Post by flynn • on Nov 10, 2013 21:58:42 GMT -6
blackclaw
and the arms of the ocean are carrying me
NAME: Blackclaw
AGE: 20 moons
GENDER: Tom
CLAN: ThunderClan
RANK: Warrior
and all this devotion was rushing out of me
SHORT DESCRIPTION:
A black-spotted, dark tabby tom with yellow eyes.
APPEARANCE:
Blackclaw is, for all intents and purposes, a fairly imposing tom. He stands taller than most, with a build that can't decide whether it's lean or sturdy, and a set of large, tufted paws, which are usually itching to be in motion. What's certain is that, whatever his build may be, there is a lot of him. He's easily growing into one of the larger warriors in the clan--maybe even, eventually, matching his father.
Although technically black, his fur has a rich, russet-brown undercoat covered with broad, black stripes which marble from his forehead to his paws. These paws themselves are large, just like the rest of him, and each one is dipped in the same coal black as his stripes. His coat is particularly thick and soft- unlike some cats, who can maintain a glossy sheen on theirs, his seems to reject the notion of reflection and light just makes it glow burnt-red. The russet undercoat gives him a warm halo in sunlight; the rest of it apparently couldn't care less. Otherwise, his coat is a few shades off pure black. And under this black coat, Blackclaw is a surprisingly muscular tom. He's still not quite at his full size, but even now there is power coiled up inside him like a spring and he's capable of using that strength to his advantage-- even if he's not aware of how imposing that physique can be.
But, odds are, if you're paying Blackclaw any attention at all, it's probably going to be his face you're looking at, so let's move on to that. His eyes are evenly spaced and a bronzed-yellow colour, with something steely glittering in them that no-one's ever quite figured out. It's probably just poor genetics, honestly. The rest of his face is rounded and regular, capped by two large, rounded ears, tufted by russet fur; the left one has a noticeable tear in it. His whiskers are black and just as long as they need to be. All this is finished off by a long muzzle, which houses a neat set of large, sharp teeth. But the most noticeable thing about Blackclaw's face is, without question, his smile. He has a store of them: winning, lopsided grins; secretive little ones that make his eyes glitter; threatening, teeth-bared, go-for-the-throat smiles that might mean nothing at all. This ramshackle collection of grins is stored right alongside shelves and shelves of other particularly emphatic expressions-- a comically exaggerated mask of surprise; flushed embarrassment; simmering hatred; determination. But, usually, it's the easy-going, half grin he wears. It curls his lips up at the corners and makes the steel in his eyes melt clean away.
Although technically black, his fur has a rich, russet-brown undercoat covered with broad, black stripes which marble from his forehead to his paws. These paws themselves are large, just like the rest of him, and each one is dipped in the same coal black as his stripes. His coat is particularly thick and soft- unlike some cats, who can maintain a glossy sheen on theirs, his seems to reject the notion of reflection and light just makes it glow burnt-red. The russet undercoat gives him a warm halo in sunlight; the rest of it apparently couldn't care less. Otherwise, his coat is a few shades off pure black. And under this black coat, Blackclaw is a surprisingly muscular tom. He's still not quite at his full size, but even now there is power coiled up inside him like a spring and he's capable of using that strength to his advantage-- even if he's not aware of how imposing that physique can be.
But, odds are, if you're paying Blackclaw any attention at all, it's probably going to be his face you're looking at, so let's move on to that. His eyes are evenly spaced and a bronzed-yellow colour, with something steely glittering in them that no-one's ever quite figured out. It's probably just poor genetics, honestly. The rest of his face is rounded and regular, capped by two large, rounded ears, tufted by russet fur; the left one has a noticeable tear in it. His whiskers are black and just as long as they need to be. All this is finished off by a long muzzle, which houses a neat set of large, sharp teeth. But the most noticeable thing about Blackclaw's face is, without question, his smile. He has a store of them: winning, lopsided grins; secretive little ones that make his eyes glitter; threatening, teeth-bared, go-for-the-throat smiles that might mean nothing at all. This ramshackle collection of grins is stored right alongside shelves and shelves of other particularly emphatic expressions-- a comically exaggerated mask of surprise; flushed embarrassment; simmering hatred; determination. But, usually, it's the easy-going, half grin he wears. It curls his lips up at the corners and makes the steel in his eyes melt clean away.
and the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me
STRENGTHS:
- Kindness - "Priorities."
- Courage -"Well, I've never been afraid of consequences."
Versatility - "That's great, but what if we--"- Intuition - "Not a good thing!"
WEAKNESSES:
- Confidence - He's never had much faith in his convictions.
- Mistrustful - Some things are earned. Others are bought in blood and pain.
- Charisma - Persuasion is not his strongest suit.
- Patience - Whatever needs to be done, it needs to be done now.
PERSONALITY:
Family teaches you more than a dark coat and hard eyes: underneath the dark fur lies as amiable and mild-tempered a warrior as any you could wish to meet. He's still a young warrior, barely eight moons out of the apprentices' den, and his shows in his easy laugh and ready assortment of smiles. Blackclaw is just one of those warriors who is always up for a joke-- any excuse for deviating from routine is just fine by him. He tries to enliven his clanmates any way he can-- whether that's stupid jokes, making a complete fool of himself, or simply taking up the duties they'd rather not do, Blackclaw's joy is making others happy. No opportunity to share freshkill with a lonely clanmate will be passed up. His own sadnesses are locked tightly away: they never help anyone else, in his view.
If he could be said to have a hobby, it would probably be story-telling. Some cats like hunting; some like fighting; some (strange cats) like swimming: Blackclaw never quite grew out of loving stories. Maybe that's part of the reason he never fails in his morning tradition of cleaning out the elders' den with his mentor. He tries to get on with everyone, but he tries especially with the elders. But as far as telling his to anyone else? That's a line Blackclaw has never stepped over. His father isn't dead yet, after all. No, for now this young warrior holds his tongue and enjoys his role as the listener.
But speaking of that tradition: Blackclaw's respect for his mentor is one of his great constants. Littlefire was the cat who single-handedly whipped him into shape, changing him from a wayward little apprentice into a full warrior. He deeply respects her and knows how much he owes to his mentor. His loyalty to her is complete and has remained unshakeable for as many moons as he's been a warrior.
His relationship with his family is a little more strained. Coming from a fairly large litter of three siblings, all much more outgoing and strong-willed than him, saw Blackclaw grow up as a fairly overlooked member of the family. He loves his parents with dutiful affection and would tell anyone who asked that he loves his siblings, but truth be told, he never really got on with any of his family members. Even as a warrior, despite learning how to appear outgoing, Blackclaw's managed to keep himself very self-contained. His loyalty is to his clan, first and foremost, with maybe a bit left over for his leader, and any faith in StarClan that he might have is a closely-guarded, very personal matter.
There's very little, in fact, that Blackclaw could be said to believe in, and he often takes issue with himself for this. Being ThunderClan means conviction, after all: it means loyalty and strength and being brave-- all things that his siblings have in spades. Some days, being himself is perfectly fine and he is at peace with the world; on others, he has to work ten times as hard to make up for the guilt gnawing away at his gut. On these days, he laughs less but takes on more solitary hunting patrols, so it's very seldom that anyone has the opportunity to notice.
His courage is a tiny little seed at present, one of the virtues he's always admired most in great heroes but doubted that he himself possessed. Blackclaw's inherent driving force has always been seeing his clanmates happy, and he's never thought twice about achieving that goal, no matter what stands in his way. He'll take the rap for misdeeds if he can, bearing punishment without complaint and taking insults without comment. It would be easy to mistake him for a foolish cat, and it's true that he's not a first-class strategist or a master with words. But Blackclaw picks up on much more than he lets on: it's just that no-one really noticed or asked him about it. As a result, he has a little bit of a reputation in the clan as a disobedient troublemaker-- at the very least, some cats know he's easily pushed around, if approached correctly.
If he could be said to have a hobby, it would probably be story-telling. Some cats like hunting; some like fighting; some (strange cats) like swimming: Blackclaw never quite grew out of loving stories. Maybe that's part of the reason he never fails in his morning tradition of cleaning out the elders' den with his mentor. He tries to get on with everyone, but he tries especially with the elders. But as far as telling his to anyone else? That's a line Blackclaw has never stepped over. His father isn't dead yet, after all. No, for now this young warrior holds his tongue and enjoys his role as the listener.
But speaking of that tradition: Blackclaw's respect for his mentor is one of his great constants. Littlefire was the cat who single-handedly whipped him into shape, changing him from a wayward little apprentice into a full warrior. He deeply respects her and knows how much he owes to his mentor. His loyalty to her is complete and has remained unshakeable for as many moons as he's been a warrior.
His relationship with his family is a little more strained. Coming from a fairly large litter of three siblings, all much more outgoing and strong-willed than him, saw Blackclaw grow up as a fairly overlooked member of the family. He loves his parents with dutiful affection and would tell anyone who asked that he loves his siblings, but truth be told, he never really got on with any of his family members. Even as a warrior, despite learning how to appear outgoing, Blackclaw's managed to keep himself very self-contained. His loyalty is to his clan, first and foremost, with maybe a bit left over for his leader, and any faith in StarClan that he might have is a closely-guarded, very personal matter.
There's very little, in fact, that Blackclaw could be said to believe in, and he often takes issue with himself for this. Being ThunderClan means conviction, after all: it means loyalty and strength and being brave-- all things that his siblings have in spades. Some days, being himself is perfectly fine and he is at peace with the world; on others, he has to work ten times as hard to make up for the guilt gnawing away at his gut. On these days, he laughs less but takes on more solitary hunting patrols, so it's very seldom that anyone has the opportunity to notice.
His courage is a tiny little seed at present, one of the virtues he's always admired most in great heroes but doubted that he himself possessed. Blackclaw's inherent driving force has always been seeing his clanmates happy, and he's never thought twice about achieving that goal, no matter what stands in his way. He'll take the rap for misdeeds if he can, bearing punishment without complaint and taking insults without comment. It would be easy to mistake him for a foolish cat, and it's true that he's not a first-class strategist or a master with words. But Blackclaw picks up on much more than he lets on: it's just that no-one really noticed or asked him about it. As a result, he has a little bit of a reputation in the clan as a disobedient troublemaker-- at the very least, some cats know he's easily pushed around, if approached correctly.
but the arms of the ocean delivered me
MOTHER: Juniperleaf (elder)
FATHER: Oakfang (warrior)
SIBLINGS: Badgerpelt (F), Shadowfur (F), Rowantail (M)
OTHER FAMILY: Coalstorm: deceased grandmother, former ShadowClan warrior.
Three aunts, two uncles, probably some cousins.
MENTOR: Littlefire.
HISTORY:
(aka, oh gods why does Flynn write so much nonsense in her histories, make her stop, please just make her stop)
[li]Blackkit was born, the smallest of his litter.
[/li][li]Oakfang teaches his kits hunting crouches and stances from an early age; some members of the clan notice and resent this.
[/li][li]Apprenticeship begins; mentor is Littlefire.
[/li][li]Blackpaw withdraws from his siblings, throws himself into training.
[/li][li]Makes friends with two other apprentices, pure troublemakers.They get up to all kinds of mischief, including dragging a beehive (which, in their defence, they thought was empty) into camp.
[/li][li]Blackpaw goes on his last border patrol as an apprentice with his siblings Badgerpaw and Shadowpaw; Rowanpaw is excused on the basis of his mentor being happy with his performance. The border patrol goes nasty and Blackpaw manages to fight off an opponent with help from Shadowpaw. He gains the fetching slash through his left ear.
[/li][li]One full day later, the four apprentices are made warriors.
[/li][li]Not much has changed.
[/li][/ul]
Life begins, eyes open, experience awaits. Little Blackkit was the smallest of his litter, dwarfed by his sisters and brother, but grew on love and attention like a flower grows in the sun. Juniperleaf was as generous with her time and affections as any mother could be, firm when required, but mostly sweetness of a quality rich enough to tempt the bees from their flowers. Oakfang was a more serious parent. He had always had expectations for his litter and made sure they had their fair share of training in hunting crouches and fighting stances at a young age. The other queens whispered about him, but Blackkit was always eager for the attention, and he craved that knowledge as much as he craved air. But life in the nursery wasn't always sunny, of course. Even though Blackkit loved his father's training, his siblings were fond of his training for different reasons. Badgerkit was the largest, and often took the reigns. She used the techniques their father taught them to greatest effect and Blackkit often took the brunt- but there was no lasting malice in her actions, whatever Blackkit thought.
At six moons old and on the cusp of leafbare, the leader of ThunderClan called on four excited kittens. Blackpaw was in awe of his leader but in the awful, somewhat frightened way he'd always looked at his father. He hadn't known there could be a cat with more power.
Blackpaw was always a withdrawn little apprentice and in spite of the chill, he found himself building his nest away from all the other apprentices-- closest to the door. As a result, he took the brunt of the cold, was always the first awake because of the light, and had to become good at blocking out noise to avoid being woken by all the noise of camp. His mentor was Littlefire, and it wouldn't be a lie to say that Blackpaw did not immediately take a shine to his mentor. However hard Badgerkit had thought Oakfang's training had been, Littlefire trained him harder. Every day was an early morning; every evening there was a patrol or hunting or crouches to master, holds to remember, techniques he'd never even heard of to replicate down to a hair's distance from perfect. It was hard, and for an apprentice with so little self-confidence it was difficult to push through sometimes. But Littlefire could be an understanding mentor as well as a firm one, and under her tutelage he grew more confident in his skills. He'll never forget the first time he heard honest praise from her, late in his apprenticeship when he finally demonstrated each of his fighting techniques in quick and effective succession. He'd done something right. He could be a warrior.
It was from his fellow apprentices that Blackpaw learned to let go of his hard shell. He had exactly two close friends and they, in turn, had their own friends, most of whom were of course Blackpaw's own siblings. In this new context, Blackclaw was on equal footing with his littermates. Badgerpaw's requests for sparring sessions could be politely deflected; Shadowpaw's shenanigans no longer seemed angry and he was able to see the innocent intentions that had been there all along. His new friends did enjoy getting themselves into trouble, of course. Once, they found an empty old beehive and dragged it back to camp, only to find out (alas and alack!) that it wasn't deserted after all. There had been chaos in ThunderClan for weeks. Blackpaw's first experience with the medicine cat had been his punishment: they had scowled at him as they doled out blackberry leaves and dandelion stems for the hapless apprentice to apply to cats' stings. Blackpaw didn't mind, of course-- he was horribly guilty and was only too glad to make himself useful. The worst part had been his parents' and mentor's disapproval, but he understood why and knew he deserved it. In the end, this was just more incentive to be better and try harder.
After moons of dedicated training, Blackpaw and his siblings were nearing the time for their warrior ceremony, and the three siblings had been taken on patrol with their mentors. Blackclaw's relationship to his siblings involved more dutiful affection than real brotherly love by this point and he resented the decision that had been made out of his hearing to perform this ritual as if they were some kind of loving family. From all the laughing and chatting that Badgerpaw and Shadowpaw were doing, at least part of the family was enjoying themselves. Rowanpaw's mentor was already satisfied with his performance, he would later learn: they were just waiting on the siblings to prove themselves.
This was Blackpaw's first experience of a border patrol gone wrong. It was dusk, always a dangerous time to be patrolling ShadowClan's borders, and the moon hung low in the horizon, half glimmering white and the other half cast into shadow. He remembered all the stories the elders used to tell him, the stories about the moon: it was StarClan's watchful eye, and when it was dark no danger could befall the clans; it was a leaf from StarClan's forest, carried across the surface of StarClan's pool and sinking, rising, sinking, rising; it was the spirit of some long-ago cat-- but the stories could never agree who. It was in this half-awake state that he caught the stench of ShadowClan. Everyone else in the patrol must have noticed it at the same time, for they flattened to the ground as one cat. ThunderClan's elaborate language of tail signals immediately came into effect. I don't see them. I don't see them. I don't see them. Littlefire separated them into three groups and cautiously each one advanced toward the border. ShadowClan scent was fresh. They must have been encroaching on ThunderClan's borders again. Then the cats heard a twig snap, a yowl of "NOW!" and Blackclaw found himself pinned to the ground under the weight of a ShadowClan warrior. Instinctively he shook from side to side, trying to throw the cat off him. He felt the claws dig in for purchase but too late, as they slipped and fell free. "Ambush!" someone yelled, and "ThunderClan, to me!". Blackclaw began to back away, hoping the ShadowClanner would surrender, but the warrior soon regained their feet and aimed a brutal swipe at his face, slicing into his ear. Hot pain distracted him for a moment, long enough for the warrior to land a dizzying blow to his head. Through the blur, he saw a black shape leap from the bushes and send the ShadowClan cat crashing into the earth. Shadowpaw tried to keep them pinned but there was no holding down the slippery warrior. Nearby he could hear the rest of their patrol fighting their own battles. Soon the warrior was back up and the two apprentices were circling him. The pain in Blackclaw's ear had subsided but his eyes were hard as flint, if only to mask the fear he felt. ThunderClan could not let this go. This was a battle they had to win, and win hard. What would it take to make this cat go away? He knew: a blow they'd never forget. While the warrior's gaze flickered from apprentice to apprentice, Blackpaw raised his forepaw and brought it down in a heavy blow on the warrior's head. He didn't notice his claws had been unsheathed until he saw the two spots of blood moistening the fur. But the warrior was readying to attack and he had to keep up the offence. He reared up to get more height and brought down his other paw in another crushing blow. "Leave," he snarled, and as the warrior's muscles tensed to leap at him, Shadowpaw swiped the paws out from under them and sent them crashing down. Blackpaw raised his paw a third time, when he saw the warrior's eyes. There was such hatred, dizzied confusion, but also a little fear. The fear of the defeated. Blackpaw's heart surged. "Leave!" and this time the word was a roar. He brought his paws down with claws unsheathed on either side of the ShadowClan cat's head. The ShadowClanner scrambled to their feet, tail dropped in submission, and the two apprentices watched as the dark shape fled towards the border.
After mopping up the last of the would-be raiding party, all concerned were ready to collapse into their nests, but Littlefire insisted they finish their patrol. Still, once the borders were remarked and the deputy had been reported to, it was as good a night's sleep as any Blackpaw had ever had.
A mere day after that, the children of Oakfang and Juniperleaf were made full warriors of ThunderClan. Badgerpelt was praised for her nobility and determination; Shadowfur was commended for her quick mind and light heart; Rowantail for his speed and skill, and little Blackclaw, now slightly larger than his siblings, was named for his kindness and dependability.
His father was stricken with whitecough a few leafbares ago and never quite recovered, but remains a full warrior, as does his mother. Life is awkward, sharing a den with your family after so many moons apart, but the warriors' den is larger and Blackclaw has found a quiet corner all to himself.
These day, Blackclaw's days are defined only by how much he can fill them with: patrols, hunting, sparring, even just amiable chitchat. There is never a moment of his day that he doesn't seek to fill. [/div]
never let me go, never let me go
ROLE-PLAYER: Call me Flynn or Fallen :D
WRITING SAMPLE:
See Ashrose!
Lyrics: Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine
[/div][/div][/div]
