Shrikethorn

[attr="class","arrgenMAINTEXT"]A vicious creature born of a starless night, Shrikethorn is hardly someone you’d be happy to find yourself alone with in a dark alley. He’d be only too happy to commit a crime if only he knew he might get away with it. Because, for all his apparent convictions and preachings of Starclan’s false nature, Shrikethorn is but a hypocrite. He kills and torments simply because he relishes the feeling of power - he does not truly want just to eradicate the starkissed. For if another opportunity were to present itself, Shrikethorn would have no qualms with taking the life of someone who does not believe in Starclan to satisfy his own desires.

But for all his love of dark deeds, Shrikethorn is not someone inclined to reckless acts. He is, and has always been, the patient sort of monster - willing to wait as long as it takes for his carefully laid plans to bear fruit. And, while he might suffer from delusions, the tom is by no means lacking in intelligence. Shrikethorn has learned enough over the moons to know presenting himself exactly as he is will get him absolutely nowhere in the world so, instead, he’s put into practice the art of wearing a fake persona.

Charming and intuitive, Shrikethorn appears to each of his clanamtes in a different manner based upon his perception of what they expect from him. To his peers, the warrior is dedicated, loyal, charismatic, and outgoing. To his superiors he retains many of these same qualities with the additions of appearing hardworking and respectful. Even those the warrior deems beneath him - such as kits, apprentices, elders, and queens - are met with the facade of kindness and approachability.

In this ever evolving shift of presentation, Shrikethorn has managed to stay below the radar when it comes to the odd things that seem to happen about the clan. Sure, death seems to follow in his paw steps, but the tom is more than adept at playing the role of a tragic soul that cannot seem to escape his bad luck should anyone try prying. And, at times, those about him can come to the conclusion that there is something decidedly off about the warrior - a heavy stillness in the air about him, an emptiness in his glittering gaze… For Shrikethorn cannot keep up this charade forever and every lie is bound to crumble eventually. But this, concerning as it should be, does not serve as a source of stress for the tom. He understands that one day he must step from the shadows to challenge the light he despises and when that day comes he will be ready.

But that day has not yet arrived and the mask remains firmly in place, slipping only on the rarest of occasions to reveal the darkness lurking beneath. This is something those about him should be glad never to experience for should Shrikethorn feel as though he is in danger of being exposed, he will not hesitate to add another to his ever growing body count.

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Crowsight and Dappleriver were not star-crossed lovers. They were not made for each other and they did not belong together. They were a match made of simple necessity and twisted standards - there was no love for either within the other. Crowsight believed only that the pale, dappled coat of the she-cat to have been blessed by Starclan, its flecks of white like captured stars. It was a blessing he hoped his kits might one day acquire, granting them great strength and pure lives.

And Dappleriver, young and naive as she was, craved only to be mated to a tom as soon as possible so as to avoid the judgment of her parents. She assured herself time and time again that she could learn to love this handsome tom that had chosen her. It would be easy, surely. In the end this match would work well for the both of them, of that she was certain.

Within just a few short moons of having been named warriors, the young couple announced to the clan that they were expecting their first litter. A moon later, Crowsight and Dappleriver welcomed a tom and a she-cat into the world. Each had come to bear their mother's dappled coat for which Crowsight was ecstatic, granting them both the name of a bird so as to symbolize their close connection to the sky above. Sparrowkit and Finchkit grew with a warped sense of their own identities under their father's strong ideology. The constant whisperings of their father that they were blessed settled a sense of superiority within both kits as they grew. Soon enough they would pass on from under their father's watchful eye and their mother's tender care into the apprentice den. From afar Crowsight would continue their lessons in Starclan and educate them on their own great gifts but those would fade in time. They had done well with this first litter and, soon enough, it was time to bring new light into the world.




The storm that broke upon the river the night of Shrikethorn's birth was a fierce and violent thing, a reckless herald of what was to come. For hours it raged against the shores of Riverclan as Dappleriver labored in her nest. Her screams of anguish were drowned by the gall and her tears fell like so many raindrops. But Crowsight did not leave her side. He whispered in her ear promises of the great children they were bringing to life, told her tales of all they might accomplish. He told her how well rewarded she would be when after her life had reached its end she rose to meet her ancestors, having born their gifts to the world.

