The Snake Forest

There are five Clans in the forest. MistClan, HawkClan, MountainClan, StreamClan, and the evil BoneClan. Do wish to join the brave HawkClan, the sneaky MountainClan, the swift MistClan, the water dwelling StreamClan, or the malicious BoneClan?


Once the first three members make there characters and have them accepted, we all can begin roleplaying!

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26 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 5:34 pm

~SassyCassySPN

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Badgerpelt ✻ StreamClan


Name

Badger,Badgerpelt

Reasoning

For his brown and white fur and wide-set body.

Age

Thirty Two moons

Gender

Tom

Alliance

StreamClan, former Loner.

Rank

Deputy


Physique


Short description

Thickly built tom with a brown and white pelt.


Physical description

Badgerpelt is a rather thickly built tom. Fairly short with thick legs and bright white fur, this tom's lumbering gait seems fairly similar to that of a badger. He's not really fat, though his body is built in a way that might make some cats assume- especially considering how well StreamClan tends to eat. His shoulders and haunches are wide, built up with powerful muscles. He moves slowly, but for a cat that hunts fish in the river, he only needs his pawswipes to be agile and accurate. He sports a fair amount of dark, rich brown tabby fur, along the top of his head and past his shoulders along his back, and his tail. Badgerpelt's tail is on the short side of average, ending in darker black stripes than the rest of his tabby pelt, ending in a jet black tip. His nose is a soft, bright pink along side his paw pads and inner ears, and his eyes are a pale green.


CLICK HERE Very Happy
Personality

Badgerpelt is a rather dense tom. He isn't the brightest bulb, but he is a fairly exciteable cat. He loves proving himself in tests of skill and strength, but for a StreamClan cat, he doesn't care much for fish or swimming. Over time has come to appreciate what his clan has to offer, but he's definitely the kind of cat you can buy friendship from or bribe, just give him a good squirrel. A simple cat, but a good warrior.

With cats in other clans, he's the first to back up his own clanmates and be a bit of a jerk, even if he doesn't have to. He protects his clans with his muscle and threats, as if that will prove his loyalty.

Yet... As of late, he's been questioning his place in StreamClan. Born as a loner, the tom cat never really has had a place in life. He's spent many moons in StreamClan, but even now he finds himself wondering if he really belongs. Thankfully the tom is fairly apprehensive of change, and can actually be quite timid among his clanmates. For him to actually speak out against the cats who distrust him, or to even leave, would be a huge step.

All in all, Badgerpelt has a bit of a hard time interacting with other due to being separated from his mother at a young age, but he always tries hard.




The past


History

Badger was abandoned by his mother as a kit, only to be found by a tom who he considered his father for the few moons they were together. The tom had a hard time taking care of him, but named him Badger and kept him well fed, at least until Leafbare came around. Abandoning him at the river by the lake, the young kit wailed and wailed until a warrior from StreamClan found him and took him in. Badger quickly became an apprentice, and although overwhelmed by clan life, having been a loner his whole kithood, he adapted fairly quickly.

Badgerpaw never liked the taste of fish, but it grew on him. He wasn't the best hunter, not liking water as much as the strange StreamCla cats, but he took well to fighting. He knew well what it meant to fight for your life and protect your territory, and was glad to get out some of his raw strength and energy in a constructive way.

Distrust was rife within the clans, and he felt himself being shoved to the outside, as if no cat trusted him. The tom still tries to prove his loyalty, but as the moons go by he's finding it harder and harder to find his place within the clan... To feel like he really belongs.

Perhaps it would just be better if he snuck out in the middle of the night, leaving the clan before they abandon him.

He was wholly surprised when the StreamClan leader, Brookstar chose him as her Deputy.





About you


Alias
Cassy or Cas
Other characters Look at the previous appies.


__________________
"Hey, see if they've got any pie. Bring me some pie. I love me some pie."~Dean Winchester

27 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 5:42 pm

BowTiesAreCool

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Heres Fish if i didn't put it up yet

http://warriorcatsroleplay1.forumotion.com

28 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 5:44 pm

BowTiesAreCool

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Here's Turtle

http://warriorcatsroleplay1.forumotion.com

29 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 6:21 pm

~SassyCassySPN

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Razor✻ Rogue


Name

Spot, Razor

Reasoning

He was called Spot because of his markings, but then he was like, "that name is lame, im Razor now, suck it." xD I'm sorry, I had to.

Age

Sixteen moons

Gender

Tom (Neutered)

Alliance

Rogue

Rank

Rogue


Physique


Short description

Thin white tom with splotches.


Physical description

This strange, narrow tom has keen, cunning yellow eyes that are distrustful in themselves. His claws are long and almost always unsheathed, along with his sharp white teeth that show even when his lips are together. As he talks, he speaks with a hiss or a menagerie of growls-- just by passing this tom most cats know not to trust him. Despite being old enough to be more or less full grown, his bone structure makes him look scrawny even when he's well fed.

Overall, his fur is an offwhite shade, usually with some amount of filth and dirt on his coat. However, the white hair is short and therefore, if he wanted it clean, he could easily groom himself up to look like a handsome, well-kept tom. He sports a few patches of grey on his face, each about the size of a large paw print. He also has patches on each of his legs, but his tail is pure white. The one overlapping his nose looks a fair bit like a spade, while the rest are circular.

Most cats can tell by his smell that he has been cut by a vet, though interestingly enough his cut ears are marked as proof.




Personality

Razor is a big bully who just wants attention. When he found the clans, about 3 moons ago, he made it his mission to become king or kill every cat trying. Of course, fighting four giant clans of cats is generally asking for death, so for now he's simply been proving he's a threat by picking off cats where he can and avoiding patrols or other large groups.

