he wasn't sure why he thought joining a clan was good for him- especially a... a pro-clan. He didn't abide by warrior codes and patience, friendliness and good morals. Hell, he didn't even like authorities telling him what to do- what was right and what was wrong. If he thought someone deserved death, you bet some scrawny passionate pro-clanner couldn't change his mind. He was independent as hell and he did things his own way. Fuck other people's codes. He had his own that wasn't about to change.
But... Sylmae was here. Bane had, in effort of trying to find his purpose again, promised to protect her and her family. He knew she had asked him to join, and maybe... maybe that would help. He needed a home. He needed to feel like he wasn't living as simply a weight that dragged along the earth without a use. He needed a friend again. ShadowClan only caused the brute to become further violent, and the reminders of ScarClan was a nostalgia that laid heavy on his shoulders. He only had Cottonfawn and Sylmae now, and Cottonfawn was in an anti-clan now too, and hadn't exactly been around too frequently anyway.
So RiverClan it was, he supposed as he wandered through the cool swampy territory, the great sized tiger surprisingly elegant in his movements even with the heavy metal of his prosthetic and the many wounds that covered his war-familiar vessel. He wasn't exactly a sight for sore eyes: the male having only a stump where his front right leg was, and then a heavy flexible metal prosthetic following to ghost his old leg that had been literally ripped from his body, capable of great strength and destruction. Scars heavily littered his body, two prominent ones- one across his left eye, and the other a scarred burning of the word, 'MINE' into his side. Hell, he didn't even have a tail at this point unless you counted the inch and a half stump. Certainly not a face any general child would look up to and find charming.
Wolfsbane made his way between trees and fireflies before slowing to a stop, silver eyes scanning the dark territory, admiring the grand waterfall nearby. He supposed he might as well get it over with, yeah?
"Wolfsbane Forrester. Joining."
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