But when all was still and the labor was done, there was no reward waiting for Dappleriver.

Three kits had she brought into the world but only one would ever draw breath. Crowsight still did not move from her side, but the air about him had changed. He simply stood and watched the still forms of his two lifeless daughters, rigid and unreadable. Each of those tiny she-cats had been a gift from Starclan, dappled in their light. And each had been taken from the world they were meant to bless. Shock turned to disbelief turned to anger as the realization of what had happened settled upon the tom. He knew fury in their absence but Dappleriver knew only grief. She tried desperately to get her daughter's to move, to draw breath, to cry, to do anything. But they were gone.

Only he remained.

A kit as dark as the night without a single fleck of starlight dancing upon his coat lay in the blood of his mother and sisters. Crowsight, filled with rage and contempt for this cursed creature he'd born into this world, snatched him from his mother's belly with the full intent to rid Riverclan of such a monster. Had Dappleriver not intervened with an anguished cry, had he succeeded in tearing the child apart as he so desired, much would have been different. But Crowsight was prevented from doing so by both the other queens present as well as his dying mate.

Disgusted and vowing the child would not survive his sins, Crowsight stormed from the nursery without a backward glance at his broken family. Dappleriver would not remain much longer. The arduous labor had taken its toll upon her body and already her lifeblood stained the nursery red. In her last moments she nuzzled her son close, bestowing upon him the name of Shrikekit after his father's beliefs. And ss the light in her eyes faded Dappleriver kissed him atop his head with her first whispered hello and final hushed goodbye. And then she, too, was gone.

Shrikekit was taken in by one of the other nursing queens and raised alongside her own young litter without memory of his mother's sacrifice. His father, however, would prove to be a stain upon his young life, a curse that would torment and twist him into the beast he would eventually become. The transformation, however, was not immediate. Even though his father lectured him on just why he was such a terrible creature, Shrikekit couldn't understand why he was so different from everyone else. He hadn't done anything to deserve this treatment. He'd simply been born - a choice that had hardly been his own. Even Finchsong, his elder sister, made certain her younger brother knew of her hatred for him, taunting and bullying him at any chance she received. He'd killed her mother, too, after all. He was every bit the cursed monster her father said he was. Sparrowtooth, however, was not quite so cruel. The young warrior visited the nursery to check in on his younger brother from time to time and, on occasion, they could even be found playing beside the nursery together. It is these scattered moments that make up the happiest of Shrikethorn's memories. He adored this only kindness in his life, following his elder brother around every chance he got simply so that they might be close. Everything he did Shrikekit was watching closely, filled with awe for this great warrior.

But Shrikekit was not the only one watching Sparrowtooth.

Shrikekit had only just turned four moons old when tragedy struck. Sparrowtooth washed up on the banks of Riverclan, his body mangled and torn from a fall from the gorge. His horrible death was ruled an accident, everyone presuming the young warrior had simply slipped and fallen. But Shrikekit had only to lock eyes with Crowsight to know the horrible truth: he'd killed Sparrowtooth. Enraged, the young tom approached his father in the coming days to ask why, grief and horror turning his world on its head. He had expected some remorse. Some show of guilt during this confrontation. Something. Anything. But Crowsight showed not a drop of regret as he turned to face his only remaining son, a warped look of pride shining in his eyes. "He fell from the stars to burn with the beasts. Your curse spread to Sparrowtooth and in him you created a night without stars - an abomination that had to be eradicated. Only in death could his sins be atoned for."

Shrikekit decided that day that the stars above, the ancestors watching them from their thrones on high, were nothing more than cruel gods. They poisoned and warped the minds of the cats that believed in them and twisted the world into something miserable, dripping with darkness for their glory. Suffering they watched and turned away disinterested. Bloodshed they condoned in the name of atonement. Evil they relished if only it would spread their reach.