This tom isn't really charismatic. He's not a threat to even a pair of cats, and will run if he runs into trouble he can't handle. He is a weasel through and through, willing to lie to get his way to the top and deceive every cat. He is a pretty intelligent cat though, so watch out.

Almost any cat that is even a slightly good judge of character can tell by a glance that this tom is up to no good. He's selfish and greedy and probably always will be. He's always looked out for only himself and it would take quite the cat to change his ways, since it's all he's ever known.




The past


History

Spot was born to a stray she-cat named Rose, who was as sweet as the flower she was named after without any of the thorns. The little alley cat grew up along side a sister, Dottie, and a brother, Patches, both who had a lot less white than him. His sister, a cat splattered with grey and brown flecks, and his brother, mainly brown with splashes of white. Their mother tried her best to take care of them, but street life was hard and she didn't have any nofurs consistently taking care of her. So his mother produced less milk out of hunger, and subsequently Dottie grew weak, then sick, and then died. Patches, the bigger of the pair, grew up strong and healthy feeding off of what milk he could get, while Spot fought every inch of the way.

As soon as they were old enough, their mother ditched them. She was kind and gentle, but she couldn't take care of them and honestly, the little white and grey tom doesn't know if she even survived. Meanwhile, Patches took to bullying his brother, and roped him into a colony with some other cats who were even worse than him. His brother proved himself to the alley cats, and got a new name: Fang. Spot stayed Spot, and was mostly just the cat-toy of the group, bullied and beaten but at least he was able to hunt in the abandoned buildings, and dig in the bountiful nofur metal cans and survive. Fang looked out for him as much as he could, as much as a brother who barely cared could.

Nofurs caught on quick to the growing population problem, and Spot was captured. He had his bits taken, but he was already aggressive and angsty and fixing him didn't sort any of that out. It didn't fix anyone else in his group either, though the uncut cats got increasingly more aggressive to the cut-earred cats, to the point where Spot got really sick of Fang's and his buddies' shit and basically went: Nope, bye.

So anyway, Spot ran away and decided on a new name for himself: Razor. It was harsh, vicious name like Fang but it sounded even cooler and he though it was awesome. From there, he left the nofur territory and ventured out into the wild, learning to hunt on his own-- he was a natural, as any cat would be if they had fought for every bit of food they had ever had. Eventually he ran into the clan cats, and they brought back memories. He watched them from afar, and began to covet their wide territory and their huge lake. He decided he wanted it to be his.

But Razor had never been a leader, he had only ever been a cat-toy lackey who wasn't good for anything. Suppose a bit of blood on his claws would make him feel a bit more powerful, a bit more worth something. In a way, this is his revenge for a life time of misery-- the clan cats have everything he ever wanted. He could never be one of them, but he could destroy them. Maybe even become their king.


That was literally the best History I have ever made xD


About you


Alias
Cassy or Cas
Other characters -points- Look up


__________________
"Hey, see if they've got any pie. Bring me some pie. I love me some pie."~Dean Winchester

30 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 9:28 pm

BowTiesAreCool

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Whiteheart ✻ HawkClan


Name

Whiteheart

Reasoning

Because of his white pelt.

Age

23 moons

Gender

tom

Alliance

HawkClan

Rank

Deputy


Physique


Short description

Whiteheart has a white pelt and yellow eyes.


Physical description

Whiteheart is a big, fluffy tom, and his back left paw is black.



Personality

Whiteheart is loyal, warmhearted, and loving.



The past


History

Whitehearts father, Otterfang, was a HawkClan cat. But Whitehearts mother, Whitetail, was a loner. They loved each other as Otterfang loved the Clan. Soon, Otterfang asked Whitetail to be his mate. And of course, she said yes. Later on, she was pregnant with three kits. When they were born, Whitetail sadly passed away. Otterfrost brought back the kits back to his Clan and asked if they could join. The answer was yes. So Otterfrost went back to where Whitetail died and buried her where they always met.




About you


Alias
Really anything is fine but maybe Bow Tie
Other characters Spottedpaw, Lynxpaw. Foxclaw, Finchpaw, Shadowfall, Brookstar, Fish, and Turtle. Spottedpaw's from MistClan, Lynxpaw's from StreamClan, Foxclaw's from MountainClan, Finchpaw's from StreamClan, Shadowfall's from MountainClan, Brookstar's from StreamClan, Fish's a kittypet, and Turtle's a kittypet.

http://warriorcatsroleplay1.forumotion.com

31 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 9:33 pm

BowTiesAreCool

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Whiteheart

http://warriorcatsroleplay1.forumotion.com

32 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 10:01 pm

~SassyCassySPN

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Axel✻ BoneClan


Name

Axel

Reasoning

Unknown

Age

Thirty moons

Gender

Tom

Alliance

BoneClan

Rank

Leader


Physique


Short description

Ragged brown and white tom with amber eyes.


Physical description

When most people first see Axel, they run away. Or cower, or glance uneasily. Those were the worst - those glances. Like they never were able to confess to themselves what they were seeing; a small, undersized young tom, with fur so ragged he could have been wearing a tangled carpet and few would notice the difference. Like they didn't want to admit that they could do nothing for him, and even if they did, they didn't want to approach him. He always looks perpetually sick, as if a mere touch would transmit a disease of inexplicable origin and bitter decay, and his thinness eats away at his bones with a slow-creeping fervor. Axel has understood for a long time that his appearance alone turns him into an outcast, but he can do little to change it. He is naturally thin, naturally scrawny, naturally ill. He used to groom himself, but the fur upset his digestive system, and he'd spend hours retching afterwards - an action that went against his very nature as a cat. So he doesn't clean up, doesn't bother to eat more. He bothers, in fact, to do very little. And after a while, he's found a refuge in his dishevelment, found a certain protection in the initial impression that repulses so many. He looks dangerous and a little strange, especially because his back legs are never completely straight (his front legs aren't long enough for that) but then again, the most frightening always do.

