Posts by Massacre

Patrolling the Dirt's den could be a somewhat dreary task.

All the moaning and complaining, the whole cavern stinking of she-cat filth.

Ugh.

Lifting his paws high, practically strutting on his toes, Massacre skirted a large group of she-cats, wrinkling his nose at the heavy stench of females in the air. To him, she-cats were disgusting creatures, helpless and whiny, and what was worse, most of them were irritatingly the same. At least, they might be more decent as a whole if the whole lot of them weren't like a herd of sheep, each with no individuality from the next.

Now, to find a she-cat of actual worth was of course an impossible prospect, but it might just be at least a breath of fresh air to find one that wasn't exactly the same...

"Shut up and leave me alone!."

The sharp voice of an angered she-cat rose above the rumble of overlapping voices as the multitude of cats spoke at once. Swiftly, Massacre changed direction and padded towards the speaker, readying himself to deal with an unruly group, lean muscles rippling underneath his pitch black pelt as his sallow eyes focused on a single she-cat in the crowd - the one that had spoken.

Drawing near, the black tom clucked his tongue, eying her disapprovingly. "Temper, temper." He seated himself close enough to her to make her uncomfortable, flicking his tail lightly over her flank. No particular reason for him to do so. He just wanted to enjoy her discomfort. "You ought to keep a lower profile, my dear," Her purred to her in a silken tone, crooning the words from deep in his chest, "You might attract the hostile attention of one of our cave-guards." He paused and leaned towards her, so that his face would be so close to her's that she could feel his breath, and perhaps the tickle of his whisker against her cheek.

"Wouldn't want that to happen, would you? It would be most... unfortunate if one of them thought you were being unruly."

As Massacre approached another she-cat near them started to back away, her eyes widening. Massacre spared her a quick glance to flash her a toothy grin before he turned his attention back to the snappy one. The she-cat flinched from his words, hissing, "Just shut up and leave me alone!" A dangerous glint appeared in the black tom's eyes and he shifted slightly to stare into the she-cat's eyes, his pale yellow gaze burning unwaveringly into her's, his tail twitching with displeasure. "I would take care not to anger me, darling..." His voice was still cool and controlled, but it was clear that menace and warning lay behind his words.

He would hold that fierce demeanor for several moments to ensure she got the message before he relaxed his stiff posture, his deep voice sliding back into a purr. "Fierce one, are you?" He flicked his tail to her chin, "I must admit, I find your temper most intriguing, however... what's your name? I'm Massacre."

She should really feel privileged that he cared enough to ask.

"Leave her alone!"

The other she-cat spoke up, and Massacre's head snapped around, his fierce, sallow-eyed glare fixing on her. For a moment, his menacing gaze bored into her, then, without preamble, his expression relaxed and he rose to his paws, padding over to her and drawing himself up so that he towered over her petite form.

"There's no need to interfere, love," he cooed amorously, while the other she-cat hissed simultaneously, "Shut up Tiny." Massacre ignored the comment, stroking the small she-cat's cheek with his tail. "You can stay out of this. I'm not hurting her, after all..." His tail-tip paused just under her eye and a vicious glint of malice appeared in his eyes, his tone becoming a shade darker as he continued in the same, velvety voice, "But it would be most shockingly easy for me to hurt both of you, so I would put some thought into the concept of tact. Understand, my dear?"

His tail flicked from her face and he spun around, stalking back to the other she-cat, who was saying crossly, "My name is Amber and I couldn't care less about what you think! And if you don't leave me alone..." Massacre seated himself in front of her and curled his tail around his paws, blissfully taking no heed of her warning. Everyone knew most she-cats were all hiss and no claws. "Easy doll, I just want to talk," he paused, eying her contemplatively, swiping his pink tongue around his jaws before he spoke once more. "You seem awfully out of it, love. Something wrong?"

He was just playing with her, of course, but he was also giving her a chance. There were numerous things a tom could offer a she-cat to improve her life, or at least give her a chance at things she normally couldn't even dream of - like hunting, for instance.

The price? Open up to him.

With unblinking pale amber eyes, Massacre watched as Amber leaned her weight forward, putting her weight onto her left paw. He was not the least unaware of the gingerness in her movements, the way her jaw clenched and her expression tightened, the tell-tale signs of pain she was trying unsuccessfully to hide. The she-cat gritted her teeth and settled back on her haunches.

"Nothing is wrong... I assure you."

"There's no need to lie, sweetheart," Massacre informed her. His voice was smooth and oozing with sly sweetness like pus from a festering wound or sap from a tree. He whisked his tail causually and leaned forward so that he was practically nose to nose with the girl, his pallid eyes burning into her vivid aureate ones. "Are you hurt?"

She was a feisty one, this Dirt. A tad to brave for her own good, but she did have an impressive temper. Amber rolled her eyes, nodding in assent. "Duh! I have a sprained or broken paw! But much you care! You'd probably want to break the other!" Her voice was laced thick with hostility as she hissed at him, glaring at him venomously all the while.

Massacre nodded approvingly and in agreement; this girl knew the Skull protocol well, it seemed. "Quite right, my dear." He leaned back slightly to give her some air, his tail flicking lazily from side to side. "However, there are some cases when a tom can help as well as hurt you." He shrugged carelessly. "If you wanted, I could easily get a Herb to give you something for that."

He paused, eying her speculatively, lifting one forepaw and swiping his tongue over it. Then he leaned forward once more, albeit not as close this time, his fierce gaze would bore into her's. "You only have to ask," he purred silkily.

There would be perverse pleasure to be gained in watching her relent.

"Herbs don't know how to heal."

