Twisted Fortunes. [VA Collection]

[Rose]

I. The Crimson Curse
II. The Ringmaster
III. The Masked Malady
IV. The Heir
V. The Lost Boy
VI. The Soldier
VII. The Executioner
VIII. The Wronged - Fablespinner
IX. The Puppeteer - Electra
X. The Forgotten - Flintfang

[Rose]

 

Smiles. So easily given, so easily stolen. So easily pasted on, laden with so little meaning. But oh, Roux's smile held a world of meaning behind it now. She grinned down at her victim, their blood splattered across her muzzle with cruel delight, painting the alley walls.

"I told you," she whispered, her voice throaty and low. A menacing rasp. The sound of nightmares, of terror unfolding. "I told you to stay away. To keep to your own, to not mess with what you don't understand." Ivory claws dug passed fur, passed skin, into flesh. The stray beneath her let out a pitiful mewl of pain. In another world, in another life, maybe Roux would have pitied them. But not now, not today. "But you didn't listen, did you?" She seethed, and then slammed the cat into the cobbled street below. "No, no you didn't."

Roux had been expecting it - the crack of skull. The sudden limpness to her victim's body. The vacant-ness of their eyes. That didn't mean she could avoid standing there for a bereft moment, wondering if this could have been different. No, she didn't think so. So instead, Roux let out a soft sigh, shut the dead cat's eyes, and then gouged her claws into their chest, ripping a vertical line from there to their soft underbelly, one that was now stained red with blood.

It was her mark, after all, Roux reminded herself of this fact as she turned and walked away, never once looking behind to take stalk of the death trailing in her wake.

The mark of The Crimson Curse.

- THE CRIMSON CURSE
Roux

[Rose]

Concern furrowed Howler's brow as he stared down into the darkened alley from the rooftop of the broken-down, abandoned apartment complex diagonal to it. Something unraveled in his chest - something akin to guilt. He hated doing this. Hated watching Roux pull away, more and more each day. Gone was his surly, moody best friend that had once cracked a rare smile just for his sake. “Red,” he whispered despairingly, his insides twisting with remorse. “I'm so sorry.”

Turning his face away from the destruction his once best friend had caused, the grey-furred tom thumped his short tail against the ceramic, tiled rooftop, a hard slap that echoed in the night. He couldn't sit around any longer. He had wrongs to right. Mistakes to make up for.

Fear is just a game, you win by playing. Those were his own words, after all, were they not? “I'll save you, Red. I promise.” He whispered into the night, the soft words turning into a vehement promise. “And then, you, Lark. It's time I was the brother you pleaded for.”

- The Ringmaster
Howler

[Rose]

She had been beat. Phantom stood over the dead body, panting from her mad dash through the rain. The raw tissue of her scarred backleg wept with anger, with pain, itching like it had caught on fire all over again, begging her to stop. But Phantom paid it no heed. She stared down at the dead feline on the cobbled street, long forgotten in an alley. “No.” Phantom whispered to the darkened sky as the clouds continued rolling in. “No.” She rasped. Phantom had had a promise to keep, to fulfill, and now...

Above her head, even the sky began to weep. Droplet after droplet trickled from the sky, and soon the faint drizzle had turned into a howling vengeance, rain slamming against the cobbled streets, thunder rumbling across the sky. A rivulet of blood ran from the dead body, a tantalizing, mocking reminder that Phantom had been too late. Too late to save them.

Always too late to save those she cared for.

“DAMN YOU!” Phantom yelled into the storm, anger lighting her blood. “I get it, I'm not meant to make connections, but...” The calico trailed off, and then let out a wordless scream of agony, the tears rushing down her face joining the rain and blood on the pavement. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” Phantom's fury was a palpable thing, blazing in her soul as she turned and walked away from the body. That was all it was now. A dead body. “And I'm coming for you, Lottie. Electra can't hide you from me forever.”

- The Masked Malady
Phantom

[Rose]

It was pouring outside. A thunderstorm to rival any other - boasting flashing skies, heavy rain, and strong gales. But Sparrow didn't mind the rain, nor the lightning, nor the thunder. Oh no, they didn't mind it one bit. It soothed them, in fact, to listen to something so accurately depicting of their own constant state of being. They only smiled, tail tip flicking idly in time with the beat of rain drumming on the window they were currently looking out of.

