voleshark was walking slowly through the field in urchinclan where he first found his foxgloves. there were echos of kits playing, the snarling of battle, silence of death. it was his turn. [ filth·y /ˈfilTHē/ adjective 1, disgustingly dirty. ie, you are filthy. ] the end of the line. his life would be gone soon, he knew it. all of the lives that had flickered out from under his claws. and for what? he wasn't happy. he was loved and feared, finally a leader. power, cats whom adored him. [ rot /rät/ verb (chiefly of animal or vegetable matter) decay or cause to decay by the action of bacteria and fungi; decompose. ie, i am rotting. ] he should have been dead. he deserved it, more than any other cat alive or dead. but he knew we wouldn't die, rot simply couldn't. it infected minds, twisting others. sweet rot, like a bloom of a flower- a foxglove. so many tried to stop it, they couldn't. rot consumed them all, their minds, their feelings. vole was immortal. [ in·fec·tion /inˈfekSHən/ noun. the process of infecting or the state of being infected. ie, i was an infection. ] death was sweet. he felt it in his limbs, it coursed through his veins. death loved him and it loved death back. vole felt it taking him, so he came back here one last time. aranight, morhposmile, snowdawn, flickerpysche, fallenstar. passing cats, lovely creations now gone, just like he'd be in a minute. fighting side-by-side with cats he's tried to kill. everything passed, everything but him. he lies down, closing his eyes. the rot took him.
okay i finally drew art for this ...