He's incredibly leggy. That's the thing most others notice when they see him, after they get over his tangled fur. It's like he's on a springboard when he walks, giving him a bounce that would set him apart no matter where he was. Thick and powerful, they are at odds with his thinner, shorter body; his hind legs are especially so, capable of kicks that could knock out an opponent twice the size and weight of Axel himself (and have). His paws are wide and blunt; long months of hanging around only as long as it was necessary to take something he needed to survive have ingrained in him an unconscious aversion to extending his claws. It's justified: he's much better at clubbing cats around the head with a kick or a whack, sending them into dreamland, and it's much more efficient than all-out slaughter (though he has no problem with that, too). In fact, his claws only come out when he intends to kill or maim or torture - and by then, it's usually too late for whatever hapless cat is the object of his attention. The claws themselves are fairly long and hooked; he doesn't take care of them like he probably should, so they get a little lengthy.

When he was very young, one of his eyes was infected, an affliction that not even a Healer could make go away (maybe it was too late by then). Naturally, his eyes are a deep gold; his left eye (when looking into his face) remains that color, often startling in its vivid intensity. His right eye, the infected eye, is similarly vivid - but amber in color and unnerving, just another sign of his oddness or weirdness or whatever you prefer to call it. Close, detail work is difficult for him; often he'll shut his infected eye and work only with his left, which if upheld for too long (and it inevitably will be, Axel's very persistent) will give him a headache. When he has a headache, Axel sulks; leggy as he is, it can be difficult for him to curl up properly into a tight ball, but he manages. It's always a treat to see him lay down; he folds himself up like paper, neatly tucking in stray edges and smoothing the creases with precision. All of his movements are a mixture of deliberation and faint impatience, but when he settles down to sleep or pay close attention to something, it'll be as if he's carved of stone - with only the faint rise and fall of his breathing and the twitch of his tail belying otherwise.

As is probably obvious from earlier descriptions, Axel is thin, though not cut into edges as sharp as his brother. His face is a little rounder than Piper's, the cheekbones clearly defined and the structure surprisingly fragile when juxtaposed with the power in his legs. His stomach is narrow, black, brown, and white fur hiding the ribs that often appear from lack of nutrition, and his whole body seems arched up a bit; perhaps a result from being so very tall. His chest and hips, as mentioned before, are very strong; the muscles there are visible, but still rather bony, leading to an illusion of weakness that is far from the truth. Still, all said and done, Axel looks like a cat assembled from pieces that were never meant to be put together; he's rather disproportionate, and it would seem that not even his pelt can figure out what color it wants to be - in the light, the black and brown seems to turn into a sleek red; the white, a dirty cream. Perhaps the only thing his appearance can properly agree on is that he looks younger than he really is. It's always been like that. He lacks the charisma of Piper and the gravity of Cirrus; if you were to go by him on the street, you'd probably find him strange and dwell on him for a moment, but he's young enough he's easily forgettable - you'll pass him, and he'll be gone.


Click here

Click here

Personality

The hints of the Axel-that-might-have-been often float up to the surface, though with less and less frequency as time wears on. It whispers a picture of somebody softer, somebody less desperate and never hurt, somebody who you could spend time with without ever being frightened or anxious once. Cirrus was the first to discover it, as she was the first to pay any attention to Axel beyond the normal revulsion, but it was hardly unprecedented. Axel had always been eager to learn; the only reason he survived on the streets was his passionate desire for knowledge. Anything that came his way he did his best to absorb, with varying levels of success; the things he did learn, he retained. He was earnest; there wasn’t a part of him that didn’t reek honesty and a certain gullibility that those who met him inevitably tried to take advantage of. He was truthful - Axel could not and never would be able to bring himself to lie, something that he abhorred with every fiber of his being. There is nothing that brings his anger on quicker than being lied to; it was a habit of other cats in the city, those that exploited him, and it hurt, especially as a younger cat. It still hurts today, a wounded wet noise of betrayal, but he’s managed to damp it down and ignore it, a sin that will never go away.

As Cirrus also observed, he’s sweet. Axel is child-like in the joy he can find in the world; if you catch him on a good day, he’s quiet and giddy, leaving a trail of irrepressible delight wherever he goes. He’s the happiest cat in the world during those days - his happiness is often infectious, and especially if you sit down and talk to him, you’ll be bowled over backwards and possibly fall in love within an hour. As for him, he’ll fall in love with you even faster than that. If you give him time, if you give show him kindness and affection - it’ll be an awkward love, the love of a shy poet with too much to lose and no idea what he can gain - you’ll be able to see it. Axel is an open book; his moods are changeable as the weather, but even easier to read. If there is a storm coming, it will show. If blue sky stretches from mountain to horizon, you can see it in his eyes and body. With Axel, you’ll always know where you stand - and when his eyes go flat and cold as mirrors, you’ll know to run. It’s a handy thing, to be able to read him, even though it’s very rare that you can change his mind by any sort of manipulation. That’s the other thing Axel can’t stand - and don’t try to trick him, because he’ll know. Even if he loves you, he’ll know. There’s not much you can get past Axel, these days. There’s not much that he expects from you, no matter how much he loves you. He knows enough to be disappointed now.