They wondered how Darling was, and whether she had had more kits yet. They wondered after their other family - the one who'd refused to acknowledge their existence. The mother, who had given them away. The brother, who had looked the other way. The twin sister, so oblivious and pushed astray.

But not for long. Sparrow was to make themselves known. A specter from the past - arisen once more to haunt. And they would end, of course, with Lark. Poor, sweet, innocent and naive Lark. Not for long, though.

All they needed to do was wait. And Sparrow was very good at waiting. So The Heir cracked a smile, one full of questionable intent, as they idly watched their brother's figure steal across the rooftops, his shoulders curved forward as if he bore a great burden. Perfectly delicious, that hint of emotion was to Sparrow.

After all, they'd always been the best at a game of cat and mouse; the hunter and the hunted.

- The Heir
Sparrow

[Rose]

Lost. He was a lost boy.

Alone, fur ragged, tangled in every what direction, soaked to the bone with rain. Owlet made a miserable sight, and he knew it. Every muscle in his scrawny body burned with every step the youngster took, limb tail dragging ungracefully against the ground. Owlet knew that were his grandma here, she would scold him, tell him to lift his head and act like a gentleman. But his grandma wasn't here - she had been gone for quite some time; they had gotten separated - and Owlet was so tired.

Stumbling down the street, matted fur dripping rainwater, Owlet darted into a nearby alley for shelter. It was very likely the biggest mistake he'd ever made (except when his grandma had crossed the rumbling road in a rush and had told Owlet to follow, but he'd only made it halfway before chickening out and making a run for it in the other direction). For a few moments, Owlet didn't know what he'd stumbled over, and the six-moon kitten just stared down at the lump of fur at his paws, bewildered. Until he nudged it, and the head flopped back, unsettlingly limp, unseeing eyes glaring up at him.

Owlet lurched back with an ungainly screech of alarm and fear, paws scrabbling over the cobblestone street, a wail caught in his throat. "Grandma!" He rasped, begging for her to appear from somewhere and safe him. Or that other nice cat he'd grown up beside until Grandma had woken him in the midst of the night and told him it'd been time to go. Heron, her name had been.

Tears of anguish at being all alone in this world pouring down his cheeks, the brown-furred tom rushed out of the darkened alley with a strangled sob, amber eyes large, pupils blown wide with fear as he just ran. And kept running, never looking back. Only when he ran into something did Owlet fall back in a soggy heap, looking up into the darkness to see two olive-green eyes peering back at him. A tender smile spread over the stranger's face, and Owlet's heart throbbed with a long-forgotten ache.

How he wished to be seen, to be held, to be loved, to be known.

To be found, a lost boy no longer.

“Heya, kiddo. Need a paw?” The brown-furred tabby extended a paw, green eyes twinkling with kindness, and Owlet took it.

- The Lost Boy
Owlet

[Rose]

Risk was unsure in which way karma would eventually decide to serve her revenge. He was not entirely certain how she wished to dole out his punishment, but he did know that he was quickly running out of time, the sand in his timer having slowed to a mere trickle. He'd dodged her reach for moons, but even Risk - the name was a bit on the nose, no? - knew he couldn't avoid his sins, his past, his mistakes, his oversights, forever.

Neither the sun nor the moon was visible this night, but the darkened clouds, the onslaught of rain, more than made up for it. In a way, one could say, it was raining cats and dogs out there. So as Risk sat, lounging in the dog shed of the newest bout of upwalkers he'd wooed into feeding him for who knew how long, he could pinpoint the moment he realized what sort of vengeance Karma had settled on.

It came in the form of a darkened shape stealing across the yard, a lithe figure, brown fur turned dark and soggy with rain, lime-green eyes... wait. Risk knew that once-beautiful coat now a tangled mess, knew that once proud-filled frame now slumped with defeat, knew those bright eyes, now so dull they shot ice into his heart.

Lips parting on an exhale filled with quiet surprise, Risk cared not for the drumming of rain on the grass as he stepped out of the safety of his little house and into the shower. Amber eyes raked over the lithe cat who stared back at him with an equal measure of shock, disbelief, and then righteous fury. “...Sunny?” Risk whispered, and he didn't know what was worse - that his former lover flinched at the familiar moniker, or the disgust and revulsion that crawled across her expression the second he'd invoked her name.

Even worse was the sting of betrayal that flashed in her eyes a moment later as they both relived the night he'd made her a promise to never leave her, and then had broken it ten times over.

