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Name: Jetstream
Gender: Tom
Clan: BloodClan
Rank: Third Tier
Apprentice: Calypso
Difficulty: Extreme
~ I am the shadow on the moon at night, filling your dreams to the brim with fright!
[img width=470 height=350]http://i48.tinypic.com/1z6utsn.jpg[/img]
Picture by ѕнα✝тєя ~
"You two are really pathetic." Jetstream scoffed at the scuffling pair that wrestled in the upturned sand at his murky, blood smeared paws. Their pelts were flecked with blood as they scrabbled with each other, but neither seemed to be causing much damage. The larger of the two young toms, a living storm cloud, as he seemed, insisted on using his superior strength to try and incapacitate the smaller of the combatants, a lanky cinnamon with frightening scars carved into the side of his jaws.
The problem was, the smaller feline, despite his wounds, was barely hindered by each strike. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the beating, allowing his opponent to constantly get the upper hand even when, at times, he could have easilly ripped the other tom apart. Crookedpaw's amber eyes flashed with annoyance at the monstrous, towering third tier's voice and arched a paw towards the side of the slender tom's head. It connected with a clap that sent the horrible mangled feline to the sand. Jetstream grunted as he watched his son roll a few more dramatic feet from the blow before rising back to his paws to find the son of Burnout bearing down on him again, charging at his front. Though Jokerpaw had made little acts to defend himself, and his counter attacks had been purposly futile and weak, he now seemed inclined to genuinly respond to the onslaught.
Crookedpaw, used to beating the other tom down by now had barely noticed the change in the waiting tom's appearance, like the sudden, dangerous gleam in his flaming eyes, the lack of his usual insane laughter, or the sudden calmness that had suddenly taken over Dustsky's vicious apprentice.
Crookedpaw's dark blue paw shot forth, claws outstretched, straight for the exposed throat of Jokerpaw, only to find that he was now the target. The son of Satan had suddenly risen up onto his hindpaws, so quick, Crookedpaw barely noticed until it was to late, and fear lit up his gaze as his claws struck only air and pain rushed through his own broad shouldered frame. His opponent, now wearing an unusually serious look, had thrown up a paw in a critical uppercut that swept up from the base of Crookedpaw's chest, travelling along the throat, and slicing through the flesh of the other cat's chin.
Blood rose into the sky like rain, showering the pair, but still Jokerpaw didn't laugh, and the silence was more terrifying than any cruel joke of the underestimated feline. The deadly slash had forced Crookedpaw up and onto his hindlegs, off balance and still suprised by the sudden retaliation. Jokerpaw slamed into him, throwing him to the sand on his back before pouncing atop his tender stomach and assailing it with churnig hindclaws as his foreclaws worked to deepen the gaping gash on the other tom's ripped throat. Crookedpaw gave a screech as his blood flowed from his heavy body, and fear rushed through him. What if he died?
A sudden, massive white paw slammed into the side of his lethal assailant, the sickening sound of cracking bones and claws ripping unbelivably deep into flesh filling the royal apprentice's ears. Suddenly, the weight was gone, a mangled Jokerpaw flying across the desert sands to slam into the ground with a bout of phsychotic laughter. He was back to his old self, that was good. Atleast now he wouldn't try to ruthlessly ravage the already abused body of Burnout's largest son.
Crookedpaw found himself staring up into the most terrifying, fiery eyes he had ever seen. They reminded him of hell, and he vaguly wondered if they ever really flowed with magma, or if the horrid creature that loomed above him spat flame. Everyone seemed to think of him as the devil, and Crookedpaw could see why. The horrid features marked him as a true veteran of many fights. The twisted jaw, torn nose, upturned gums that hung from one side of his mouth, the tattered ears. And that certainly wasn't all the scars that littered, ragged and distinct, the pelt of a nightmare.
A string of saliva oozed from the carved away flesh that lie exposed and rotted, hanging from Jetstream's jaws. It slipped from the creature's chin and dribbled onto the shredded stomach of Crookedpaw, nothing short of a growl making the beast's features even more grosteque. "Backstab. Now." The third tier ordered, and Crookedpaw hurried to comply, struggling to rise to his crimson stained paws. Jokerpaw had taken that moment to limp back towards his father, an imperious smirk creasing his already horrid features.
Jetstream promply ignored his son, turning away to stalk towards the shade of a boulder and lay down to run his tongue over various parts of his body, biting at his claws and pads and trying to rid himself of any clingy residue that might be there. It was a well known fact that Jetstream didn't groom often, but he was bored and the border had been strangly lacking with anything to tear apart.
His claws curled into the sand in irritation. Oh how he longed to sink them into something else! But not many sparred with him anymore, and he could hardly get entertainment from watching the apprentices practice. Pulling his black, shining claws from the grit, he raised them to his satanic gaze for examination, moving them this way and that and studying how they caught the light for no particular reason other than bordom. He allowed his thoughts to wander with a frown, stretching out his forepaws and resting his chin upon the muscled limbs.
Just a year earlier, the famous Jetstream had been nothing but a tiny, insignifigant speck in a vast world he was too weak to handle. His own mother murdered in front of his very eyes by the tom he had hated so much, his father. Abandoned by his familly for not being strong enough, for being useless. His two brothers lost somewhere out in that wasteland. Well, he had shown them, he had killed his father in revenge had had ever since not been the same. Nothing but a shell only capable of showing emotion, not truly feeling them.
Necromancersoul had been his savior. His teacher, his step father, even. Guiding him to BloodClan, to his destiny, and promising him a life of eternity. Chaos was his to possess, it would never leave him. He was a chosen agent of hell, destined to live a life of immortality even when Death sought to take him. And Death was such a great friend of Jetstreams. He could see the ethereal frame forming at his side, icey blue eyes far more chilling than the red one might expect them to be. Necromancersoul's massive, midnight black form cast not a shadow, for it was one, it's attention on none other than the devil cat it had chosen to guide.
"You were thinking about me. I could feel it." The tom leaned down to sniff at Jetstream with a cruel grin. In response, the third tier raised his massive head and looked in the direction of the soul. Indeed. Boredom can take a nasty toll on my kind. The tom answered mentally, and he saw Necromancersoul nod. "So why don't you go out and find someone to claw on?" The sadistic laugh was only heard by the savage Jetstream, who gave the slightest smile before it faded to oblivion.
He looked around for anyone willing to spar and saw many BloodClanners inhabiting the camp around him. His appearance had likely made a few brazen cats aggressive, but the monster cat would wait. If someone wanted to fight him, they would walk straight up, head high, and declare so.
Jetstream was about to mention that to his Soul Director when he found the other cat had dissapeared, probably back to the fields, Jetstream thought. He rested his head back onto his paws and stared out at the barren desert waste with lazy eyes, curious as to see who would be the first to approach the malicious Prince of Blood first, if any.
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