Here's the first one! Meet Mistwhisper.

 -MISTWHISPER-

[Who is She? : I Monster]

@Lexi_exe130

X

Mistwhisper is beautiful. She is grace. She is seduction.

She is the most frigid creature to walk these woods.

Slinking out of camp every night, she disappears into the mist to greet her lovers. Five is her current tally, though she's had more.

There's Ravenstrike, a smug tom from Windclan that can't seem to keep his filthy paws to himself. He has no kin to speak of, but is thought to be the shoo-in for deputy when their leader dies. He takes pride in having such a beautiful Shadowclan molly at his beck and call. He'd kill to keep his secret.

Ivybreeze is a sweet little thing. The Riverclan warrior has her reservations about their forbidden trysts, but the mere thought of Mistwhisper's embrace pulls her back in. She's entranced by the shadowy Mistwhisper, and would do anything to stay with her.

Then Duskyfire of her own Shadowclan. He's charming, a laugh any time of day. Under his veneer of smirking charisma, however, is a deep seated vulnerability that has him clinging to Mistwhisper, unaware of the way she's toying with his pliant emotions. He needs her more than air.

Oakenbrash is Thunderclan through and through. He's brave, their best fighter. His strength is admired by all, and his mate thinks highly of him. None know of his devotion to the misty temptress that visits when the moon grows bright.

Finally, there's Silversong. A rogue with a sharp tongue, biting wit, and a tragic past, he feels connected to Mistwhisper in a way he cannot quite place. He's terribly haunted, and the voices that plague him seem only to subside when he's by her side. He could follow her anywhere, if only she said the word.

Mistwhisper does not love her playthings. She enjoys them, though. She takes great pleasure in them, in their words and bodies and adoration. When they have attached themselves to her fully is when she begins to weave her threads of flame into their minds.

She starts to act restless. Predictably, as if they're playing a part in a well-worn play, they tighten their grip. They cling harder.

She tells them that they must choose.

Her?

Or someone else?

Be it friend, mentor, or mate, the end is always the same. Her lovers' paws are stained crimson. (Surely she couldn't do it, after all. Who would expect her to dirty her pretty fur?)

They're often broken, after they do it. Their stare is hollow, their eyes beseeching. They beg with their gaze for redemption, and yet despite the thick wash of guilt, they seem lighter.

They think that now, finally, Mistwhisper is theirs.

That's when she melts back into the fog and out of their lives.

And then, of course, she finds another that's willing to take the spot. Vacancies in her harem of unwitting victims never last long.

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