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Name: Jetstream
Gender: Tom
Clan: BloodClan
Rank: Third Tier and Warlord
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 ~
(Thank you for the muse explosion! lol )
Such a pathethic scrap, to think his devil is greater than yours. The serpentine voice of the chilling blue eyed, etherial Necromancersoul hissed through his mind, his faded black frame shimmering tremulously at the edge of Jetstream's hellish view before, in a sudden flash of obsidian, the dark tom slammed into him. Yet there was no solid foce, no resulting stagger. The ghostly frame melted into the monstrous tom like ice, sending sudden tremors of cold shooting ice flying through the nightmare's veins. The hellfire that flickered so lively within the Warlord's gaze took upon a new, more calm light of sadistic features, it's fierce dance of gold dying to a bright glow of ember.
In one smooth moment with the enemy locked in his sights, the prodigious, undead like feline braced his murky paws into the sand, curling ebony razors in in towards the earth to sink through grit and drag across rough stone. With an explosion of ripples rushing through his broad, heavilly muscled form, the chosen immortal spun himself away with a vicious snarl not quite his own. Just as the other tom landed behind him, attempting to strike out, Jetstream's paw slammed into his forelegs to knock them aside with a terrible force (I don't know if you can parry or if it's considered powerplaying as well, so if your not aloud to block like that, just act like I aimed to do it.).
With leverage now on the suddenly reeling, mangled tom's side, he dove down towards the recruit with a screech that mimicked the horrific, tortured scream of a risen Lich, teeth snapping for the other tom's head, incisors gleaming a pale ivory that mirrored the bleached steed of Death. His claws lashed out towards whatever flesh was closer, whatever flesh he could rip quicker. He needed the feeling of torn flesh on his pads, sliding between his toes. He needed the fresh release of life fluids and tantalizing, metallic scent that flowed forth with the plasma. This tom would offer him just that, and he would harvest his joy from the ravaged corpse of this recruit dead or alive.
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