in the lap of the gods || MURDER

[Stryker]

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[glow=#000,2,300]☣ —[/glow] Justice.

A word he believed in, but not all things that were religiously aspired towards were real. Stryker preached it’s meaning, hoping for its purpose to influence those around him. Through justice came rightful punishment. Those who deserved to be damned to an eternal hell would be given what they deserved through this so-called method, but the line from justice to revenge was very thin nowadays. What was morally right? Who had the high ground? Societal normatives assumed this, something Stryker did not truly understand. To his knowledge, the word meant what was whatever was right... to him. By leading through life with a narcissistic point of view, he failed to realize that his once justice-like ways had begun to stray towards revenge-driven motives.

Revenge began to rule his life and people began to distance themselves from the lion. Those who once looked up to him now frowned upon his actions. They soon realized he did not preach good anymore for the sake of Snowbound’s safety, but instead relished in the satisfaction of getting back at those who wronged him for his parent’s death. Stryker soon realized those abandoning his side. Furious, he sought other ways to keep himself at bay within the world and allow himself to be recognized for his ‘wonderful’ morality. By helping out those he supposedly wronged, he began to appear as gifted and intelligent, along with polite and well-kept. He soaked up the attention like a sponge. Stryker engulfed himself in it, soon becoming obsessed with its superiority over him. As long as he could provoke thrill and gain attention because of his risky situations, the lion was satisfied with life. In his words, he was finally living.

When the satisfaction faded from the smaller generosities, he began to act out. No longer could he be praised for the good deeds. They had lost their effect on the people of Snowbound. Feeling betrayed, he ran. A glint of vengeance, not justice, laid in his neon gaze as he came up to The Pitt’s border in a hurry. Joining was easy, fitting in was harder... Unlike him, they were brutal and strong, quite fitting for the job of ‘villain’ in the eyes of the other clans. So he evolved. Justice was a word he believed in, but no longer faithfully followed. Revenge ruled over him. Every movement was based on benefiting HIS outcome, not bettering others no more. Stryker did not realize this as he kept embracing this power in his hands and soon became a pillar within the rogue group.

As revenge faded, coincided chaos arrived. No longer did he fathom hurting others or risking his own for the sake of his own petty demeanors. At every turn, he took a risk. His manipulations caused enjoyable mischief and caused the other group’s to fear his actions, allowing his ego to rise. Meanwhile, Stryker was self-serving and beginning to enjoy the brutality. It was not a spectacle anymore, but an art to him. While the manipulations were the meaning behind the actions, his brush was his jagged claws and the paint was their thick crimson blood that spewed over his canvas of purpose. Finally feeling the thrill of the world, Stryker began to endulge further. That meaning faded soon enough.

Today, he may have gone too far. Thus the downfall began.

Flayed skin hung off of pointed horns from all directions and crimson looked at his paws as a narrowed, neon gaze blindly stared out at what he had done. Chunks of fur sprawled in all directions. The soft moans of a whimpering figure remained within the underbrushes. Once a whole figure, the canine was now laying in a pile of blood as their orafices laid in a sickly lump outside of their body. They were losing blood fast, yet they had enough time to scream. Their desperate pleads for their life to remain while was intriguing and empowering for the ardent as he looted over the stranger with a wicked grin. The more the borzoi struggled, the closer he got. Stryker’s demented eyes focused in on his victim’s own, watching the fear in their eyes as he attempted to crawl away with their bloodied guts trailing from behind. With every cry for help, Royalriddler’s light began to dim down. A once lively gaze soon peered into the distant, emotionless and cold.

A haze of silence faded over the area. Realization sets in. His actions laid out before him and the male observed them closely, reliving the moment in his head. It gave him an unexplainable high. As he thought further, connections were being made. When he preached justice, he did it through violence. When he fell into the depths of revenge, he had taken out his frustrations with punishment. But when he removed the purpose... he enjoyed it? The thrill he had sought out for so long no longer came from the motivation behind it, but instead the actions. Only today did he realize the connection. Fascinating.