Maybe his problem is that he feels too much and he can’t take it all in. His emotions overwhelm him and he drowns, a swirl of sharply defined edges pointing the way down. He shares his brother’s intensity; there is little that escapes his notice, careful and attentive as he is, but unlike his brother, he cannot handle the truth he uncovers. It’s not that he has fits of temper - he doesn’t, except for the occasional over dramatic sulk or rant if he thinks people will listen to him (this, too, he shares with Piper). Rather than reacting in a volatile way, Axel is frighteningly predictable if you can think logically and in linear lines. He doesn’t dally around like Piper; he isn’t fond of playing games or messing with possibilities. For Axel, depending on the truth, he either kills or hurts - whichever he thinks will cause the most destruction to the characters involved, though he’s not fond of messes he has to clean up. And it’s easy to push him to this edge - too easy. You need only whisper that you’ll leave him, hint it in the dead of night, murmur it into a shadow - and if he passes by, if he hears, he’ll kill you. Or maybe he’ll kill your loved ones first, and then let you realize and then kill you. He’s not fussy about the way it goes - whichever is most efficient, whichever will hurt you the most. Because he wants you to hurt. You threatened you’d leave him. And he can’t handle that. He can’t handle being left again. He’s been left behind too many times, and, he’s discovered, it’s more painful then all the stories say - so if you leave, it’ll be on his terms. Because if he kills you, you’re not leaving, are you? You’ll be gone, but you’ll have never left.

If you want to continue the comparison with Piper, Axel is much smarter than his sibling, despite being the younger and physically slower of the two. (He's also stronger than Piper, being a bit bulkier, but Piper is the better runner by far.) Had they stayed together, had they been raised better and grown to rule BoneClan or the streets (which would inevitably lead to BoneClan), they would have made a perfect and formidable duo. Axel would have occupied himself in his poetry and his learning; he would have advanced BoneClan farther than Piper ever had, though his brother would be the face and soul of the Clan, the fighter and the leader. BoneClan would have been a nicer place; a lovely place, even, with a reputation that ensured they would never be messed with. BoneClan would have been an efficient, oiled machine - cats would have been content, and happy with their content, and maybe they’d have even taken over the forest Clans one day. It’s hard to say. That’s a pretend past, a pretend future, one made of illusions and fantasies, and neither brother is fool enough to put their imagination into something that will never be.

He’s guiltless when it comes to injuries and murder. He always has been. It’s never occurred to him that this is something he should feel guilty about; that somebody out there might require an apology if, say, their kid was offed. Guilt itself is hardly a foreign concept to him (he felt guilty when Cirrus would chastise him), but he’s never really understood it - a waste of time, a waste of energy, a waste of brainspace. The stories where guilt ate away at the hero were always the ones he hated most, the ones he never asked to hear again. ”I don’t believe in that,” he said once, scoffing, when Cirrus had questioned him. ”Or redemption. They’re stupid concepts. Don’t do something if you aren’t prepared to take the blame for it.” And Axel always was. He never had issues with taking the blame for anything, because he believed he was blameless, and that faith has always been utterly unshakeable. It doesn’t stop him from putting others at blame, though. It’s not something that comes easily to him - it’s something that developed on the streets when he was older - and when he does blame, it’s haphazardly and wildly, with all the precision of a hurricane focused on a house as it destructs the landscape around it.

Axel likes routine. He’s not too interested in experiencing new discoveries everyday; until something loses his attention, which is a sudden and abrupt phenomenon, he’s content to examine or observe it for ages. It doesn’t matter where he is - if he’s someplace new and unfamiliar, Axel will compartmentalize the day into hours and minutes, breaking it down so that everything is planned out with mathematical precision. His schedule changes over time, but he abhors deviation to routine like he abhors sleep - and he abhors sleep more than he can ever express, because everything happens while he’s asleep: Piper vanished, Cirrus vanished, Piper died. - it’s the first thing he asks for when he wakes from his short doze of five hours at most. ”What happened while I was sleeping?” he says, and it can be dangerous if you don’t answer quick enough, if you give him time to even begin to panic. And if something happened while he was sleeping and you have to tell him about it - he’ll self-destruct right before your eyes, and you’ll be the first he takes with him.

Does Axel know what’s happening to him? How he’s changing, how he will change, where the road will inevitably lead? Maybe he does, subconsciously. A gentle caress against the back of his mind, forgettable but always present. He’s smart; he’s smarter than his brother, more careful than Cirrus, better at persistancy than Moss. He’s held out hope for a long time, longer than most would have thought possible, and maybe he holds hope still. But when Piper died, he took over the leadership of BoneClan, and there’s no turning back from that, and in line with all his faults, he’s not someone who leaves. He’d never leave the Clan, not after he’s devoted. At least that can be said for him: he never left anybody, ever. And that matters. To him, that matters. He loves BoneClan; he let the rest of his world collapse into ruin around him when he walked into the warehouse and took over. There’s nothing to go back to, nothing to hide from, nothing to undo no matter the half-formed regrets. There’s only forward: there’s always been only forward, because the past doesn’t linger for you to moon over, and Axel has always been one to face the future. And if he’s limited his options through what he’s done, if he knows that there’s only one way onwards for him now, a clock ticking above his head to the beat of his pulse, then he hasn’t shown it, and he’ll never show it, except for maybe the quietest of sad smiles when he stepped into the warehouse that first time. And then it’s gone, and maybe it was only your imagination; and even if it was, it wouldn’t matter anyways - because he’s mad, isn’t he? He’s insane.




