The Beginning:
Once the prince of a wealthy kingdom far in the west, Macbeth had been excommunicated from his once kingdom.
In his past, he was foolhardy, more foolhardy than he is now, hungry for power and the approval his father never gave him. He lived and trained under the dark threat of the black clouds coming over his kingdom, unaware of the creeping danger they posed. No one knew, instead ignoring their dark presence as they crawled closer. The clouds infection started from the outside and worked its way in. A war started raging between neighboring clans that were once great allies, animals started to mutate and grow wild. Their kingdom lay unaffected, yet unknowingly, the clouds curse would start with the witches.
There were three of them who had came to him one day during his training. They promised him greatness, approval from his father, and love of the people. Macbeth was enthralled; that's all he'd ever wanted! All he needed to do, the witches promised him, was to defeat his father in a duel using the sword they bestowed upon him. Quickly, Macbeth agreed, and eagerly he challenged his father to the duel.
The Exile:
The duel went swimmingly, his father quickly accepting, claiming it perfect some well earned “bonding time”. They fought, trading swings and parries and blocks, and soon Macbeth found he had attracted an audience. The maids and the stablehands oohed and aahed at every swing or block, soldiers on duty nodding approvingly at Macbeth’s practiced moves, and even a cook had come out to marvel at their dance of swords. Quickly then, Macbeth surged forward, slicing against King Thane, forcing him back, and with a surprised step backwards, King Thane’s paw found itself catching on the air, sending him to the floor. Spurred on almost as if something was possessing him, Macbeth then raised his sword, and with a sure hand, brought it in a downward arc, assuredly across the old King’s neck. However the expected gore never happened, and with an ugly crack of thunder and a sound akin to laughter, the king’s body dissipated into dark clouds. And unbeknownst to Macbeth and to his courtyard admirers, his father’s soul was absorbed into the sword. The he black clouds gathered and curled like fog, only to be pulled towards the sword. Energy swam over the sword in sheets, curling around its blade and into Macbeth's paws, arms, and chest and neck and face and- and it sinks into his black fur, nestling itself into his skin, presence made obvious by the ugly mottled scars bared in it's path.
The Aftermath:
Will he ever be good, with the darkness marring his skin? How is one good, if there is nothing to show his goodness? If there is no show for it, no reward? Macbeth is searching for that answer, and hopes that by becoming a quote unquote good guy will solve it.
For now, Macbeth has dawned a new name, Beth Kravitz, and is staying with a student of this alternate world.