Amber hissed, seeming determined not to yield to Massacre in any way. She was truly stubborn, this one. Quite impressive of her. And also quite stupid too. Who else was going to make an offer like the one Massacre had? Well, it was her choice. No loss to him. "That's where you're wrong, love," Massacre purred, "Herbs can heal. Although that's only half their job, as you know very well, it seems." He dipped his head and began to wash his chest, his demeanor insolently indifferent. It was a battle of wills between them - and it was a battle that she would lose even when she won.

"Suit yourself," he continued, looking up from his washing briefly. "If you're sure you'd prefer to suffer, then I have no objections." He finished preening the fur on his chest and continued to his tail, washing the scent of she-cat filth and dust from his coat. Once he had finished, he turned his cold gaze back to Amber. "Just remember, when the next cave-guard comes around to teach you how to behave, he will have no sympathy for an injured paw. And remember that you only augmented your own suffering by being too proud to refuse my offer for help."

His final words were a sibilant hiss, a silent reprimand to her for her stubbornness and lack of cooperation. She ought to learn what was for her own goood.

"Your help would never be worth taking!"

She hissed in return. Massacre stared at her. He never let any cat treat him like this, let alone a she-cat. Yet, as she told him to leave her alone, the despair and anguish in her voice brought him no pleasure as he might have expected it to. Instead of the usual rush of satisfaction and triumph he felt at causing an underling misery, the strangest sensation of guilt clenched at his innards like an icy claw, a maddening, foreign feeling that he loathed.

He had come with no intention but to break her, to hurt her, and yet he had achieved neither of these things. He had allowed a she-cat to smite him verbally in a way he normally would have deemed unacceptable even from an equal, and he had scarcely raised a claw in response. And here he found himself gripped with guilt?

Preposterous.

That was it though... she wasn't any normal Dirt. She was like none she'd ever encountered before - she simply refused to yield. He knew he could have smote her and that would have done nothing. Even if he dragged her to the Castle to be tortured, perhaps she would defy him to her death. There suddenly seemed to be something profoundly wrong with him continuing to torment her. She was already hurt, beaten down, and snapping at him with everything she had left. Which was very little. She was as weak, malnourished and abused as the rest of them, but her spirit hadn't wilted like theirs.

He could have continued. He could have easily initiated her torture, heedless to whether it failed or succeeded, or at least went on taunting her. But he didn't. He simply couldn't continue, not on a cat like her. So he did as she bid.

He left her.

Feeling somewhat subdued, Massacre exited the Dirt's Den and began to pad silently through the shadowy tunnel to the main cave. A strange sense of chastisement gathered like a cold, heavy weight in his chest, a feeling he had not felt for many moons. The last time had been the last lesson his cruel father had given him. It was that same, empty, hollow feeling after a vicious scolding, a feeling he did not at all welcome, but one he could not escape.

He gritted his teeth, baring glistening white fangs as a growl rolled from deep within his chest and escaped from between his clenched jaws a sound of both pent up fury and brimming frustration. Without thinking, he quickened his pace, suddenly desperate to escape the darkness, the putrid stench of misery and fear befouling the dank underground air. By the time he reached the cave entrance he was racing towards the open air, towards the warmth and wind and sunlight. Once he reached the world above, the black tom inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with clean, fresh air and readied himself to hunt. Nervous, agitated energy was gathering in his limbs and he had to find a way to disperse it.

And so he hunted.

-----------------------------

Some hours later, he returned. Somewhat calmer, but the feeling was the same. He couldn't shake it off - it clung to him stubbornly like a wood ant, it gnawed at him, worrying him with needlepoint teeth. It converged all his confused, mixed feelings until he felt like tension was coiled in his belly, ready to spring at the slightest provocation.

And he hated it.

But he knew he couldn't escape it until he did something, until he righted what wrong was bothering him. On silent paws, he entered the Dirt's den. It was late now; most of them would be asleep. A large, freshly killed hare dangled limply in his jaws - destined as his compensation for what he had did to her earlier. He scanned the throng of sleeping cat's for her, wove his way soundlessly to her and set the large rabbit gently before her before he took a step back, his pale amber eyes flitting over her.

I will see to it that you are well looked after.

He turned to leave.

((Please remember not to powerplay, MistisAwesome - Massacre didn't leave yet, he was just turning to leave. ;) Remember that controlling another person's character is considered powerplaying and against the rules. c; ))

A voice behind him brought Massacre in check.

"I... I'm sorry."

He paused, but didn't turn. "Wait!" Amber called. Her tremulous mew was filled with anguish that twisted like a savage claw embedded in Massacre's chest. The black tom turned, his tawny eyes burning into Amber's as his gaze met her's. "No." He meowed quietly. His deep mew resonated in his chest, he was speaking with his real voice, not his seductive purr. For a long moment, he simply remained in that position, his eyes locked with her's.

"I'm sorry." Every morsel of his guilt, regret, bitterness and self-loathing was contained in those two words. They seemed so paltry to describe his roiling tumult of emotions, but he knew he could spare no other words, nor form them.

He turned once more, his back to her, facing the entrance. "No toms will bother you in such a manner again." His words were simple, but there was dark promise behind them. He would ensure that his peers would not harm her.

As he began to pad softly towards the tunnel that exited the den, he heard another she-cat call out after him, "You can mate me if you want." Her heat scent hung thick and cloying in the air, but it held no attraction to Massacre. He loathed she-cats - he didn't care to mate them, even. To him, it would be an abomination to allow such filth so close to him. He let out a low chuckle, his tail sweeping back and forth. "Don't be ridiculous, love. Go back to sleep." With that, he strolled onward. He had spent too much time here already, he had other things to attend to.

A thin, fine mist curled from Massacre's muzzle, his breath billowing in the frigid air as he clawed at the earth, uncovering the stash of prey he'd hidden earlier from his hunting expedition. As he worked at the frost-stiffened soil, the brazen crimson light from the sunset bathed his pitch black coat and reflected in his sallow amber eyes, lending them fresh color and causing them to reflect the fierce light. The sun, a glowing, circular sheet of flame, sank low in the sky, shedding the light from its dying rays over the darkening world. A mottled assortment of red and orange hues painted the sky, and the sun's light spilled over the horizon in a ribbon of incandescent gold as the rim of the sun slid behind the dark line that marked the point between earth and heaven.

A snarl of frustration wrenched from the black tom's throat as one of his claws caught in the hardened earth. He was not oblivious to its beauty, the radiant, resplendent power of the sunset, but darker thoughts hovered in his mind, blackening his mood, making his temper brittle. Fresh steam streamed from his muzzle as another growl rumbled low and threatening in his chest, a sound that swelled and at last emerged as another vicious snarl as he at last managed to free his stash of prey, tearing it from the earth. Massacre tossed his head, his fangs glistening in the bloodred light of the setting sun as he sank his claws into the ground, releasing some of his pent emotions of rage and hatred through the savage action as he fought to master his unruly feelings.

The cause for his anger? The usual.

She-cats.

The were disgusting, helpless, sniveling filth, a their very presences a blemish to all respectable toms. How he hated them, for their wretched feebleness and pathetic natures, for what they stood for in his world. They were the weakest, a hindrance to the progression of their race, good only for one thing - to give them new life. Had they not served that single purpose, Massacre would have gladly slaughtered them all with his own fangs and claws. What he wouldn't give to liberate all the seasons of accumulated bitterness, hatred and ferocity caged with him upon them, to unleash his fury on them, to let loose the beastial need to destroy, to rip, mangle any of them that lived and breathed as what he hated the most.

She-cats.

The immense rage he felt towards them this evening was out of the ordinary revulsion and enmity he regarded she-cats with. Such uncontrolled, unfettered longing for violence was not normal even for Massacre, but the events that had transpired earlier in the day had ignited the flare of his anger and hatred; something that he rarely allowed himself to be subjected to. He was passive aggressive, one to smile into the face of his greatest antagonist when they sought to inflame him with all their might, and it was rare, extremely, unthinkably rare that he allowed himself to be aroused to rage in a manner like this.

But he had allowed himself to seem weak.

And it had been because of one of them - a pitiful, loathsome she-cat had elicited this moment of weakness from him. He had, for once, met a she-cat that might have been of worth. She did not cringe or cower, or openly rebel as so many of them had, but she had been steadily unyielding, refusing to allow herself to be cowed by any of his taunts or threats. Quite an unusual Dirt, she had been, and he had sought to give her some protection - she had earned it. Yet when he had spoken to his peers of her, they had turned on him, taunting him for showing any sliver of kindness, jeering for his allowing his hard, frozen demeanor to waver for once. It had been the utmost humiliation, and he had condemned himself to it for the sake of a she-cat.

Eyes flashing in the light of the setting sun, Massacre glared down at the now-shredded soil beneath his claws with grim satisfaction, silently vowing he would never again allow himself to be so weak again. They were not worth it, regardless of who they were or what they did. They were she-cats - the very bottom of the pinnacle of hierarchy, and he would not concern himself with them.

Gathering the prey in his jaws, Massacre began to trot through the woods back towards SkullClan's camp, his temper still smoldering beneath a stony expression. He was on hunting duty - and he would be on hunting duty from now for the next half moon bringing she-cats prey, tossing scraps into the huddle of starved females. His punishment for showing kindness to one of them. Which he interpreted as weakness. It was gruesome work, watching his endeavors disappear into the gullets of numerous starved, filthy mongrels that ate with the dignity of famished alley-dogs. It was perversely interesting as well, watching apparently poor, coy and submissive she-cats throw themselves into the fray when it came to food, recklessly fighting her peers for the scraps, her inner monstrosity making its appearance when she was driven to desperation by hunger.

It was depressing business.
Massacre's lip curled with disgust as he entered the dank, foul-smelling tunnel that lead to the Dirt's den. The morbid odor of misery; the sharp stench of fear intermingled with the smells of filth and suffering hung heavy in the air, a sickening scent that Massacre had quickly grown tired of after several trips to the Dirts Den to deliver their food.

Pausing at the entrance, his dark fur still concealed in the shadows of the tunnel, Massacre dropped his prey and bent down, dividing each piece into several strips before he carefully lifted the meat in his jaws and entered the cavern. He swept past the guards and, setting his expression to a hard and blank one, he began wading through the thick throng of she-cats, his head sweeping left and right as he scattered the prey amongst the crowd. By the time he reached the far wall of the den, his jaws were nearly empty. He did his best to avoid being engulfed by the hoard of starving she-cats, but as he was turning to return the way he'd come, and finish tossing the remaining prey, he collided full on with another she-cat. A hiss of surprise escaped his maw as he whirled to glare at her, but the prey in his mouth prevented him from speaking.

Stupid she-cats...

[hr]

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A cacophony of discordant voices rang through the woods, followed by the sound of a scuffle that could only mean one thing. Another she-cat on their land.

Wearing a bored, stoic expression, Massacre strolled through the trees towards the fighting cats, briefly sweeping his cold, pale yellow gaze over the assembled cats darting about. "She was mine! I had her!" Year was yowling in frustration. His tail lashed from side to side. Massacre transferred his passive stare to the two fighting cats - Snowmask and an unfamiliar she-cat - apparently an intruder, judging by the scents on her fur.

"Problem?" He inquired, seating himself beside the fuming tom. His demeanor was utterly unruffled, relaxed even, as he watched the she-cat and Snowmask.

