Post by Smokeleaf on Jan 31, 2010 19:41:44 GMT -5
Name: Firleaf
Rank: Warrior
Age: 37 Moons
Gender: Tomcat
Clan: SootClan
Kin: Mapletail mother, deceased, Badgerclaw father, Hoarkit sister, deceased
Mate: none
Apprentice: Open
Pelt: Long fur, stick-straight, thick, tidy; this is what the other cats of SootClan see in the pelt of their warrior. His dark ginger fur is of striking resemblance to the bare bark of the fir trees not far away, and perhaps could be of use if they ever need to fight their TimberClan neighbors. Still, no cat can say he does not disappear among the rocks of their own home when the fresh-kill pile is low. This is where most cats picture him, striking prey instead of enemies. Perhaps it is his slender build, perfect for stalking; or perhaps they do not wish to see him on the battlefield; the faint scar that runs across his lower right flank is a constant reminder of when he was almost lost before his time. He rarely notices when their eyes won’t meet this mark; many cats believe he was too young to remember. After all, how could he, with his perking ears and tail incessantly poised in a friendly fashion? They think wrong; few kits could watch their mothers ruthlessly torn from them and forget come maturity. Death leaves a scar which no cat is proud to have, and which no cat can bear to see.
Eyes: The nettle-green coloring of his irises is yet another trait that ties him in with the distant territories; few cats choose to look at them directly, however, for they still show the pain of past experiences. Two-legs could compare them to avocados, and not only in coloring; hard, thick, and leathery on the outside, but soft and exposed in the interior. When agitated, they strike cats like the nettles of his namesake; when inspired, like the flickering flames which destroy them; when calm and relaxed, like the fluttering wings of the sparrows which nest in their boughs.
Personality: Firleaf has seen too much to be purely innocent, or to hold the anger that most toms direct toward their mates. While he would never share his feelings (he’s not a mouse-brain, after all), he does have a small soft spot when it comes to his female counterparts. Often times, he feels as if some queens hold more potential than the foolish braggarts around them. Sometimes he feels as oppressed as they are; however, he has no reason to. He’s a charismatic cat, and although some naturally suspicious warriors are wary of him, most cats take to him fondly. So why doesn’t he have a mate yet? It could be that he believes in love, and secretly feels that the she-cat deserves as much say as he does in a relationship, and that special queen just hasn’t come around yet. More likely, however, he is too distant to even notice the queens, or any other cat, for that matter. His eyes are always misting over, like he’s off in some perfect world with just he and the cats he holds dear and no stupid mouse-brains to take anything away; as it is, he feels he has nothing to lose. Also, Firleaf is a rather distrustful cat. After he lost his mother, he started separating from his friends and family, and now as soon as he starts caring he forces himself away. There’s no room for goodbyes, not anymore. A warrior is noble, but sacrificial, and Firleaf feels he’s done enough of that already.
History: Step, step, circle, leap, scratch, cry! Firkit listened carefully, counting the clips of claw against rock, feeling the weight of each paw as it hit the ground. He didn’t like this; he didn’t like it one bit. His father had told him to always listen to the sounds of your opponent, that you could always tell which cat was friend and which was foe based on their weight and grace and balance, but he couldn’t tell the difference between his Clanmates and those stupid warriors from TimberClan. They were light-footed too, he realized. Maybe they had to watch their paws when they walked, just like his Clanmates did. Maybe they could frighten away prey. Maybe Badgerclaw had been wrong!
“What’s happening?” Hoarkit squealed, pushing her silky white pelt into his, rough and dark red. He leaned the other way, trying to force her off.
“Shut up, Hoarkit!” he spat quietly. “Shut up or they’ll kill us!” He put an emphasis on the word “kill,” hoping it might frighten his sister into silence. It didn’t.
“But Firkit, I’m scared!”
“Shut up! You know what Mapletail told us before she left!”
Hoarkit nodded, but couldn’t quiet her soft whimper. Eyes narrowed, Firkit bristled. How he hated Hoarkit! She was so whiny and annoying. Her complaining would get them all in trouble; he was sure of it.
Meanwhile, battle raged outside. Firkit had only been alive three moons, but he had heard stories from the elders, and knew that SootClan cats were the strongest of all. Even queens had some knowledge of warfare; they would win for sure.
“Who was that?” Hoarkit whispered, and Firkit sighed.
“I’d be able to tell you if you stopped your mewling!”
“Sorry!”