The past


History

She was the first individual to look closely at him, without any of the disgust or fear that he had so long since accepted as part of the deal when others saw him. He had been brought before a group of rogues for thievery, and she had been the only one who didn't look away when he lifted his eyes. She had stared at him unreadably, her face carved from the granite of seasons, and had only blinked her pale green eyes twice. In the end, it was he that dropped his gaze, staring at his over-sized paws and feeling unnerved for one of the first times in his life. He barely heard as he was acquitted - of course he was - and left on his own to go out. Turning, he had begun to walk, but there was a noise, like a collective gasp - and he twisted his head sharply and defensively to see her approaching him, leisurely and sauntering, and he flattened his ears and hissed. She had raised her eyebrows, and the scathing gesture sucked any last defiance out of him; he cowered instead, until she was next to him - he flinched - and she was passing, and he stared after her, until she paused in the door and glanced back and said, "Aren't you coming?" - and he could only obey.

Her name was Cirrus and it was her voice that he fell in love with most. It had a deep, dusky tinge to it, and he always thought of it as smoky - if smoke did not leave your lungs dry and your voice hoarse. Like smoke and vanilla and cinnamon and dusk, and by the time he was sixteen moons, only four moons after she had refused to look away, he would have followed her voice anywhere. It took him a little while longer to fall in love with her - she frightened him, her brusqueness and her caustic remarks, and she was bigger and stronger and older than he - but not by much. For everything that she said, and she said plenty, she was kind; and Axel latched onto that kindness with the audacity and desperation of a dying man, telling her everything and hiding nothing, as if he were afraid that a single secret would drive her away from him forever. He didn't need much to trigger his devotion. He was starving in more ways than he had ever thought possible, and maybe she saw that, and she let him use her as his anchor; or maybe she didn't, and she simply took pity on him, and though that scraped on Axel's raw nerves, he still refused to let her go. By seventeen moons, the hand had been dealt and played, and played well; and Axel would have brought down the world for her, if she had asked.

"He's a sweet kid. Tells me a lot about himself, blithely and inanely, and his story is no different than anybody else's on the streets. Abandoned under a tire; he says there was a brother somewhere in there, but he was taken early on by some male cat, and Axel had been farther back and sleeping - he had been missed, and when he woke up, he was alone. When he told me this story, there was a desperate tinge to his voice, and when he looked at me, there was enough fear to fuel all the cowards of the world. I couldn't say anything, y'know? There's nothing special about his story, really, and most people's are even worse. I'm genuinely fond of him, though, which is saying something, but there's a lot he needs to learn. To guard that face of his, for one. He screams vulnerability; you can see everything he's feeling or thinking, and if it weren't for the fact he looks chronically ill and acts painstakingly careful, he would've been picked off a long time ago. That's another thing. So careful. Doing everything he can to survive. That's worrying - he won't die easy now, he'll go fighting, and that's bad. I said it before - he's a sweet kid. He's too sweet for the streets, that's for sure, and the streets are not kind - they play him like a puppet, and every day he sinks a little deeper into the maze they've made for him."

Cirrus was pretty learned, or at least, learned enough to satisfy Axel. She had made some vague off-handed mention of a few years spent in the trade business when she was young; he didn't catch all of it, but the words 'spices' and 'cloth' came up a few times, and it was evident in the way she trotted fearlessly among humans that she had grown up with them. Following loyally behind, and swallowing his own fears in order to never let her leave his sight, Axel's own anxiety was diminished, if not completely eradicated. On the days when the market was out, she'd take him over to exotically scented booths, and point out specific bottles and jars and tell him what they contained. They did this as often as they could, and when Axel could tell the difference between nutmeg and cardamom, spearmint and mint, they moved on to cloth and poetry. Cirrus deeply enjoyed poetry; it rubbed off on Axel almost too well, and he began to devour what pieces she could find or remember with a single-minded intensity. He loved to listen to her tell stories, as well, and pressed her hard for all the ones she knew; his favorites he had her repeat to him enough times that he could mouth the words along with her, captivated.

It never got old. The stories, the spices, the poetry, the cloth. Axel began to fount off a few verses himself, carefully using repetition to remember all the ones he liked best. Cirrus encouraged him, even as she taught him how to find food without thieving, territory without fighting, acquaintances without fear. Cirrus knew a lot of cats in the city, and was liked enough that her presence effectively negated whatever awkwardness Axel brought to the scene. And he was very awkward. It was a steep learning curve for him, especially as he was inclined to only want to do the less challenging things - spend the day in the market or listen to stories in the park. The nitty gritty of reality seemed a long ways away from him at times, and more than once, Cirrus would have to forsake her sky-related name and ground Axel with a few acerbic comments. He resigned quietly, but without much fuss, and he proved to be a fair enough hunter and fighter. In fact, he was an incredibly good fighter, and Cirrus, who was one of the best, soon found it an actual challenge to defeat him. More than once she had been knocked around by his kicks, and, as she wincingly told a friend one day while Axel was avidly watching a soup being prepared, paying great attention to the herbs that were used, his kicks hurt.