So here it was; Karma had decided to begin her twisted game of torment, and this time there was no chance of Risk outrunning it.

- The Soldier
Risk

[Rose]

There was something strangely familiar with the owl-eyed little boy sitting on Prince's shoulders, as if in another life, he would have known the little one. Owlet, the youngster had introduced himself as, and Prince's lips had twitched at the very fitting name. But when he'd gone to give his own name - Prince - something had compelled him to hesitate. To remember a softer voice, calling his name, rousing him from a slumber he'd never wanted to rise from, because in his embrace he'd held a cat as dear to him as the moon was dear to the sun.

So he'd given Owlet his other name. The one only she had ever called him. “Oliver.”

Only after looking over his shoulder at the scrappy, scrawny boy multiple times did Oliver realize what had made him hesitate, and had made him blurt his other name, the one that felt almost sacred. It was Owlet's eyes; amber and glittering and filled with an inextinguishable fire and oh-so-familiar. They reminded him of a certain cat he'd never be able to forget - and the deja vu hit him harder than ever.

He missed her. Missed her so much his heart throbbed with pain just to think about it. His Lark. His love, his life, the cat he'd spent his childhood with until her brother had one day told him she was gone, that she was dead. It had felt like such a miracle, later on, when Oliver had found her again, had found out Howler had lied, and they'd rebuilt their friendship until it'd... turned into something more.

Somewhere along the way, their jokes and teasing had turned into flirting, playful on his end and hesitant on hers. Lark had never talked much about her other life, the one Wolf... no, Howler had dumped her in and lied about... (the reason behind this? to this day, it was still unclear to Oliver. each member of this family had their own conclusions, and there were enough misunderstandings and mistakes to span eternity.)

Back when Oliver had been entertaining the idea of being something more with Lark, knowing that somehow it felt so right, he'd noticed she'd... been oblivious to his growing affections. Holding a candle for someone else, almost. The thought had gutted Oliver for a time, and he'd afterward tried to sequester away his feelings, pretending they weren't bursting out of his chest. He'd not wanted to alarm her, or make her feel like she was to pick between himself and... whoever it was she seemed to zone out and constantly think about.

Only when Lark had seemed to come out of her grief-addled funk and tentatively begun to return his affections was it that Oliver professed himself to her. Out of begrudging respect for whoever was courting Lark, he hadn't want to impose on her if she'd already had a relationship in place, but Lark never brought it up again, so Oliver stopped trying to picture a cat pining after his love the way he did. (it was safe to say Oliver had already hated the idea of the guy, and he had only been a figment of his imagination.) In the end, that had been that. Oliver knew not a time (even to this day) that he'd been happier.

His name was another matter - which was why Oliver adored and treasured it so. Prince had just been a generic name given to him by his upwalker owners when he'd been adopted alongside his sister, Princess. Prince had been a well-built shell, an exterior, a mask. Oliver had been so much more, someone he could truly be. Thoughtfulness incarnate, charming, witty, kind-hearted, and playful; his true self.

Why all this lead-up, though? It was true, that in the end, that Oliver ultimately'd had to leave his darling. His sister (Princess) - who was no longer his sister, but instead his brother (and now named Oak, a helpless, declawed kittypet) - had apparently gotten catnapped, as Howler informed him one evening. Oliver had done what any brother would do. He'd rushed off to save his dear brother, and look where it'd gotten him. Stuck in this endless loop of carrying out supposedly oh-so-important orders that at risk of denying would result in his brother's demise.

Howler had gotten Oliver stuck in this loop, because his brother was in a hostage situation, and damn them all to hell because all Oliver wanted to do was return to Lark and beg her forgiveness for leaving in the first place. Oliver kind of hated Howler now. And Oak, for this mess. And then he hated himself for hating his family.

Lies. This family was a kingdom of cards built on lies. Kings, queens, jesters. Something had to fall sooner or later. But it was not so simple - if one were to merely cut off the head, there would still two more to rise in it's place.

And over the moons he'd been away, Oliver hadn't receded back to the shell named Prince and become The Executioner for nothing.

So Prince pushed away the burden clawing at his mind, shot Owlet a charming, winsome smile over his shoulder, and bounded forward, tone entirely business. “We'll find your grandmother yet, kiddo. She's gotta be around here somewhere.” It seemed Prince was finally to cross paths with his mother-in-law once more, so many moons later. Apparently, nothing had changed, and yet, so so much had.

- The Executioner
Prince