When the first caterwaul broke out, the kits had quickly been told to hide in the farthest corner while the warriors guarded the nursery entrance. Being the oldest, Firkit was in charge of protecting his sister and the other kits, but he knew it was just compensation for not being able to fight. Darnit! he thought. If only I were three moons older!
From where they sat, he could see the black-and-white tail of his father and a few of the other cats watching the nursery. He took one step forward, just to see what was happening, when Hoarkit let out a loud squeal from behind. He turned around to scold her, but was bowled over by something large and white; a TimberClan apprentice!
Somehow the warriors had broken through the line, and were now charging directly at the kits! Firkit screeched and clawed at the apprentice, trying his hardest to make contact, but he was just so dang fluffy! How was he supposed to beat an enemy when he couldn’t even see where the fur ended and the cat began? A flood of SootClan warriors and queens sprang in to save the remaining kits, and still Firkit didn’t back down. He could beat this dang apprentice! He pounced on top of it, trying to dig his claws into him, but missed entirely and flew off to the side. The apprentice wasted no time, bounding toward him and clawing a nasty gash a bit too close to the belly. Firkit wailed in agony, knowing he was about to die, when one of his Clanmates rushed forward and pushed the apprentice away. Using his last bit of energy, Firkit dragged himself to safety, blood spilling from his heaving flank. He faintly remembered the medicine cat apprentice glancing over him before returning to the heat of battle, then everything went black.
When Firkit woke up again, the nursery was silent. Cats staggered everywhere, licking their wounds and nosing their fallen comrades. Firkit almost made it to his feet before some cat pushed him back down. “Hush,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep. You need your rest.”
He obeyed.
He didn’t know when he woke up next, or how many days had passed. He found himself in the medicine cat’s den, the stench of blood still heavy in the camp. He felt distant already, like something was wrong.
He would soon find out just how wrong it was.
So, yeah, basically Mapletail died trying to protect her Clan (although she would never be recognized for it), as well as a few other warriors and queens. Some kits, too, were robbed of their lives, Hoarkit being one of them. While Firleaf never felt much remorse for his dead sister (when he said he hated her, he meant it), he never did get over losing his mother. It was probably this that made him sensitive to she-cats, more than anything else. If his mother were still around like he wishes she was, he probably would be exactly the same as every other tom in the Clan.
Other: “She Runs”
Rank: Warrior
Age: 37 Moons
Gender: Tomcat
Clan: SootClan
Kin: Mapletail mother, deceased, Badgerclaw father, Hoarkit sister, deceased
Mate: none
Apprentice: Open
Pelt: Long fur, stick-straight, thick, tidy; this is what the other cats of SootClan see in the pelt of their warrior. His dark ginger fur is of striking resemblance to the bare bark of the fir trees not far away, and perhaps could be of use if they ever need to fight their TimberClan neighbors. Still, no cat can say he does not disappear among the rocks of their own home when the fresh-kill pile is low. This is where most cats picture him, striking prey instead of enemies. Perhaps it is his slender build, perfect for stalking; or perhaps they do not wish to see him on the battlefield; the faint scar that runs across his lower right flank is a constant reminder of when he was almost lost before his time. He rarely notices when their eyes won’t meet this mark; many cats believe he was too young to remember. After all, how could he, with his perking ears and tail incessantly poised in a friendly fashion? They think wrong; few kits could watch their mothers ruthlessly torn from them and forget come maturity. Death leaves a scar which no cat is proud to have, and which no cat can bear to see.
Eyes: The nettle-green coloring of his irises is yet another trait that ties him in with the distant territories; few cats choose to look at them directly, however, for they still show the pain of past experiences. Two-legs could compare them to avocados, and not only in coloring; hard, thick, and leathery on the outside, but soft and exposed in the interior. When agitated, they strike cats like the nettles of his namesake; when inspired, like the flickering flames which destroy them; when calm and relaxed, like the fluttering wings of the sparrows which nest in their boughs.