"Once I asked him, in a fit of irritation, how on Earth he had survived before he met me. He made it twelve moons on his own, after all, and that's no easy feat. His reaction was interesting. A pronounced flinch, avoiding of the eyes, a haste to change the topic. He mumbled a few things to me, all hogwash, and stared at his paws. It didn't take a genius to figure it out. 'Did you fight at all?' I asked him, and he nodded once, imperceptibly. 'Cats bigger than you?' He shook his head. 'Did you win?' And he flinched again, and began to talk about something else, but that was confirmation enough. There's an unspoken rule, I suppose, that cannibalism is not the worst thing to do, if there's nothing for you to eat and that's the only route available to you. More cats in this city have done it than you'd think; you can't subsist on gamy rats everyday. But few are so hungry they kill dishonorably for their meat, and there are even less that stoop so low as to kill the youngest and weakest to fill their belly. I watched Axel for a while after that, wondered at his sensitivity and his neatness, his ability to trust but his expectation to be betrayed, his love of poetry and strong scents - and I wonder what exactly went on before I arrived, and of all the irreparable damage it had already caused. There are only two cats I have ever known who were entirely unashamed that they had preyed on defenseless kits, and who, indeed, thought nothing of it. One was Axel, and one was a psychopath."

The year with Cirrus was blissful. She became his mentor, his mother, his father, his family. To a certain extent, especially as he grew older, he began to view her as a lover, a desire that stemmed from the stories that she had told him and the lack of any other such presence in his life. (She had no idea. She was aware of the affection, but the intensity of it was far beyond her.) It also came from his wish to be her protector, seeing as he was masculine and filled with the fantastical notions of manly heroes; and to take care of her seemed to be the only apt way to pay her back for everything that she had done. She accepted his sudden protectiveness with mixed amusement and frustration, but there was real irritation at times; winter was on its way, and Cirrus had heard that it would be worse than ever before. The she-cat had no time for young toms who fancied themselves as knights in shining armor; one day she snapped and said as much to Axel, who slunk away and sulked, emerging only to help her with the last preparations to their small garbage can, where they were intending to spend the season. Cirrus said nothing to him about the incident, and him to her, but it brooded uneasily on both of their minds.

It was driven entirely out by the arrival of winter. Even with all their stores, they had not anticipated the blizzard, and it plunged the entire city into a cascade of white that hurt the eyes and burned the tongue with cold. More often than not, they went hungry, something that Axel resented quietly; he sunk deeper into his stories and his imaginings, often spending whole days scratching out symbols of a language he had created on his own. Cirrus, meanwhile, could feel herself growing sicker; she didn't dare tell Axel, knowing his reaction, but she could hardly hide it from him, especially when the cough came and - later - the heavy rasp of the truly ill. She remained clear-headed, though, which was some blessing, and managed to restrain a frantic Axel from doing anything serious - until she began to cough up blood, and she was more bone than skin, and she could hardly prevent him from seeing both. He was twenty-seven moons at the time, young and intelligent, and he looked silently at the blood, and vanished; and when he returned, carrying the two limp bodies that could not have been more than six moons, Cirrus knew he was beyond her reach for good.

"Sometimes I wonder how Axel would have turned out if he hadn't been missed by that tom or hadn't grown up alone. If I had reached him earlier, before his sense of morals and ethics and acceptable boundaries were entirely twisted. And in some ways, I already know my answer. I see it in the sweetness with which he enjoys a nice day or the excitement and anticipation he has when I tell him a story, even if he's heard it a thousand times. I see it in the many verses of poetry he reads proudly to me, smugger than I have ever seen him, and the care with which he pores over spices - he's taken to thieving some in order to flavor our meat, a habit I cannot break. And I see it in the rare flashes of an Axel that is untouched by the streets and grime, an Axel he has no idea exists, no matter how hard I try to push him in the direction. Did I know what was coming? I think I did, subconsciously. That here was a young cat who was starving for affection and companionship, but it was too late to truly fill either. And anyways, at the beginning, I fancied myself as becoming a tutor and a leader. I had never been looked up to before, and I wanted that. And then by the time I was so far in I could no longer see the exit, it was too late to fix anything, and even if I could have - even if I could have - I cowered away, and ran in fear, and flinched as he passed me by, because the worst of the city was in his eyes, and I am not brave enough to defeat the streets alone."


When he woke up in the morning, she was gone. Nothing left, not even a trace of her scent - she had taken snow and washed the place of her illness clean, scrubbed at the blood until it vanished, then knocked over a can of salt and obliterated anything else that might have been left. He couldn't even find her paw prints; the same fate that hated him had let loose the gentlest of snows after she had gone, and she was so light now she would have barely left marks behind her, anyways. Nevertheless, he nosed around for half the day before he was sure; even though he had been already, really - he was just desperate, frantic, looking for something long gone. Silently, he left the trashcan behind - he hated it now - and situated himself under a stair. There he stayed for the next thirteen days, sleeping only sporadically - because all the bad things happened when he was asleep, it seemed - and on the fourteenth day, he emerged from his den with a mask the streets had made for him and danced as a puppet to a tune of madness no one could hear.

By the twenty-fourth day, he had lost track of those he had killed, unceremoniously and without honor. There was a pattern to those he chose - the first to go were the ones that he and Cirrus had encountered but didn't know particularly well. And then the ones that were acquaintances of Cirrus; and then her enemies; and so on; until all that was left were her friends, or at least the ones she was closest to, and by the time he hunted those down, the shadow of death clung so closely to his paw steps that they could have been twins. After the last of Cirrus' relations had been severed, in a much more permanent way than usual, he was at a loss - but he had to keep moving, he had to keep going, because otherwise it would all catch up to him and he had nothing left to give a world that demanded tithes so brutally. He would have likely continued to kill if he had not heard the crash of the buildings as they went down around the BoneClan camp one night - if he had not seen the fleeing cats - if his eyes had not landed on the black and white tom at their rear, and widened, and he nearly stepped forward and fell - because that was his brother, he knew it.