Massacre observed Year of Pain's scowl with a bored expression before his sallow amber eyes flitted to the she-cat. A smirk flickered over his maw as the tom hurled himself at the she-cat, gleefully telling her of what her life would become. As Year lunged at her, Massacre leaped to his paws in one smooth, fluid movement and began to advance towards the she-cat as well, keeping her between them as he stalked forward. She seemed to be a quick girl, this one. Of course, it would be unthinkable to allow her to escape merely because of that... it would be a blemish to their reputation to allow her to slip from their claws so easily.

The moment the she-cat dodged to avoid Year's attack, Massacre streaked forward. As she was just moving clear of being thrown to the ground by Year, Massacre would rush at her head on, in the opposite direction that she was trying to dodge and attempt to smash his shoulder full into her chest, a blow that would hopefully send her sprawling, or at least take every wisp of air clean from her lungs and unbalance her if it hit. Since she was still in motion when he was nearly upon her, and they were moving towards each other, unless she developed teleportation skills and defied the laws of physics it would be highly unlikely she would be able to stop in time to avoid him.

Regardless of whether his attack hit or missed, Massacre would continue to throw his momentum forward into her, aiming to shove her flat into the ground and then spring on top of her before she could rise, pinning her down and keeping his body low over her so that there wasn't enough room between them for her to kick him in the stomach or get her paws underneath him to throw him off. If all else failed, she would be trapped securely between him and Year by his flanking maneuver, and it would be only too easy for Year to subdue her while she was blocked by Massacre if his attack somehow failed.

"I'll give you one chance, love," He would chuckle coldly, regardless of whether or not he had her pinned. If he did, he would lean over her so that their whisker's brushed, his muzzle only inches from her's. "Surrender now and we'll spare you further injury. You do have such a pretty little face; it would be a shame to ruin it with clawmarks, wouldn't you say?" He would croon the words from deep within his chest. "So, take your choice, darling. Give in and come to camp peacefully with us and we'll spare you injury... or we can forcibly drag your perforated hide there." He flashed her a grin, displaying rows of glistening ivory fangs.

Make up your mind, love.

Flinty pale green eyes flew open to meet Massacre's sallow amber ones as a silver Bengal she-cat whirled to face him. In the depths of her gaze, Massacre was suddenly aware of the burning spirit in them. An undying flame that spoke of hatred, revulsion and abhorrence towards him and all toms in existence. He knew, in that instant that their eyes locked, that she would have as gladly indulged her own every savage urge to wreak destruction upon every tom in Skull as he would have to destroy every Dirt. It was a look that drew both contempt and surprise for him, for he had never seen such in the eyes of a she-cat before. He had always regarded them akin to a herd of sheep in nature - always moving with the herd, never thinking to have their own thoughts, never thinking to maintain any individuality.

It seemed this particular she-cat was different, however.

Their gazes met for only a few scarce seconds before the she-cat, in one fluid movement, stepped out of his way and broke the eye contact, withdrawing her stare from his to gaze aloofly to the front of the cavern. Massacre looked away from her as well, tossing the remainder of the meat from his maw with a savage jerk of his neck, showering the she-cats nearest to him with a mouthful of shredded squirrel before he spun around to face the she-cat whom he had crashed into once more. The rage within him still roiled and spluttered like a feral beast, a monster that roared its desire to break loose from its containment and unleash the full force of its fury upon whatever individual unfortunate enough to cross its path.

His eyes blazing, every fiber of his being aflame with pent up feelings of frustration, fury and hatred, Massacre moved to stand directly before the Bengal, his tail lashing behind him. His furious gaze sought her's, his lurid orbs searching to ensnare her's so that she would be forced to meet his eyes, to perceive the exact depth of his wrath. He allowed a low, rumbling growl to build in his chest and roll forth from between bared teeth. "You would do well to stay out of my way, she-cat." There was no mistaking the threat in his voice as he glared at her.

As his eyes swept over her, sizing her up, he noted her deceptively slender build, yet he could also discern the sturdiness and strength in her limbs that few she-cats he had seen possessed. This inner power matched the look in her eyes perfectly - she was the embodiment of fiery ferocity and spirit. She, he could see, had not succumbed herself pitifully to the toms. She had not given up and surrendered all she had to those of higher power, but continued fighting. Something told him that she was not one of those simply content to meld herself into the group, lie low and hope to stay relatively untouched by the toms. So she was a fighter. A possible danger to SkullClan's cause, and yet there was something about the flash of spirit in her eyes that Massacre almost appreciated - the fact that she wasn't just 'another one of those she-cats'.

Had he been in a better mood, he might have perhaps amused himself with a pleasant conversation with her. However, the sea of bitter rage and hate within him would not so easily calm. Instead, his eyes burned into her's, both cold and angry. It was misdirected anger, he knew. It was ludicrous for anyone to so easily be roused to fury by a little collision like that. But he was helpless to the clutches of his pique; a boiling, churning, ineffable hatred that drummed through his veins with his every heartbeat. It was not simply his frustration at the recent events that had transpired, but the awakened anger and bitterness that stemmed from his past, from the abuse his father had dealt him and his brother when they were kits.

His teeth flashed in the gloom of the den as he emitted a fierce snarl, his hackles bristling as his tail thrashed with sudden, renewed vigor. "Keep your disgusting she-cat filth away from me unless you want your ears clawed." His warning was spoken in a deep, menacing growl as he drew himself up to tower over her, his unsheathed claws and exposed fangs glinting in the cold, thin light of the Dirt's den. He considered simply abandoning all efforts of articulate communication and asserting himself through force and ferocity, a process he wouldn't find the least hindering, but they were coming now. Unbidden, ghostly memories creeping into his mind, dozens of recollections of his brutal, harsh past that seemed to shed stifling darkness over the flame of anger burning in his heart, enclosing it, smothering it until it seared itself to scorched ashes.