Personality: Firleaf has seen too much to be purely innocent, or to hold the anger that most toms direct toward their mates. While he would never share his feelings (he’s not a mouse-brain, after all), he does have a small soft spot when it comes to his female counterparts. Often times, he feels as if some queens hold more potential than the foolish braggarts around them. Sometimes he feels as oppressed as they are; however, he has no reason to. He’s a charismatic cat, and although some naturally suspicious warriors are wary of him, most cats take to him fondly. So why doesn’t he have a mate yet? It could be that he believes in love, and secretly feels that the she-cat deserves as much say as he does in a relationship, and that special queen just hasn’t come around yet. More likely, however, he is too distant to even notice the queens, or any other cat, for that matter. His eyes are always misting over, like he’s off in some perfect world with just he and the cats he holds dear and no stupid mouse-brains to take anything away; as it is, he feels he has nothing to lose. Also, Firleaf is a rather distrustful cat. After he lost his mother, he started separating from his friends and family, and now as soon as he starts caring he forces himself away. There’s no room for goodbyes, not anymore. A warrior is noble, but sacrificial, and Firleaf feels he’s done enough of that already.
History: Step, step, circle, leap, scratch, cry! Firkit listened carefully, counting the clips of claw against rock, feeling the weight of each paw as it hit the ground. He didn’t like this; he didn’t like it one bit. His father had told him to always listen to the sounds of your opponent, that you could always tell which cat was friend and which was foe based on their weight and grace and balance, but he couldn’t tell the difference between his Clanmates and those stupid warriors from TimberClan. They were light-footed too, he realized. Maybe they had to watch their paws when they walked, just like his Clanmates did. Maybe they could frighten away prey. Maybe Badgerclaw had been wrong!
“What’s happening?” Hoarkit squealed, pushing her silky white pelt into his, rough and dark red. He leaned the other way, trying to force her off.
“Shut up, Hoarkit!” he spat quietly. “Shut up or they’ll kill us!” He put an emphasis on the word “kill,” hoping it might frighten his sister into silence. It didn’t.
“But Firkit, I’m scared!”
“Shut up! You know what Mapletail told us before she left!”
Hoarkit nodded, but couldn’t quiet her soft whimper. Eyes narrowed, Firkit bristled. How he hated Hoarkit! She was so whiny and annoying. Her complaining would get them all in trouble; he was sure of it.
Meanwhile, battle raged outside. Firkit had only been alive three moons, but he had heard stories from the elders, and knew that SootClan cats were the strongest of all. Even queens had some knowledge of warfare; they would win for sure.
“Who was that?” Hoarkit whispered, and Firkit sighed.
“I’d be able to tell you if you stopped your mewling!”
“Sorry!”
When the first caterwaul broke out, the kits had quickly been told to hide in the farthest corner while the warriors guarded the nursery entrance. Being the oldest, Firkit was in charge of protecting his sister and the other kits, but he knew it was just compensation for not being able to fight. Darnit! he thought. If only I were three moons older!
From where they sat, he could see the black-and-white tail of his father and a few of the other cats watching the nursery. He took one step forward, just to see what was happening, when Hoarkit let out a loud squeal from behind. He turned around to scold her, but was bowled over by something large and white; a TimberClan apprentice!
Somehow the warriors had broken through the line, and were now charging directly at the kits! Firkit screeched and clawed at the apprentice, trying his hardest to make contact, but he was just so dang fluffy! How was he supposed to beat an enemy when he couldn’t even see where the fur ended and the cat began? A flood of SootClan warriors and queens sprang in to save the remaining kits, and still Firkit didn’t back down. He could beat this dang apprentice! He pounced on top of it, trying to dig his claws into him, but missed entirely and flew off to the side. The apprentice wasted no time, bounding toward him and clawing a nasty gash a bit too close to the belly. Firkit wailed in agony, knowing he was about to die, when one of his Clanmates rushed forward and pushed the apprentice away. Using his last bit of energy, Firkit dragged himself to safety, blood spilling from his heaving flank. He faintly remembered the medicine cat apprentice glancing over him before returning to the heat of battle, then everything went black.
When Firkit woke up again, the nursery was silent. Cats staggered everywhere, licking their wounds and nosing their fallen comrades. Firkit almost made it to his feet before some cat pushed him back down. “Hush,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep. You need your rest.”
He obeyed.
He didn’t know when he woke up next, or how many days had passed. He found himself in the medicine cat’s den, the stench of blood still heavy in the camp. He felt distant already, like something was wrong.
He would soon find out just how wrong it was.
So, yeah, basically Mapletail died trying to protect her Clan (although she would never be recognized for it), as well as a few other warriors and queens. Some kits, too, were robbed of their lives, Hoarkit being one of them. While Firleaf never felt much remorse for his dead sister (when he said he hated her, he meant it), he never did get over losing his mother. It was probably this that made him sensitive to she-cats, more than anything else. If his mother were still around like he wishes she was, he probably would be exactly the same as every other tom in the Clan.
Other: “She Runs”
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