Of course, he couldn't go barging in on Piper. Axel knew that, and besides, he had never heard much about BoneClan. He had always stayed mostly on the other side of the city, and even when Cirrus brought him near the territory, she never mentioned them to him (the thought of planting an idea in Axel's head of a group of cats with their sort of reputation terrified her). But now, displaying the adeptness at learning he was so proud of, Axel began to research and absorb information on BoneClanat a prodigious rate. Everything he could have known without being an actual member himself, he knew. He spent hours sitting hidden in warehouses and watching the Clan, left alone by the other rogues that were staking the camp out. He observed their gestures, their movements. Particularly greedily, he watched his brother, a raging sense of pride and hatred and jealousy and admiration all at once. He learned to hate Moss, though not as harshly as his brother, and to dislike Dread. He learned Piper could never remember names, and that Veela had been involved in an incident earlier, leaving her wounded, and that Tinsel was loyal only to the Clan and no leader or deputy. He learned much, and yearned even more; and in BoneClan, he saw a way to restart, to begin it all over again, to become leader or at least deputy - to put it all behind him - because where else was he supposed to go? What else was he supposed to do? - And the last few fragile strings of his mind quivered but held, until he heard that Piper had died, that Piper had died while Axel was sleeping and that he was gone, his brother was gone - and the strings snapped in beautiful precision and a scream of violins - until there was only one left bridging the gap between forever and never and infinity and chaos - and Axel hid everything away on it, everything he might have been, because if he lost that, too, well, he didn't even know if it would matter anymore.

"Axel's had a long history of people giving up on him, even if it wasn't intentional. The tom that rescued his brother. The other cats that never gave him a chance. The humans that never gave him a home. Anybody that was too unnerved by him to look at him for long. And me. Me most of all. I thought about killing him before I left, knowing full well what his reaction would be, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't bring myself to love him that much or love him that little and I left him be. And so now he's been given up on entirely, and I have to sit in this cold, drafty building, stronger but helpless, and I have to watch him kill my friends or anyone I ever knew, and there are so many. So many. I could come out of hiding, but I'm afraid what he could do to me - I can say that honestly, I think, because although the sickness is nearly gone now, I already know I'm going to take the next train out. Running away, leaving him, abandoning him. What everybody's always done. I heard of his obsession with Piper, and I put it together; and then I heard of Piper's death, and I knew more than I ever wanted. There's a rumor Axel'll become the next leader, and I know without a doubt that he will. And he'll be terrible, and will not last long. But I hope they do not give up on him. If I could, I'd tell them that. Don't give up on him, don't ever give up on him. And they would look at me strangely, and I would continue -

- never leave him alone - stay with him - don't toss him aside like I did, like they did, like we all did - be a better friend to him than I ever was - and kill him, please, kill him, because he's out of reach now, but nobody is beyond the grasps of death. Death already made a mistake; it gave up on him at the beginning of his life and it let him live. So you have to kill him, because you cannot give up on him - and that is the only way left for him now."





About you


Alias
Cassy or Cas
Other characters Look up.
THAT WAS WAY TOO LONG HOLY CRAP


__________________
"Hey, see if they've got any pie. Bring me some pie. I love me some pie."~Dean Winchester

33 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 10:29 pm

~SassyCassySPN

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Lead Archangel
Lead Archangel
Tamarix ✻ BoneClan


Name

Tamarix

Reasoning

Unknown

Age

Seven moons

Gender

she-cat

Alliance

BoneClan

Rank

Cat in Training


Physique


Short description

black and white tabby she cat with washed out green eyes


Physical description

She's a mixture of her parents, not a copy some others, each carrying traits from both of them in her physique. Her pelt, splattered a dark brown - near black - and pure white, has larger, bolder patches of each color than her father, giving her a much less mottled appearance. The darker patches of her fur are streaked through with the familiar tabby marks that belong to her mother, etching their way across her back and head only to be stopped by the abrupt change from dark to light. She's also inherited Fawn's ears - large and long - and her muzzle, her face more rounded in contrast to her father's jagged features. In structure, however, she's entirely her father's daughter. Small from the get-go, Tamarix was ungracefully labeled 'the runt,' unable at kithood to get around with the ease most cats did. At the age of six moons, she got a growth spurt, but it did little to make her match the other apprentices. It seems evident that Tamarix, no matter how her siblings grow, will be ever Piper's size - or even smaller.

Her legs and structure, though, are lean, the only part of her appearance where both father and mother's genes came together without clashing. She's dainty but slender, and her body is moderately low-slung, short legs more than capable of supporting her. She is not the definition of an impressive figure, for sure, but that doesn't matter much - anybody who had seen her parents would know the lineage she came from. Her eyes are like a washed out version of her father's, pale green-gold that hovers almost on gray. Looking at herself in puddles now, she would have preferred blue eyes, which she thinks would offset nicely with her pelt, but for a she-cat built on grayscale, there seems to be no hope of such a miraculous change. Occasionally, if seen at the right angle, she appears disjointed, a mix and match of parts left over after her siblings were created and jammed together hastily to produce her. Then you might see that despite the way she holds herself, she is imperfect, more so than anybody ever expected.

It was mentioned earlier she does not cut an impressive figure, and she does not. Her shoulder blades jut out of her back, a more pronounced version of Piper's, and has forever given her the appearance of being slightly hunched. Her face is often expressionless, though the faint droop of her right eye heralds the transformation to sarcasm. She does not look nice. She looks like the person who stands at the outside of games, watching, unable to tell if they are not joining because of scorn or because they feel rejected. Her slightly brittle air gives the same impression; though she is as soft as any cat (except for the occasions when she is not clean - Tamarix does not care much about the state of her pelt), an unexplainable aura surrounds her, much like the dry snapping and cracking of twigs just as they are lit on fire. She is like that. Unfriendly, but not cold. Shutting you out, but never quite completely. Her fluidity then often surprises people, but don't be fooled - she just learned from watching her sister and mother walk. The slippery, gracefully slow walk she's created for herself falls apart under pressure, and her movements become stiff and jerky - a herald of a kithood where she could never quite stand on her own four paws.




