Ever since kithood there was something intrinsically fascinating about the Thunderpath and the monsters that dwelled on it. The acrid scent, the unnatural smoothness, and finally the way that the monsters laid to waste their prey onto the black stone. He remembered the first time he saw it, a mouse half flattened against the pitch, exposed heart still beating rapidly as its eyes were glazed over in a haze of shock and pain. His mother had finished it off out of mercy, sighing as she ducked back to safety and nudged him away. A part of him had wished that she'd let it live, which at the time he mistook as pity towards the creature. But now aged and wise, he knew it was a desire to see the moment that it's hope and life extinguished, unmarred by the intervention of another.
Which is what lead him here, sneaking the shadows. He watched carefully, waiting. He hoped to see some cat, any cat from ShadowClan come out chasing prey. What a delight it would be to see not some stupid mouse, but an intelligent, sentient cat, gasping in pain as they bled to death on the black stone. He wanted to know if they'd yowl in pain, or just lie there, heart rapidfire beating, eyes glazed over.
And the rustle of underbrush across the Thunderpath told him, his wish would be met soon.