To an outsider, it would appear as if the ardent had slashed open the Tanglewooder’s chest open with his jagged horns and proceeded to scrape out whatever he could muster out of the male’s chest. From far away the scent of the salty air may attract them closer. Those that grew closer would meet to see the lion hovering over the body with his neon gaze wide and strong jaw clenched. Perhaps it was better to walk away.

//lil rushed so i could meet a deadline!!

[kilgore]

[align=center][div style="width: 60%; height: auto; font-family: verdana; font-size: 8pt; text-align: justify; line-height: 13px; border-bottom: 5px COLOR solid; padding-bottom: 5px; color: COLOR;"]Kilgore did not remember how he had gotten to The Pitt, but it was all he could remember besides certain scents and voices so he decided that he belonged here and it was where he was gonna stay. You wouldn't hear no complaints from him, neither. He quite liked the blunt attitudes, the cold smiles, the independence from everything and everyone else. Out here in the desert, they were alone, and it felt like they were the only things that existed in the world until they weren't and here he was, smellin' something foreign enough to spike his interest. The curious part of him yearned to explore the world outside, but the majority decided against it because what reason was there to other than his own curiosity? But since this was closer to home, he'd meander forth, awkwardly over sized paws kicking up dust behind him.

He did not know what he had expected, but this was certainly not it. For all his admiration of The Pitt he did not think he had ever seen a dead body first hand and he doubted that he would ever wanna see one again. The thing looked barely animal anymore. It was just all ripped up and bloody, and reeked like holy hell, and oh, why was Stryker standing over it? Kilgore's face was contorted in disgust, nostrils flared and mouth shut firmly tight in an effort to dissuade anymore of that salty scent from getting into his mouth. His tail shot straight from his body, as stiff as the rest of him, and he barely moved an inch for a moment even if it felt like a few hours.

"Mister Stryker," if his southern accent could get any slower he'd sound like some ungodly machine — he gulped, throat constricting uncertainly, eyebrows strained so much against his forehead that he swore it hurt more than anything — "I don't mean to be a bother, but why's that animal all dead?"

He willed himself to continue looking, but eventually he turned his head and stuck his long muzzle into the meaty muscle of his shoulder, swallowing the bile that rose up in his throat. No matter how hard he tried to mask the scent of blood and guts with the smell of The Pitt, he couldn't. It was imprinted on the inside of his nose and he hated it, wanted it out, out, and he closed his eyes briefly in repulsion but instead of the blackness of his lids all he could see was that poor dead animal all red and stretched out before him. Kilgore wanted to cry for some reason, but he tried his darn best not too.

[CAESAR CIPHER.]

THERE IS NO LIFE, THERE IS NO SPARK !

CAESAR CIPHER. MALE. THE PITT. DWELLER.

Ever since The Pitt had taken over Snowbound, Caesar wanted to be apart of the group. However, at the time, he had still been an Officer in The Typhoon and of course he was too proud of that fact to leave them. The Pitt was known for their brutality, their mercilessness. Perhaps it was no surprise that Caesar found himself walking towards The Pitt almost immediately after being exiled. At least here he could feel at home. At least here he could do whatever he pleased and didn't have to feel tied down by restrictions. Pincher prided himself on the fact that The Typhoon had no rules and people were free to do whatever they wished.

Ha, that was a lie. If you went slightly out of line, Pincher would punish you. He had a 'three strikes and you're out' policy and unfortunately Caesar reached his three strikes. So much for 'freedom'. No, true freedom was here in The Pitt, where there were no bars held against you - unless you were a slave, of course. In fact, Caesar loved the idea of having a slave of his own. Now that was something that would get you punished in The Typhoon. A shame, really. But The Typhoon didn't need to be known for the same reasons as The Pitt; it was what made The Pitt unique, after all.

Of course, the scent of blood lured Caesar over, his mouth slightly agape to draw in the smell. It was strong, but that was to be expected; they were just recently murdered, after all. The savannah came to stand next to Kilgore, his right ear flicking at the child's question. "Stryker clearly murdered them." Caesar answered flatly, as if his response was normal to that type of question. "Got a specific reason?" Now Caesar was directing the question towards the lion before him, his black gaze gleaming as he stared at Stryker.

#psychosocial.