Post by Muffler on Dec 27, 2013 9:13:58 GMT -6
and the arms of the ocean are carrying me
NAME: Flintfang
AGE: 17 moons
GENDER: Male
CLAN: RiverClan
RANK: Warrior
and all this devotion was rushing out of me
SHORT DESCRIPTION:
a scruffy, ginger-striped tom, with green eyes.
APPEARANCE:
Flintfang is a semi-longhaired, cinnamon silver classic tabby. And if he’s to be described in a single word, that word would be: Scruffy. He could be fairly decent looking, if he only bothered to clean up once in a while. “If ya don’t smell, you’re fine,” says this plush-furred tom. His peach-ish fur is topped with bold, dark ginger stripes, which could be rather vibrant, if it weren’t dulled down by a layer of dust that never seems to go away. His white paws are often covered in various debris or whatever muck he’s been romping about in. His thick, floofy tail is always held high, along with his tufted ears. His green eyes are nothing quite special, though they do seem to glint with a bit of kit-ish cheekiness.
and the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me
STRENGTHS:
- Cheery optimist!
- Superb climbing skills, for a RiverClanner
- Can be somewhat inventive
- Adventurous, and a wide-eyed idealist
WEAKNESSES:
- Naive for his age, trusts other cats way too easily
- Too nice—to stupid degrees. May prove to be his downfall
- Cannot swim to save his life
- Pacifist, will never use his claws. Which is silly, for a cat.
- Might not be all right in the head.
PERSONALITY:
Ah yes! Flintfang. A care-free young tom who looks at the world through the eyes of a kit. No, his happiness isn’t hiding some deep-seated pain or any of the sort, he really is truly content with what life has to offer. Flintfang might seem like a lazy, stupid cat, but sometimes, if you look really closely, with 100x magnification, you might see a hint of genius. Might.
He absolutely loves having fun—maybe it’s the adrenaline rush he’s addicted to? Who knows? But he’s extremely reckless with himself. Flintfang won’t hesitate to throw himself into unforeseen danger just for the sake of fun. That coupled with his slight klutz tendencies makes many cats wonder why he hasn’t died yet.
Speaking of cats. Many of his clanmates tend to steer clear of him. Why? Well, one, he can’t swim. Yeah. A Riverclan cat that can’t swim. Wonderful, aye? He compensates this by being an exceptionally good climber, and provides much of the clan’s non-fish diet.
Oh. They also avoid him because he thinks a white squirrel is stalking him.
Yep.
His sanity has been questioned on more than one occasion.
But he was raised to be a good lad. Maybe too good. He’s too kind to everyone, always thinking the best of all cats. Too trusting, this guy is. It might just prove to be his downfall someday.
To summarize, just your average scruffy ole’ squirrel-obsessed happy dude that might not be quite all there in the head.
It’s theorized that his mother dropped him as a kit, thus his slightly odd mentality, but this was never confirmed.
Nor denied.
He absolutely loves having fun—maybe it’s the adrenaline rush he’s addicted to? Who knows? But he’s extremely reckless with himself. Flintfang won’t hesitate to throw himself into unforeseen danger just for the sake of fun. That coupled with his slight klutz tendencies makes many cats wonder why he hasn’t died yet.
Speaking of cats. Many of his clanmates tend to steer clear of him. Why? Well, one, he can’t swim. Yeah. A Riverclan cat that can’t swim. Wonderful, aye? He compensates this by being an exceptionally good climber, and provides much of the clan’s non-fish diet.
Oh. They also avoid him because he thinks a white squirrel is stalking him.
Yep.
His sanity has been questioned on more than one occasion.
But he was raised to be a good lad. Maybe too good. He’s too kind to everyone, always thinking the best of all cats. Too trusting, this guy is. It might just prove to be his downfall someday.
To summarize, just your average scruffy ole’ squirrel-obsessed happy dude that might not be quite all there in the head.
It’s theorized that his mother dropped him as a kit, thus his slightly odd mentality, but this was never confirmed.
but the arms of the ocean delivered me
MOTHER: Sunpelt: disappeared when he was an apprentice. Presumed to be deceased.
FATHER: Thatch: Loner, father. Had a one-night stand with Sunpelt.
SIBLINGS: nil. He was an only kit.
OTHER FAMILY: Dappledwing: Grandmother, an elder, alive and well. (Having single kits seem to be a family thing.)
MENTOR: Rainfur
HISTORY:
While most other cats’ parents were brought together by destiny and/or romance… Flintfang’s parents were brought together by… natural instincts. His mother, Sunpelt, was in a frisky mood, and she was out on a solo hunting trip when she came across his father, Thatch, a trespassing loner. The two struck a deal, she won’t rat him out for intrusion, if he… well. You know. Thatch was all too happy to oblige. After that fateful evening, the two never met again.
And not too long after, Flintkit was born into the world. Flintkit was as kits were, boisterous, playful and bouncy. Sunpelt, being a young, first time mother, was protective and loving of her son. Even if he was a bit too fidgety and wriggly. There wasn’t much problems—though his ticklish nature made bath time absolutely exhausting for Sunpelt.
Flintkit became Flintpaw, and he was soon assigned a mentor as apprentices do. But Flintpaw’s playful nature and tendencies to get himself into sticky situations made his mentor deem him ‘unteachable’. (Sunpelt got into a hissy rage when she heard this.) Flintpaw was then assigned a new mentor, Rainfur.