Massacre felt the dying embers of his rage, and he suddenly wished the heat of his anger would return. The ashes were useless to him - they choked him in the darkness of the misery he'd suffered in his past, the settled a despondency over him that dissolved his wish to do anything but brood in his own, silent world. The fury, at least, he could cling to as though drowning, he could lean on it as a frail crutch to keep his spirit alive and moving.

Most attributed the merciless savagery Massacre could display as merely insanity, or perhaps assumed it his inherent nature to possess the dark, cold, unfeelingness that he did. But that was an erroneous assumption. Massacre had not been born with the nature he had now - it was the cruelty of the environment he had grown in, the lack of warmth and support from any cat, the absence of love and compassion that refined the gentler points of an individual's personality in his kithood that had lead to him becoming what he was. He had not been born in Skull, but it was his anger, his need to strike back at the world that had driven him to join them.

However, it could perhaps be considered more of a detriment than a benefit for him to have thrown himself into such a place as Skull. It was a place empty of the very elements he needed the most.

The jet black tom continued to glare at the she-cat, despite his spluttering, dying anger that was morphing itself into a darker, grimmer, more withdrawn mood. However it ate at him from the inside, he would never allow such to show to another at Skull, particularly not a she-cat. They would only make it worse, anyhow. They wouldn't understand.

No one understood.

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[Sorry this is a bit long... ^^; You can just start reading from the paragraph Massacre's starts talking in if this is too much. I wrote more than I originally intended to. o.0]

As he confronted her, Massacre noted the change that overcame the she-cat. Her air of aloof coldness dissipated like mist under hot sunlight, leaving her glaring back at him with a look that bespoke of every bit of her inner ferocity. It was then that he suddenly realized her rage was of his equal - she knew its clutches also, its savage, all-consuming rage, the desire to shred, to rip and destroy, the need to wreak havoc upon all that she hated. They were the same, and yet so different.

Her pale green eyes flashed with fire as his words inflamed her, as they ignited a fearsome flare of anger that he knew she would not contain for long. They were possessed by the same acrimony towards each other's genders, and suddenly the air grew thick with tension between them. The atmosphere was brimming with antagonism, the primal drive to assert, to fight and to liberate to furious energies gathering within their bodies was steadily mounting, soon to burst forth in an irrepressible torrent of fiery ferocity. "You would do well to watch where you're going, tom." She retorted sharply, her the unconstrained fury in her own voice reinforced by the enraged lashing of her tail.

Massacre stiffened in both disbelief and outrage. Never had a she-cat dared to speak to him in such a manner. This was insanity, this was rudeness he wouldn't tolerate even from his peers. A slow, heavy black thundercloud of incredulity mingled with pure, unadulterated fury and hatred swelled in his chest, threatening to explode outward with unrestrained violence. This fresh surge of anger swept away every wisp of his despondency, replacing it with a fierce, feral desire for retribution. She would pay for her insolence, in flesh and blood. In response to his threat to claw her, a harsh, grating laugh choked itself from her throat, a sound that was fraught with seasons of accumulated bitterness and hatred, mirthless, it was so saturated with acerbity.

She laughed. How dare she laugh. No one laughed at him. The very concept of it was unthinkable. And it wasn't just that - her laugh had been an expression of her interminable contempt, her scorn for him. But she wasn't finished. Her ears pinned back, bared fangs glistening in the cold light of the Dirt's Den, her voice a vicious snarl as she spoke. "Fine. Try and claw me, tom, I dare you." Massacre's pale amber eyes flew wide with disbelief. Such words coming from a she-cat... it was even more unthinkable than for him to be laughed at. It could have been a joke, but there was no denying the challenge in her sage green eyes, nor the way she stood straight and tall in defiance to him. Despite himself, despite all his fuming anger, Massacre found this stunning. When most she-cats hissed and spat insults or rebellious retorts, they were pressed flat against the ground in a defensive posture - the look of a defeated snarling to a superior. But this she-cat was different. She was her own, seemingly unaffected by the looming, dominating presence of the toms in SkullClan.

She was a rarity. She was both the most impressive and stupid she-cat he had ever seen.

A cold chuckle escaped Massacre's throat, though his eyes still blazed, his tail still whipped back and forth behind him. "My name," he corrected, "Is Massacre." Another pause as he swiped his tongue passively over his lips, his eyes glinting dangerously as he stared at her. "Not all she-cats are as weak as you'd like to believe they are." She told him fiercely, her claws scoring the hard earth beneath them, gouging them mercilessly into the dirt. Despite the tautness, the thread of tension stretched to its limits between them, ready to snap at the slightest of provocations, a Massacre let out a snort of amusement. She was brave, this one. Brave but foolish. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to push him to his limits like this. The rest of them were cowards, only capable of putting on a flimsy show of false courage before a mere fierce word or look subdued them.

But this girl... she was different. Her bravado was true strength. She possessed an inner fire, a spirit that the others in this miserable cavern lacked.

Perhaps she might actually put up a fight for once before he crushed her - it had been a long time since Massacre had truly found a worthy opponent. Fighting was as instinctive as breathing to him. Ever since he had been old enough to withstand walking, his father had cruelly forced him and his brother to learn the ways of combat. He fought them and defeated them day by day, but he taught them as well. Massacre's knowledge and abilities in fighting were refined to a point where few could match him - although a long history of battles lay in his past, he had yet to find an opponent able to leave a lasting mark on his pelt. After the harsh kill or be killed world he'd thrived in as a loner, Massacre had found most of the unruly in Skull dull and boring to fight. They surrendered as soon as it became apparent they might have to walk away with scars, clawmarks or permanent maiming, and never had he once encountered a she-cat that had truly turned to fight.

"Come on. Fight me."

Oh, this would be interesting indeed.

His famous chesire-cat grin touching his maw, Massacre flicked his tail dismissively to the side as if her challenge had completely failed to interest him. He turned away from her, though he kept her in his peripherals, strolling relaxedly a few paces away to where two she-cats were tussling over a scrap of squirrel nearby. As he did, he looked over the she-cat once more, keeping his stare somewhat amused and casual, but at the same time, seizing her up as, not a she-cat, but a true opponent. He was somewhat larger and broader than her as a tom, though the size difference was not entirely substantial, for he was not of extraordinary size or weight among toms. However, this allowed him a perfect balance of both strength and speed in a fight.

As for her, she was slender and lean in build. As he had noted before, he knew that though she looked deceptively weak, there was a supple sturdiness he could see in her limbs that most other she-cats lacked. Indeed, she was a fighter through and through. However, she was also starved and kept from truly exercising her muscles - factors that might become turning points for whether she won or lost in the fight. However, Massacre knew better than to greatly underestimate her - she had already amazed him several times by her fortitude. Besides, when one was as fueled with hate and anger as she was, they could serve to compensate for hunger for a brief time.

All of this passed through Massacre's mind in a matter of seconds, and without warning, he jerked to the side and kicked at the pair of she-cats, knocking them aside to leave a clear space for him and the she-cat to fight. The rest of the cats had already kept away, wanting to stay clear of the two cats who had been glaring at each other, both clearly at the point of letting hell break loose.

Turning back to her, spacing a yard or so of distance between them, Massacre eyed her coolly, concentrating all his pent up anger, frustration and hatred into preparing for the battle to come. "You've been a most... interesting companion so far, my dear." He spoke conversationally as he fell casually into a ready stance, his paws spaced wide, legs slightly bent. "It would be a pity to shred you before I knew your name. Care to tell me?" He would pause for her response, but regardless of whether she was opening her maw to answer him, readying herself to fight or whatever, he would move the instant she responded to his words.

He would rush forward without warning, his weight low, closing the distance between them within a second. He would run towards her head on, and at last moment, twist and attempt to ram his shoulder full into her face, a blow that would hopefully throw her off her paws, make her lose her balance, or at very least leave her dazed for several seconds. The momentum of his speed and weight combined would be sufficient to prevent her from being able to grab his shoulder. If his attack succeeded, he would immediately follow up, throwing his shoulder and momentum into her and attempting to force her off her paws. If this succeeded, he would then instantly try to move over her and pin her down, his body low over her's so that there wouldn't be enough room for her to get her paws underneath him to throw him off or batter him. Simultaneously, he would aim to clamp his jaws around her throat with a grip like iron, to close her windpipe and prevent her from breathing.

If she managed to avoid his attack, he would use his speed to sweep past her before she could properly grab or counterattack him after dodging him, and end up several feet behind her where he would immediately whirl to face her once more. He would end up in a position that would force her to turn 360 degrees to face him, unless she stayed in position and left her back vulnerable to him.

She wanted a fight? She would get one.

[Wordcount: 1616]

Damn twolegs.

Tail lashing, brow furrowed into a furious scowl, a lithe, black shape strode through the caliginous trees. Like a liquid wraith detached from the encroaching shadows, pale amber eyes flashing pearlescent in the gloom, Massacre slipped through the undergrowth. The earth, damp and unpleasantly spongy underfoot, oozed foul water into the fur on his paws with every step. The scent of moisture was thick in the air, mingled with the overpowering odor of toadstools and the familiar acrid stench of twoleg fire.

Massacre's lip curled in disgust, trying in vain to drive the pungent smell of smoke from his nostrils. As if he didn't have enough problems, lost in this ominous, eerie forest. Now he had filthy twolegs to deal with as well. At least the dampness would ensure they wouldn't be able to start some harebrained forest fire as they so often did.

If the darn creatures could just stay in they're own nests...

The jet black tom flinched as a thin branch, swathed in lichen, trailed lightly across his flank like a disembodied finger. Suppressing a shiver and smothering the flare of alarm that had flashed in his chest like a kindling flame, Massacre shot the offending tree a withering look with his sallow orbs before stalking onward.

His eyes flitting left and right, Massacre scanned the seemingly endless array of bleak, shadowy trees before him, his eyes futilely seeking some means of exiting the haunting place. He found none, and to his revulsion, the stench of smoke grew stronger, filling his nostrils and screening out all other scents until his nose burned from the intensity of the smell. Honestly, this place gave him the creeps.

And was it just him, or was there something strange about the smell of the smoke?

A faint, flickering light shone through the trees, illuminating the various specimens of fungi clinging to the trees with a soft, eerie glow. Automatically, Massacre's ears pricked and the black tom swung toward it, drawn to the strange light by an inexplicable curiosity that burned with its desire to be satiated. The impenetrable gloom that surrounded him, the webs of moss and lichen that were draped thickly over the branches and trailed to the earth like tattered rags, the unnaturally still silence in the air, filled the tom's heart with foreboding. As much as he loathed to admit it, even to himself, he found the woods a strange, frightening place in which he could find no pawhold.

He only wanted to get out.

The light emanated from a single beacon point in the distance, and Massacre began to move toward it. A low, rumbling growl rolled from Massacre's chest, disgusted at the blind instinct that he was now allowing himself to be consumed by, despising the faint, fluttering fear growing in his chest. He was doing anything to escape this dark, ominous forest, and he felt a flash of abhorrence for his own weakness.

But it could not be helped. Massacre threaded his way through the trees, ears alert, eyes straining through the darkness ahead, every one of his finely tuned senses trained on the unrelenting blackness that enveloped him from all sides. As though he could compensate for the fear he felt gnawing at his soul by performing more sharply physically. The oppressive shadows pressed toward him, engulfing him and melting his own dark form into their depths. His tread, though normally silent, seemed even more insubstantial now on the cold, peaty earth.

Yeah, it was creepy, okay?

[it just keeps getting better and better XD LETS HAVE A GUD PARTEH, K? >3 ]

As Massacre edged nearer to the warm, flickering light, he gradually realized it was a fire. The source of the steady stream of smoke drifting through the trees. Eyes narrowing in disgust, Massacre halted and stared through the trees, watching the tongues of flame lap hungrily at the night sky, sparks springing from the fiery inferno and spiraling upward before winking out of existence. Meanwhile, a heap of already scorched branches sustained the fire's voracious appetite as it greedily consumed the offerings the twolegs had given it.

Massacre noticed a ring of stones surrounding the fire, the bathed in the soft, rosy glow of the flames. The tom nodded faintly in approval - at least these twolegs had been responsible enough to keep their fire tame. Then, with a flash of trepidation, he realized it was not just the stones that caught the fire's light - there were several dark shapes huddled around the fire, figures that were, though hunched, unmistakably twoleg.

Fur starting to bristle, Massacre retreated quietly into a deep black shadow at the foot of an ash, struggling to master the impatience and frustration beginning to flare in his chest. Would he ever find his way out of this --

"What an annoying place! Tree arms keep touching me, wanting to feel my fur!"

Nearly springing three feet into the air in surprise, in a single, lightning fast movement, Massacre whirled around, twisting sideways to aim a vicious slash at whoever was behind him. Only as his eyes lit upon who it was did he abruptly pull back, just inches from taking out half of Year's face, landing firmly on all four paws and glaring deeply at the other tom. Having been entirely focused on the firelit scene before him, Massacre had been completely unaware that his comrade Year of Pain had approached him from behind.

Hell, that was embarrassing. He had been off guard for once, and although he would never had admitted, Year had practically scared him out of his fur. "Oh, its you." Massacre growled unceremoniously, twisting his head to quickly smooth the ruffled fur on his shoulders. "Keep your voice down, will you? Do you want twolegs trying to 'feel your fur' as well?!" He snapped, gesturing toward the fire. His voice was harsh - harsher than usual, from the efforts of concealing just how shaken he'd been when Year had suddenly turned up. Heaven forbid he let himself get that off-guard ever again.

Then the drumming of paws alerted Massacre of the approach of another. Instantly, the black tom's head snapped up, ears swiveling toward the sound, muscles tensing in readiness as another cat - a she-cat, hurtled out of the bushes. Massacre stared at her grotesque expression and wild, bloodshot eyes as she inquired, "Either of you seen any foxes?" "You must be looking in the wrong place," Massacre answered coldly, "There are no foxes around here." He gave a contemptous flick of his tail. More pawsteps. Massacre turned to see Ixxr approaching. Oh, what was this, some kind of reunion party? "Ixxr." Massacre greeted the brown tom with a grunt.

Well, he wasn't stuck here alone anymore, at least.

zenzan wrote:

OOC: Frostdragon , 1, LOVE your name, 2, ouch, that's sad! :(
@Massie, I keep wanting to call you "my poppet" as usual, but I don't know how badges are earned, like if they scroll through your recent posts. If they did, I think the person would be weirded out if I kept calling you "my poppet", but I've written that every time I was reffering to you, but then quickly deleted it. XD
And yush, let's have a blast! PARTEH! EPICNESS COMES IN NUMBERS (did you know you can use hex numbers for colors in posts? :D)
(lol, and I totally forgot Ixxr's coat color, thanks for reminding me... XD)

IC:
Ixxr nodded back to Massacre. Unlike Year, he didn't mind the mud, as it blended into his brown coat a bit, making it not look so bad. He smirked, as he saw Year try to shake off the mud from his paw only to put it back down in the mud. Ah, well, a cat could try, he supposed.
He turned to the she-cat, since he had not noticed her before. He raised an eyebrow, feeling indifferent about her comment. He stretched his back, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
That's when he saw what Massacre had been looking at. He scowled at the twolegs, wondering what they were doing here. He then glanced at the fire, entranced by it. But he listened to what the other cats said, only his eyes being entranced.

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Both Ixxr and Year had withdrawn into a tactful silence after Massacre's outburst. The black tom hunkered in the deep shadow of the tree, scowling, a low, irritable growl rumbling ominously in the depths of his chest, his mood teetering between the extremes of an explosive rage and icy calm. After a length, he decided the best course of action would be to simply forget it had happened at all - to deny it had happened, inwardly and outwardly.

Allowing the black clouds of fury gathered in his chest to gradually disperse, Massacre swiveled his head toward Ixxr, observing the young tom with a steady, ponderous pale amber stare. It pleased him to see that the boy was clearly having no qualms despite the sinister black shadows that encompassed him from all sides and the unpleasantly damp atmosphere. Massacre felt a twinge of pride - the young tom had been like clay in his paws. He, Massacre, had deftly molded him from an ungainly whelp into a hardened warrior of a cat that stood indifferent even in the face of finding himself lost in an environment as cold and foreboding as this.

Quite an accomplishment, for them both.

A sizzling hiss interrupted his thoughts and Massacre swung his head toward the sound, realizing that it had come from the fire. Despite the distance of roughly ten yards that separated them from the fire, he could clearly see the dark outlines of the twolegs tossing some odd herbs into the flames. Good riddance, now what did they think they were doing? Massacre felt a flare of bewilderment overshadowed strongly with contempt as he watched them.

But then, all the thoughts and acrimonious emotions seemed to dissolve from his being as an inexplicably enticing scent drifted through the still night air, carrying the smell directly into his nostrils with his every breath. Massacre drew a sharp breath, nearly choking on the acrid tang of the smoke as it rushed into his throat, yet nearly swooning at the tantalizing aroma that floated with it.

