Clawstar didn't know what exactly had gone wrong. He had planned everything perfectly; he should have been leader of Wolfclan for seasons longer than he had been, he should have been able to subjugate the other three clans; and that Rogue Group. But in a matter of three, quick seasons, he lost all of his lives. It had been a surprise to him that Starclan had given him nine lives and the name Clawstar in the first place, after he murdered Silverstar and Goldensong. After that, the path looked clear; nothing to stop him, no one to stand in his way. But then, it all went downhill.
First, there was that infernal greencough pandemic. It had started as a simple enough throat-tickling that an apprentice had decided was not worth bothering the medicine cat about. Then, an elder caught it, as evidenced by the racket coming from said cat's den that kept the whole clan awake. From there, it blazed through Wolfclan like a wildfire. Warrior after warrior fell ill, kits and elders perished, and the apprentices and queens suffered. Clawstar watched, unable to do anything, as one of his most loyal followers died. Then, the leader himself met death face to face. It was an absolutely terrifying thing, dying. For a few, horrible, moments, there was nothing but darkness; then the light came, the beautiful, beautiful light. He spoke with a Starclan cat, he knew not whom, for several brief heartbeats; then, he was launched into a new life, certain to be full of triumph, blood, and death.
Second, it came; a lumbering mass of fur and muscle that couldn't even be considered an animal. The elders called it a bear; Clawstar didn't care, to him, the only fitting name for it was 'a monster'. It tossed the camp guards aside like they were nothing but annoying little twigs. Every cat in the camp fled, from every single warrior who was supposedly 'brave', to the smallest kit in the nursery. But not Clawstar, no, he stayed. And he fought. Rather, tried; before he could even land so much as a scratch, the clan leader was lying on the ground, his throat torn out from a single swipe of those monstrous claws. Again, he had met death.
Third, Sunblaze, that piece of fox-dung that called himself a Caveclan cat, dared to rise up against Clawstar's might. The group of rebels he had gathered didn't need to sneak into the camp that night, they were already there. To them, Sunblaze was the perfect leader, they practically worshiped him, and they considered his plan flawless; just like Clawstar had considered his own. The battle raged in the main clearing, while Sunblaze confronted Clawstar in his den. The clan leader knew that his opponent could never have defeated him in a fair fight; so did Sunblaze, apparently. His throat was slit before he could even wake up. But, oh, did that foolish tom ever regret it. Clawstar rose from death, and, in a few moments, the rebel leader was on the ground, writhing in agony, at the feet of the cat he had attempted to overthrow.
Fourth, the rogues arrived. There weren't very many, just a small group of three. They were led by a young she-cat called Amber. Clawstar wasn't too shocked to find out that she was his sister, she was quite similar to their mother: bouncy, excitable, playful, and just generally bubbly; but then there was the sadistic streak that they both got from their father. Overall, she was an absolutely infuriating cat. After only a moon staying in Wolfclan, Amber was apparently 'fed up' with everything to do with Clawstar; perhaps a bit more than 'fed up', considering she attacked him. Clawstar had never been more surprised in his life than when he was left in the middle of the Wolfclan camp, defeated and slowly bleeding out.
Fifth, Amber came back. She hadn't tasted enough of Clawstar's blood the first time, it seemed. She returned at the head of a Caveclan battle patrol. It was a coordinated attack with a select group of rebels in Wolfclan; those whom had not supported Sunblaze. The battle was long; no coward's hit and run tactics in use that time. Eventually, Clawstar's remaining followers had been defeated or killed; while Clawstar himself was engaged in combat with Amber once more. He vividly remembers that moment; when his sister flipped him onto his back, with that absolutely maddening grin of hers, and tore his throat out.
Sixth and Seventh, Clawstar had been exiled, along with the three cats most loyal to him: Spruceclaw, Ghostspirit, and Shadowpelt. The four wandered for a while as rogues, before Clawstar led them to the territory of Rogue Group Boulder. Clawstar, Ghostspirit, and Shadowpelt had been born and raised there, under the names of Slash, Ghost, and Shadow, respectively. They left when Clawstar took it into his head to join the clans, and, of course, his two friends had to follow him. The four were greeted enthusiastically at first, but, before too long, Clawstar had to try and overthrow the leader, the High Stone, of the rogue group. Power is all, as far as the ex-leader was concerned. The High Stone of the rogue group couldn't have been a worse cat to attempt to overthrow. His name was Brass, and just so happened to be Clawstar's father's brother. Brass's nephew can still remember the feeling of teeth digging into his throat, both times. The pain of the first time is vivid; the second is hazy, mixed in with remembrances of darkness and Starclan.
Eighth, Clawstar despised rivers for a reason. He heard too many stories of cats drowning as a kit for him to do anything but despise them. And when he saw, with his own young eyes, his mother vanish into those watery depths and never resurface…it sealed the deal. When he found himself desperately thrashing in those waters himself, he thought it was over for certain. He had never been in Starclan as long as he had that time; the implications of that terrified him. He knew he wouldn't be going to Starclan when he died, that was for certain. It was practically impossible. It was the first time Clawstar had ever been truly afraid, or regretted his actions. But when he returned to his body for the final time, he could say or think but one thing: He was lucky that Ghostspirit knew how to swim.
Ninth, his Starclan forsaken father, Tide, tracked him, Ghostspirit, and Shadowpelt. There were three different kinds of villainous in their family. There was Brass, the split personality psychopath; Tide, a tactical mind who merely wanted power for the sake of power. And then there was Clawstar, a mix of the two: bloodthirsty and power starved. They all had one thing in common, however; and that was their tendency to go out of their way to destroy threats. Clawstar didn't realize that something was amiss until his father was on his back, thrusting his muzzle into the dirt. Tide had planned it carefully; Ghostspirit and Shadowpelt had been led far away from the ambush spot by fabricated prey trails, and likely wouldn't find the body until Tide was long gone. They wouldn't be there to remember how he had fallen, but, oh, would Clawstar remember. He would remember hearing the snap of his own bones breaking, the feeling of the bear's claws, the teeth in his throat, the cold river's embrace. He would remember it all.
He was in Starclan for very brief amount of time, the cats around him murmured quietly for a few moments, and then he was gone; exiled, again. This time, it was to a much darker fate. The Place of No Stars; the dead trees, the thick, brambly undergrowth that was nearly impassable, the general sliminess of the whole place; how fitting it all was. Clawstar found himself here now, remembering it all. Brass would pay, Tide would pay; Ghostspirit and Shadowpelt would pay, for failing him. His damned sister would pay. Clawstar was not a cat to be easily dissuaded; he would find a way to make them all suffer, to make them all regret. And if he couldn't find a way, he would make a way.