Though aging, Rainfur was patient, and patience was all Flintpaw needed. Whenever Flintpaw got himself into trouble, like say, getting caught in a bramble patch, Rainfur would sit back and simply wait for his apprentice to get himself out, instead of flying into a rage like his, ah, previous mentor would. It was during this period that the clan learnt Flintpaw was a drypaw. He wouldn’t go near any large bodies of water—he freezes up within a few tail-lengths of a river, or a lake, or even the sea. (But puddles were fine. He loves splish-splashing in puddles.) To compensate, Flintpaw devoted his time to learning how to climb and hunt on land. His motivation? To catch that elusive white squirrel that kept on staring at him! (Jeez. What’s that squirrel’s deal, anyway?)
Because of the sparse trees on Riverclan territory, he spent quite a chunk of his apprentice-hood on the Island, where there were considerably more trees. His training paid off, and soon, he could shimmer up a tree with the best of them. (But he never could catch that squirrel.)
Flintpaw took quite a while longer than other apprentices, but in the end he earned his warrior name: Flintfang. However, on the day of his naming ceremony, his mother mysteriously vanished. Flintfang hoped she was just late to the ceremony, but when she didn’t appear throughout the day, Flintfang knew something was wrong. Though patrols were carried out to search for Sunpelt, she was never found.
Oddly, Flintfang never moped. At least, not in front of other cats. After all, his mother could take care of herself. And if she was dead… Starclan would be her home now. What could be better than that?
And not too long after, Flintkit was born into the world. Flintkit was as kits were, boisterous, playful and bouncy. Sunpelt, being a young, first time mother, was protective and loving of her son. Even if he was a bit too fidgety and wriggly. There wasn’t much problems—though his ticklish nature made bath time absolutely exhausting for Sunpelt.
Flintkit became Flintpaw, and he was soon assigned a mentor as apprentices do. But Flintpaw’s playful nature and tendencies to get himself into sticky situations made his mentor deem him ‘unteachable’. (Sunpelt got into a hissy rage when she heard this.) Flintpaw was then assigned a new mentor, Rainfur.
Though aging, Rainfur was patient, and patience was all Flintpaw needed. Whenever Flintpaw got himself into trouble, like say, getting caught in a bramble patch, Rainfur would sit back and simply wait for his apprentice to get himself out, instead of flying into a rage like his, ah, previous mentor would. It was during this period that the clan learnt Flintpaw was a drypaw. He wouldn’t go near any large bodies of water—he freezes up within a few tail-lengths of a river, or a lake, or even the sea. (But puddles were fine. He loves splish-splashing in puddles.) To compensate, Flintpaw devoted his time to learning how to climb and hunt on land. His motivation? To catch that elusive white squirrel that kept on staring at him! (Jeez. What’s that squirrel’s deal, anyway?)
Because of the sparse trees on Riverclan territory, he spent quite a chunk of his apprentice-hood on the Island, where there were considerably more trees. His training paid off, and soon, he could shimmer up a tree with the best of them. (But he never could catch that squirrel.)
Flintpaw took quite a while longer than other apprentices, but in the end he earned his warrior name: Flintfang. However, on the day of his naming ceremony, his mother mysteriously vanished. Flintfang hoped she was just late to the ceremony, but when she didn’t appear throughout the day, Flintfang knew something was wrong. Though patrols were carried out to search for Sunpelt, she was never found.
Oddly, Flintfang never moped. At least, not in front of other cats. After all, his mother could take care of herself. And if she was dead… Starclan would be her home now. What could be better than that?
never let me go, never let me go
ROLE-PLAYER: Muffler/Shahi
WRITING SAMPLE:
The water vole scurried to a bare patch of land, sand flying behind it as it dug, probably trying to unearth a meal.
A few tail-lengths away, obscured by springy grass, another creature was trying to get a meal. Green eyes trained on the vole, ears perked, body stiff—Flintfang was hunting. He raised a paw, ready to advance another step forward. He was completely focused. There was nothing that could break his concentration. That vole was as good as dea—
“Oh hey, a blue butterfly!” Flintfang rose from his hunting stance to get a better look at the insect that just fluttered above his ears. “Never seen you around these parts buddy!”
Flintfang froze.
The vole scampered away.
“Mousetails.” He mumbled, watching as his lunch zipped for a hole in the ground too small for him to get through. He pouted for a few seconds, before shaking his head. “Ah well! You win some, you lose some!”
Flintfang returned his attention back to the colourful critter that just flittered by. He trotted through the grass, following it, with his tail held high.
A few tail-lengths away, obscured by springy grass, another creature was trying to get a meal. Green eyes trained on the vole, ears perked, body stiff—Flintfang was hunting. He raised a paw, ready to advance another step forward. He was completely focused. There was nothing that could break his concentration. That vole was as good as dea—
“Oh hey, a blue butterfly!” Flintfang rose from his hunting stance to get a better look at the insect that just fluttered above his ears. “Never seen you around these parts buddy!”
Flintfang froze.
The vole scampered away.
“Mousetails.” He mumbled, watching as his lunch zipped for a hole in the ground too small for him to get through. He pouted for a few seconds, before shaking his head. “Ah well! You win some, you lose some!”
Flintfang returned his attention back to the colourful critter that just flittered by. He trotted through the grass, following it, with his tail held high.
Lyrics: Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine
