[meraki]

Originally Posted by Duskflight

{It took me so long to reply to this, I'm sorry o.o"}

Imagine living inside of a husk, completely empty, no feelings of compassion, of love, of happiness, of caring, no feelings of sadness, of anger, of guilt, not a single emotion at all. Imagine living in this husk for every single day of your life without a chance of ever shedding the husk and experiencing the vibrant world of emotions there was to feel.
That. That right there, is what Hannibal was, some would barely even consider him a cat and would much rather prefer the term of monster, but he couldn't help that that was how he was born. And he certainly couldn't change the fact either, nor did he desire to because, quite simply, he saw emotions as irrelevant and things to be discarded anyways. Hannibal had no desire to feel emotions, none what so ever, he didn't care for feeling happy or sad, joy or anger, it just didn't matter. And this lack of emotion, it turned him into a stone, an eerie husk of a cat with eyes that burned like fire that could bore into any cats soul and freeze them to the spot until he turned his gaze away from them.
What he was, was a sociopath, some would call him a psychopath because he killed cats, but actually that was false. Psychopaths are unstable cats that lash out randomly to fill a desire and that, that was simply not him. Hannibal was in control of every one of his actions and he did not lash out randomly, but precisely, he knew who he wanted to kill and he always had a reason behind it, the most pronounced one that many of the Syndicate have come to learn was for the pure simple fact of another cat being rude to him. For whatever reason, it was one thing that Hannibal could not stand and it could bring about a vague sense of anger, and I mean truly vague, just a very bare inkling of it, but those cats that were rude to him.. Well, may Starclan save their soul. He was not a cat you willingly wanted to cross paths with because no one truly knew what his definition of rude was and they did not want to fall to the claws of this tom because they knew a most terrible fate would befall them. And there have been whisperings that this tom was a cannibal, no physical proof that he is one, just small findings, some cats say they've seen him eat others, but it could just be gossip, only a few cats truly know the answer to it. A few alive cats anyways.

Currently, Hannibal sat by the fighters den, a usual place for him throughout the day if he wasn't out on one of his strolls or wherever he goes when he isn't in camp or on duty as a fighter. He had just finished a meal it appears because there was a very neat pile of bones and a very neat pile of feathers, each of the bones licked completely clean and shined dully in the light that filled the camp. The tom was simply laying there, his forepaws stretched in front of him, a sort of sophistication to the way he sat, his fiery eyes slowly sweeping back and forth through the clearing, watching cats do what they normally do, making tiny mental notes for each one to store away into his mind for possible later use, a habit he had made long ago.
In case it wasn't already known, Hannibal had been born into the Syndicate, no one knows what happened to his and his sibling's parents, but there was a good speculation that he had done them in. And so he and Lucifren had grown up under the care of another cat, the cat more welcoming to Lucifren than the dark grey cat for obvious reasons, but nonetheless the two were raised. But Hannibal certainly wasn't new to the Syndicate that was for sure.

(omg don't worry about it)

The smokey tabby lifted his head up, his pale gaze falling on the dark form of the infamous Hannibal. He, like all the others in the Dusk Syndicate, had heard the rumors. Jamie knew that the other cat was a sociopath, but he couldn't help but feel sorry for the feline. He knew from experience that it did not feel good to have rumors spread about you, but he also considered the possibility that the rumors weren't just rumors. As Jamie watched Hannibal, he noted the neat and organized way the tom ate his prey, each bone clean and shining, not a speck of flesh on them, and it almost made him smile, as it reminded him a bit of Hugo, another personality. It was then when Jamie realized he was staring, and he went back to eating the prey set in front of his dark paws, but he couldn't help but look at Hannibal occasionally. Something about him fascinated Jamie, as he wondered silently about how it would feel to actually feel nothing.
I suppose he doesn't even care about the rumors, he suspected. How could he?
The feline shook his head and finished his prey, the bones, unlike Hannibal's, were not completely stripped of flesh, and the feathers were everywhere, one particularly large feather stuck in Jamie's fur, the delicate thing was stuck in his chest fur, but it was clean of blood, and looked as though he'd put the feather there himself.
An odd feeling washed over him, one he so unhappily recognized. It was almost like deja vu, and in an instant, the cat knew that Malcolm was growing restless and would rise soon. It must've looked odd to any one who would pass by, the cat had very suddenly had a look of shock and horror drawn all over his face. Jamie blinked a few times, before looking around, looking rather shaken up. He'd been overcome with the feeling that he should warn others, warn them that soon, several could loose their lives.
But on the inside, Jamie knew that no one would listen. He was merely a kit trapped in an adult cat's body, and no one would listen, ever.
Seemingly in a daze, Jamie got to his paws and padded away from the clearing to get some air.