Each and every star shining in the sky above need be torn from the heavens and eradicated - devoured by the night. Each and every follower of their light needed to be extinguished for the greater good. Each and every clan that devoted themselves to Starclan needed to be brought crashing to their knees so that they might start anew without their beliefs to hang them like so many twisted puppets.

They needed to be set free...

And Shrikekit was going to be the one to do it, no matter the cost.




At six moons of age Shrikekit passed from the nursery to the apprentices' den, his given mentor an older she-cat thought to be capable of coaxing the quiet creature from his shell. She'd done it countless times before, after all. This new apprentice would surely prove to be nothing of a challenge. But Shrikepaw was not simply withdrawn and lacking in social graces... There was something decidedly off about the young tom that managed to put even his experienced mentor ill at ease when in his presence. There was an unnatural stillness that hung about him like a cloud, an emptiness in what should have been a youthful gaze, and a nagging little darkness twined with his laugh. Little things only she seemed to notice.

It was as though something was missing from his being, as if a part of him had been broken off and shattered. And, in a way, it had. Shrikepaw was never the same after his brother's death. The dark little seed it had planted in his chest continued to grow, wrapping dark tendrils about the remains of who he'd once been and withering them away to nothing.

His mentor tried desperately to fix this broken thing she'd been given, fighting through her own discomfort as she tried over and over again to reach him. But she did not truly care about him, not in Shrikepaw's opinion. She was someone that wanted only to change him for her own glory. She wanted to craft him into the image of a perfect warrior of Riverclan, a follower of the stars. Each time she tried to reach through the fog he'd built about himself the apprentice's loathing of her grew. A spark, at first, burned into purpose. One day he would rid the world of her beliefs and short-comings but, for the time being, Shrikepaw would play the patient monster. He allowed his mentor to teach him as any other apprentice might be taught, following her orders without question and paying rapt attention to her lessons. Under her care he grew to become an exemplary fighter and an adequate hunter but her biggest achievement of all would be his self-presentation.

She watched with pride as Shrikepaw grew to become polite, charming, and devoutly loyal to his clan by all appearances. No longer was he withdrawn and shrouded in that eerie stillness. He was dynamic, animated and social with any clanmate he had the chance to spend some time with. But this perfectly crafted was just that: a mask. Nothing had changed about Shrikepaw but the way he presented himself to the world. For in all that time she'd been teaching him he'd been watching closely - watching her interact with the clan, watching how they responded to her, watching relationships grow and watching them be manipulated. From the members of his clan Shrikepaw had learned how to speak and how to pull strings to get exactly what he wanted.

At twelve moons of age Shrikepaw was granted the name Shrikethorn for his talents in fighting, effectively graduating from his apprenticeship. It wasn't but a moon later his proud mentor was found dead in her nest, her heart having apparently given out in her old age.

But with the unavoidable comings of death there also came new life to replenish Riverclan. Crowsight had found himself another star-kissed mate in the absence of Dappleriver. And, less than two moons after having officially become mates, Crowsight was once again the father of six new kits - only one the dark of a starless sky. The proud new father was to be found about the camp bragging on this great accomplishment, promising great things to come from these blessed children. But alas. Things do not always go according to desire.

When the kits were only two moons of age a passing sickness claimed the frailest of the kits. A moon later, two of the kits vanished from camp only to be found drowned in the river the following day as each had tried to save the other, evidently having wandered out when no-one was looking. Next their mother disappeared, grief having supposedly driven her to the brink of madness as she fled the clans. Crowsight could only look on in horror as one by one by one his perfect little family was sent to join his beloved stars.

And this time when his eyes met with his eldest son's, it was Shrikethorn's turn to smile.




Ravenkit was the only unfavored of Crowsight's newest litter, having been born without a fleck of starlight upon him. But whereas their father saw nothing of value in this youngest abomination, Shrikethorn couldn't help but see a dark potential. The warrior took his brother under his wing in kithood, playing with him beside the nursery as Sparrowtooth had played with him. But whereas Sparrowtooth had truly cared for Shrikethorn, Shrikethorn did not hold the same sentiment towards his younger brother. The dark tendrils wrapped about his chest had snuffed out his ability to feel connected to another creature and, by extent, his empathy when it came to their sufferings. He did not feel sorry for Ravenkit but, rather, saw an easy opportunity to capitalize upon. During this time Crowsight had been killed in a skirmish with Thunderclan, his death tragic but not intentional. To this news Shrikethorn appeared to grieve heavily when in reality he felt nothing but bitterness that it could not have been his teeth in the old tom's throat.

When it came time for Ravenkit to be named an apprentice, he was given to Shrikethorn to be taught. From there the dark nature of their relationship began to grow and take shape in ways it had previously been unable to. The warrior bled his hatred and malice into his apprentice, teaching him how to hunt and fight and kill in the cruelest of ways. He taught him to despise the stars and to disregard the warrior code when it proved beneficial. He taught him how to blend in with the clan and how to appear as though he was every bit the loyal puppet they so craved. In each of these lessons the young apprentice excelled, eagerly devouring the teachings of his elder brother. Slowly, bit by careful bit, Shrikethorn shaped Ravenpaw into his perfect image over the moons. But there was one final test to come.

Heronpaw, Ravenpaw's littermate and Shrikethorn's younger half-sister, had grown into the zealot beliefs of her father. She was a poison to the clan, a curse upon them all should she be allowed to live in the light of the stars. At least, those were the sorts of things Ravenpaw found whispered in his ear as Shrikethorn guided him after their sister one fateful evening. She'd been sent on one of her first solo hunts as an apprentice and found herself too young and too excited to pay much attention to her surroundings. Ravenpaw ambushed her in a secluded bend of the river and, while Shrikethorn looked on, Heronpaw's littermate drowned her in the shallows.

Everything would have gone perfectly according to plan had Finchsong not decided to join her sister in her hunt. It had only been two short moons since the warrior had given birth but already she felt restless and caged within the nursery. So, eager to escape her duties as a new mother, she'd followed Heronpaw's scent to the very edges of the territory intent on bonding with her younger sister. Had she been just a few moments earlier, had she walked just a little bit faster, had fate been just a bit kinder... Finchsong might have been in time to stop her sister's death.

But she wasn't.

The new queen arrived only just in time to watch Heronpaw fall still beneath Ravenpaw's weight. For a moment she had simply stood still, frozen in shock and horror as she watched her younger brother climb from the water with a look of bored indifference. Had the stars truly been watching over her she might have been granted the strength to turn and run, to get up and fight. But Starclan is nothing if not the throne of cruel gods as Shrikethorn had always believed. He caught her before she could so much as rise from her crouch, throwing her to the ground as she reeled with terror. There, pinned flat upon the bank of the river, Finchsong begged for her life and the lives of her kits, swearing she'd never tell a soul. But Shrikethorn could only look upon her and remember her teeth pricking his scruff as she'd dragged her little brother about, the cruel words she'd whispered in his ear, the taunts and the reminders that he was nothing but a monster responsible for the death of their mother.

She'd been right, in a way. Shrikethorn had always been a monster, he'd just needed some help in seeing it.

He felt nothing for the pitiful she-cat as they dragged her back to the clan and threw her down before Whitestar. He'd felt nothing as they'd laid Heronpaw's lifeless little body beside her and cried murder. He'd felt nothing when her kits emerged from the nursery with wide, terrified eyes. He'd felt nothing as they were prevented from running to their mother by the other queens. He'd felt nothing when Riverclan turned against her in a rage, shocked but relatively unsurprised. Finchsong had always been a volatile and unstable she-cat - the death's of her mother and brother only fueling her wildly unpredictable nature.

Shrikethorn felt nothing for her when she was driven from the clan, tears in her eyes and a secret locked tight behind her teeth. The last image of the Riverclan camp she would see was Ravenpaw standing over Heronpaw's body and Shrikethorn sitting beside the nursery, tail wrapped comfortingly about one of her kits.

In the moons since Finchsong's banishment there have been no further incidents involving Shrikethorn. But the dark tom is always watching, waiting for another opportunity to arise.