And that was it. Suddenly the hell of the place became cat heaven.

zenzan wrote:

Ixxr quietly watched the humans throw in something that he couldn't identify. A few seconds later, he quickly swivelled his head to see Year kicking and thrashing about. Ixxr frowned, as he watched this. Then, as Year rolled in the dirt, Ixxr surpressed a grin of amusement. What on earth had gotten into that cat? He turned back to the fire, hearing Year ask a question. What was it indeed. Ixxr was beginning to smell the scent, and it was... intoxicating. Ixxr jumped back as Year shook out his pelt, and dirt flew onto Ixxr. He growled, and shook out his pelt too. Then, he turned back to the fire.

4

Without preamble, Year flung himself into the dirt and began writhing in the damp soil, showering both him and Ixxr with specks of mud. Normally, Massacre would not have tolerated such erratic and offensive behavior in his presence, but he was too preoccupied with the fire to respond. Jaws parted, half exposed fangs glinting ivory in stark contrast against his dark fur, Massacre hungrily drank the scent, inhaling the aroma directly to his scent glands, ignoring the way the smoke stung at his throat.

"Let's get closer," He growled, already moving toward the fire.

Something was strange about his voice. It was more high-pitched than usual, and somewhat warbly. Under normal circumstances, he would have found such an abominable voice crack mortifying. However, under the influence of the indescribably pleasant smell of some fragrant plant intermingled with the tantalizing aroma of catnip, all his regular troubles and anxieties seemed strangely distant, as though they were simply melting from his body and soul.

And the feeling was exquisite.

It was unlike anything he had ever experienced prior. His thoughts, usually obscured within dark, black emotions, seemed to fill his mind with intense clarity. His heart soared with a strange, inexplicable joy - it was a sort of supreme triumph, as though he was on top of the world, although he had accomplished nothing.

What he wouldn't give to feel like this every moment of his life! All the accumulated bitterness, hatred, and rage caged in his heart like a feral beast simply dissolved like mist in hot sunlight. He had never felt happier in his life - his feelings teetered on the brink of the most happiness one could experience, and something even more extreme. A gurgling, shrill laughter bubbled in his throat as he moved his paws more quickly, ignoring the impeding danger of the twolegs by the flames, only caring to bring himself closer to the source of his delight.

It was like the very essence of his being, his angry, sly, hateful nature was fading, rendering him a foolish, exuberant kit.

It was wonderful.

zenzan wrote:

OOC: lolzzie it sounds funnier when you wrote it than what you said. XD

IC:
Year frowned at Massacre, who was making his way closer to the fire. "You. Closer. OK!" he said, happily saying the last sentence. He trotted after Massacre, and took a deep breath in. Year stuck his tongue out, and started to pant, in the manner of a dog. It was... rich in aroma, and Year lapped up the scent like a kittypet lapped up milk. He sat down right beside Massacre, without looking at Massacre for a reaction. Year slowly closed his eyes, as he focussed on only the scent.
"Where'd they get the scent?" he wondered out loud. He took another deep breath, as his mind seemed to melt with the breath. One might have said he was so docile that he was... sane.

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[Yeah, I'm having waaaayyy too much fun humiliating big bad Massacre right now xD ]

"You. Closer. OK!"

Year sang, skipping blissfully after Massacre.

Although, to Massacre, it seemed that he was covering ground more rapidly than he ever had, he was actually only moving at a brisk trot, and thus he neared the fire far more slowly than he wished to. Discontented, the black tom quickened his pace, eyes fixed on the flickering glow ahead of him, entranced by the ever-shifting tongues of flame lapping at the blackness of the night.

As he kept no eye on what lay underpaw, he frequently stumbled over tufts of grass and large stones. This ungainly clumsiness was not at all like the lithe, powerful gait that the black tom usually walked with, but he took no notice.

That is, until one of his forepaws suddenly slipped downwards, as if into a burrow of some sort.

Massacre crashed ungracefully into the ground, nose first, in a sublime, classic face-plant.

For a moment, he lay still, stunned, then pushed himself dazedly upright into a sitting position and glanced around. Possibly, of the norm, he might have flew into a blind rage, reaming at the nearest living (or possibly even non-living) object and blaming his fall on them, but instead, the black tom only blinked as he looked about him, wearing a stupefied expression. He, Massacre, had not lost his footing, not in a fight, not in any clumsy stunt or accident, for as long as he could remember. After moons of basking in the glow of pride at his own perfection, such a sudden and pathetic trip came as a shock. However, having had all unpleasant emotions sufficiently sedated, Massacre could not summon any sense of anger or humiliation.

He could feel splatters of mud along his chest and muzzle, as well as a very exotic and bitter taste in his mouth, however. What had he landed... on a mushroom?!

Eyes widening, Massacre realized that was exactly what he had landed on - see, there was the crushed mushroom just where his muzzle had been moments before. And what in the world - it wasn't just one mushroom he'd landed on, it was many. He was in a field of mushrooms. Massacre stared for a moment, then, considering the absurdity of the situation combined with the nice-smelling-herb-induced giddiness that he felt, Massacre started to laugh.

He hardly took notice as Year sat down beside him, asking about where the twolegs had gotten the scent. His entire body was shaking, a strange, high-pitched sound gurgling from his throat and rolling into the still night air. It was several moments before his brain was even to register that he was giggling. And he couldn't stop. He did not even try to control the ridiculous, hiccuping giggles pouring from his maw. "Mushrooms!" He cackled, laughing so hard he toppled onto his side and landed in another bed of mushrooms. Flapping one muddy paw at Year, Massacre pointed at his comrade's nose and practically screeched.

"MUSHROOMS!"