[ killing time 'til it's killing time ]

[Pripyat]

satan, satan, lend me a dollar.

BoneClan was unusually silent.
Waiting.

It was dawn, and the sky was a dusty purple, deepening to navy on the far horizon. The stars were still out, and would be for a short while yet; though daybreak was approaching, the sky had not yet lightened.

A pair of ambient blue eyes hung in the shadows. A cat stood outside his den, his fur ashy-black; a lean, predatory cat, with stringy muscles and sharp teeth. He was poised in the shadows like some fanged monster from a kit's tale...or a kit's nightmare.

The camp was safe. Quiet, secure. Who would dare enter BoneClan's camp uninvited?
Only a fool, that's who. And with Pripyat, one of BoneClan's most infamous warriors, on guard, that fool would be short-lived.

Pripyat stepped away from the den, shadows rippling on his dark, thin pelt. He slinked in a wide circle inside the camp, his smooth movements somehow wolflike.

A war was approaching. It clouded the horizon like storm clouds.
It was this BoneClan awaited; it was this great, impending event that had all the warriors -Pripyat included- training their apprentices furiously.

Pripyat was hungry, but he ignored the fresh-kill pile. He wanted to kill something.
He wanted war. He waited on restless paws for the day when bodies would break and blood would fall.
For the day his magnificent Clan would strike terror into the hearts of the others anew.

Pripyat bared his fangs, remembering well the taste of blood.

War. Murder. Catflesh. Fear. Triumph. Blood. Death.
All his thoughts -such wandering, strange threads of thought they were!- narrowed down and down into one word, a word that resonated low and strong in his mind:

Soon.

[Panic]

Panic too woke up early that morning; he had always gone to sleep late and woken up much earlier than other cats. It was in his nature; he was frightened that something would attack him in his sleep. Now, however, he had a different reason.
Anticipation.
His leg was healing nicely, and the young black tom - who aspired to be just like Pripyat when he was the wolflike tom's age - knew that he would be able to fight in the war.
If Bane didn't let him...He shook his head. Bane had to let him. The great assassin Spiderlily was training him! There had to be a reason for that?

Panic blinked his silver eyes. The other apprentices were still sleeping. He glanced at Barbwire, slumbering sweetly. But no; he shook his head again. Springing silently to his paws, the young apprentice padded - limping slightly - out into the open.
The tom who had killed Kit Kat and broken Panic's leg was out there. You'd think the smaller tom was afraid of him, no? No. Panic did slightly fear Pripyat, but who didn't? Bane, maybe. Even Darkangel was just a smidge scared of him.
No, Panic and Pripyat were friends, if not best friends. He loved to be around the older tom.

The small black tom trotted happily to where Pripyat was circling the camp. "'Morning, Pripyat!" he chirped. Panic was not the cat he had once been; before he had been nervous and jumpy, paranoid that everyone and everything sought to kill him. He was confident now; with the help of Pripyat, Spiderlily, Bane, and the rest of the cannibals, warriors and assassins of BoneClan, Panic was a killer.
He tortured his prey before finishing it off.
In playfights with other apprentices, he left scratches.

One day, Panic would be the subject of stories to frighten kits.

(("He glanced at Barbwire, slumbering sweetly." Is that a powerplay? If it is I can change it

[Pripyat]

satan, satan, lend me a dollar.

Pripyat looked up, his feverish blue eyes falling sharply on Panic. For a moment, there was a shadow of something dark and murderous and terrible on his face; for a moment, he didn't look much like Pripyat at all.
The black cat held the power to terrify; he was a frightening thing. But that shadow on his face was far more frightening than Pripyat. Older, too.

And then it was gone. Pripyat had brightened, as if reconizing Panic a shade late.
"'Morning, Panic," he sang brightly, leaping over Panic's head and landing on his other side. "I like you. You're my friend."

You see, Pripyat (who would one day be the subject of tales scary enough to terrify not just kits but adult cats) was mad.
Not angry-mad. Crazy-mad. Insane. Off his rocker. Off the deep end.
He was born like that, you see.

So the funny sound of his voice was normal for him and for everyone who knew him. Crazy Pripyat wasn't dangerous to them.
Except that he was always dangerous. Yeah, except that.

"Is is a good morning?" Pripyat inquired, looking closely at Panic.

[/blockquote]

[Panic]

At the phrase, 'I like you,' Panic brightened even more. He was glad that Pripyat liked him...if he didn't, it would be very very bad for little Panic. He didn't duck when his friend leaped over the younger cat's head; he was quite used to Pripyat leaping all around him.
"You're my friend too, Prip," he purred, narrowing his silver eyes with pleasure. If Pripyat had not chased him into the BoneClan camp, Panic would not be the tom he was today. Kit Kat had been a nervous little she-cat; she would have kept him the way he had been before.
But under the influence of BoneClanners, he had changed.

The sun had creeped higher into the sky, but stars still shone where night was still watching over them. StarClan? he thought to himself. What kind of fool would believe in them? When Pripyat spoke again from his other side, Panic leaned to one side, thinking. 'Is is a good morning?'
"Well, I hope so," he mewed, looking up into Pripyat's blue eyes.

[Pripyat]

satan, satan, lend me a dollar.

"Awwww," Pripyat purred, and any cat who did not know him would think he was mocking Panic. But he was well and truely happy at the moment.

Pripyat stepped back, scrutinizing Panic with a critical eye. "You look a bit like a BoneClan cat to me now," he growled, his blue eyes flashing. He meant it as a compliment, and what a huge compliment it was, coming from him.

[/blockquote]

[Panic]

A purr rumbled through the young tom's throat as Pripyat said 'Aw'. He knew the wolflike tom wasn't mocking him. And then the best part of his whole day came:
"You look a bit like a BoneClan cat to me now."
Panic was so pleased by this, he bounced on his toes. He definitely wanted to be a BoneClan cat. BoneClan was his home now; his true best friends were here, the cat whose rules he wanted to live under chose to live here. Bane had chosen to let Panic stay.
Bane must have known that the black kit would make a deadly assassin one day. Bane's really smart, Panic remarked to himself.

"Thanks," Panic purred. He felt like his purr must have been so loud that it would wake Kestrel over in RisingClan; but then again, another discomfort to the enemy wasn't a bad thing. The young cat kneaded the ground. His thoughts flicked back to the apprentices' den and who was in there.
Stop it, he hissed to himself. Stop thinking about - But his thoughts were drawn to the warriors' den. A black head poked out, golden tearstripes running along the sides and emerald eyes blinking in the sunlight.
Panic sat up straighter in front of the Princess. Might as well keep on her good side?

[Pripyat]

satan, satan, lend me a dollar.

Pripyat felt-sensed-heard Darkangel venture from the den and turned sharp, curious blue eyes her way.
He bowed his head to her, aknowleging her as his leader.

"Princess Darkangel," he meowed in greeting. "Possible-Good morning to you."

He remembered a younger Darkangel...he called her little princess then.
Not so little now, he thought, his tail twitching.

The mad tom tilted his head to one side. "What are your plans for us today, small leader?"

Pripyat glanced at Panic and sprung a question on Darkangel: "Doesn't he look like a BoneClanner now?"

There was a distant but distinct note of pride in his voice.

[/blockquote][/color]

[Panic]

Darkangel was taken by surprise at Pripyat's voice; in midstretch, she whipped her head round to look at the two toms, her emerald green eyes wide. Suddenly they softened when she actually heard the words; she nodded, purring, the trotted past them to the fresh-kill pile. Darkangel seems really...Nice! Panic thought to himself, a bit shocked at her reaction.
Pripyat had told him that she used to be so self-centred and condescending; now she acted like any normal warrior. But even she thought he looked like a real BoneClan cat now! Perhaps he'd ask Spiderlily, too, and maybe even Sharpfang and Bane. He was quite excited at the black she-cat's reaction. Suddenly he glanced to the fresh-kill pile, where Darkangel was crouching eating a plump mouse.
"Do you want something to eat?" the young apprentice asked his friend. He started towards the pile, but paused to wait for Pripyat.

((Ugh. mah muse is dyin' D:))

[Wolfwings]

Like a plague upon the earth...death always follows this cat...

Sinister red eyes, pelt the color of sullied blood, BoneClan's newest terror stepped from the apprentice's den. She opened her eyes widely, not allowing the change in light to deter her. This young murderess would never allow weakness to cross her form. Stretching her long limbs, she greeted this new day as just one more opportunity to kill. Her thick, luxurious fur hung in swathes about her body, like some ragged, blood-colored cloak. She was not a princess by any means, but there was something definetely beautiful about her...and though she held no formal place in the Clan...there was an air of importance to her.

Noticing her mentor, she padded over to him and gave him a silent stare. All that she felt was needed in a greeting. That black kit was with him again...what was his name? Ah, Panic...she liked the sound of the kit's name. It was so simple in its perfection, so unknowingly evil. She turned her gaze on the young tom, bloody hues meeting starry ones.

"Are you to join us this morning, Panic?" she asked, no sign of feeling on her face.