Post by Deleted on Sept 19, 2009 17:25:17 GMT -8
Froststorm padded through the trees, silent as a killer. The tom's pale tabby coat was grey under the shadow of a tree. His blue eyes glared intensely as he remembered the battle at Sunningrocks.
The ThunderClan tom, Riddlehawk, would soon be nothing but a piece of prey in Froststorm's jaws. It was he who had nearly been the death of him. The RiverClan tom licked his lips as he remembered the blood that had flowed that day. Not just his, but the blood of ThunderClan cats. That she-cat's, Mousefur's, especially. Her pelt had ripped so easily under his claws, her blood staining those beloved rocks...
But then he had interfered. The she-cat's mate had battered him to the near brink of death. Everything had gone cold, and he remembered feeling his own blood slip away from him. But he hadn't died. He had lived for a reason. To kill Riddlehawk.
But, of course, a quick death would be too good for the tom. He needed to suffer first, like how he had done when Froststorm flung his apprentice to the ground. No doubt he was already dead, and that made him only the first of Riddlehawk's pains. But it would never be enough. The pale tabby mused over how he would do it. First he would get the crippled tabby alone. He'd plant fear into his mind, warn him of what was to come. Then the next act would be to his mate. The loss of Mousefur would defiantly be a hard blow. Then Froststorm would let him linger a bit, let the course of time deepen the wound. And then, only then, when the pain was at it's worst, would Froststorm tear out his throat and throw his body in the river. Oh yes, what a glorious plan. He licked his lips again in anticipation.
And now to wait. Froststorm crept silently under the nearby holly bush. And from their his glistening blue eyes watched for their prey.
The ThunderClan tom, Riddlehawk, would soon be nothing but a piece of prey in Froststorm's jaws. It was he who had nearly been the death of him. The RiverClan tom licked his lips as he remembered the blood that had flowed that day. Not just his, but the blood of ThunderClan cats. That she-cat's, Mousefur's, especially. Her pelt had ripped so easily under his claws, her blood staining those beloved rocks...
But then he had interfered. The she-cat's mate had battered him to the near brink of death. Everything had gone cold, and he remembered feeling his own blood slip away from him. But he hadn't died. He had lived for a reason. To kill Riddlehawk.
But, of course, a quick death would be too good for the tom. He needed to suffer first, like how he had done when Froststorm flung his apprentice to the ground. No doubt he was already dead, and that made him only the first of Riddlehawk's pains. But it would never be enough. The pale tabby mused over how he would do it. First he would get the crippled tabby alone. He'd plant fear into his mind, warn him of what was to come. Then the next act would be to his mate. The loss of Mousefur would defiantly be a hard blow. Then Froststorm would let him linger a bit, let the course of time deepen the wound. And then, only then, when the pain was at it's worst, would Froststorm tear out his throat and throw his body in the river. Oh yes, what a glorious plan. He licked his lips again in anticipation.
And now to wait. Froststorm crept silently under the nearby holly bush. And from their his glistening blue eyes watched for their prey.