Personality

Tamarix wears her heart on her sleeve - and what a strange heart it is. She lacks the subtlety that has made her father survive for so long, or the hidden turmoil of her mother. She's built her life around a wit so sharp you could cut the air with it, but it's rare she displays those talents to their full extent, instead preferring to fall back on mockery and sarcasm. And she pulls no stops there. She has no qualms about taking your words and twisting them back at you, laden with such derision you almost find yourself believing her. She can tear you apart - but she always stops just short of giving the final blow. Maybe it's a streak of kindness that has mutated into something very skewed and small. Maybe she doesn't care to see you fall apart at her feet. But it's most probable that she stops because for all her acid-laden words, she's not negative. She never will be negative. She may point out everything wrong, she may ridicule your efforts to fix them - but never once in her entire life will she say that you will never make it work. In her own way, she believes in you. It's your own job to be worthy of that belief.

In this way, she gives support, though of course addressed to the wrong person her help will backfire and turn into a de-motivational party. If so, Tamarix will leave at once. She does not want to be around depressed or moping people unless she's studying you, and even then she can barely stand it. Surprisingly upbeat about life, Tamarix lacks the conviction and the will to ever be anything other than happy and content - it is entirely plausible that she does not understand the word 'sadness.' Hopeless, yes. Desperate, of course. But being sad is foreign to her, and she does not understand it, no matter how hard she tries. To be frank, though, she doesn't try very hard. Tamarix is lazy, especially if it involves work or there's nothing in it for her. As soon as labor or even having to walk somewhere comes into play (and sometimes even thinking about things!), Tamarix displays her stubborn, selfish streak and refuses so thoroughly only somebody with a very strong will can convince her otherwise. She always, always wants to stand and watch. If you want her to participate, you have to make it worth her while.

This proves surprisingly easy to do. Tamarix is led around by her innate desire for knowledge, and if she were human, she would most likely pursue a career in psychology. She likes nothing better than to take things apart and analyze them, from emotions to why somebody does a particular thing. She has split BloodClan into case studies, and is consistent about updating her notes - which, of course, are all kept in her mind. She had a prodigious memory, and it's widely acknowledged that if Tamarix ever felt like applying herself, she would make one of the best trackers the Clan had ever seen - able to recall minute details, able to study her surroundings or the cats by her and pull information from nowhere. It is because of this desire for knowledge that Tamarix allows herself to be led, and if somebody were to say 'let's go do this because that is there' she would go without a second thought, no matter who it was. But be warned - Tami is not easily persuaded. There is nothing she relishes more than a debate so saturated with references and points that only a select few could keep up with her. You can take her anywhere - but you can never change her opinions, and don't pretend that you can.

An important tip to get along with Tamarix is this: never let her get the first word out. Chances are, she'll be less willing to listen to you, and her words, often provoking, tend to catapult even the best into a annoyance so intense she responds to it by becoming even more stubborn. If you speak first, she will listen to you patiently. It's a trick that her siblings discovered and use to their advantage, but are loath to share out. It's not many who can control their sister, and they'd like to at least keep themselves in the pretense that they have found a way to do it. Of course, nobody can control Tamarix. It may appear that way, but never once will she accept your ideals as her own. It's a long, hard lesson to learn. Another hard lesson is that Tamarix never keeps people close. Much like Piper, there is a high chance that she will only meet one being in her entire life who she will allow to be her best friend. Not even her siblings fall into this category, or even her mother. She loves them as much as she can, but she isn't capable of more than that.

The final point to make is that Tami loves privileges. She is not particularly ambitious because of her laziness, and prefers instead to tag along, feeding off of others good fortune and turning it into her own. She can be self-absorbed, and pays close attention to hierarchies, knowing who to hang out with and when in order to get the most benefits from elitism. This is her weak point, the enormous chink in an armor that isn't even broken by the harsh realities of two-leg place. You say she's fearless? She might be. It certainly takes a lot of pressure to even get her to bend. You want to be her friend? Offer her a privilege no one else has and she will be. You want to know who she is? There is never a chance of that, even if hell freezes over. She's entirely self-sufficient, understand, and simply put, she doesn't need you. You're her case study, the answer to questions she asks not out of curiosity but simply because there is a blank space in her knowledge and she needs to fill it. You're the one she uses to climb the social ladder until there's nowhere else to go. You're the one who does her work. And in return, she'll be there for you - but with her trade-marked brittle sarcasm, and you just have to make sure that you can handle it.




The past


History

Born to Piper and Fawn, Tamarix is the youngest of her siblings, delivered on a floor carefully tended to by her mother and into a chaos of rivalries, mutiny, and her father pinned to the floor by her mother's best friend. It was certainly an auspicious beginning, though of course Tami knew nothing of it then - though the kitting did turn into BoneClan legend simply because of the drama. No; it was not until a few weeks later, when her eyes first opened, that Tamarix began to assess the things around her. From the moment she arrived at the time she could walk, and blinking, stepped into the what's-a-sun, she realized that there was more to just living then, well, doing your daily chores or being a kit or warrior or whatever - there were emotions, there were people, and more importantly there was something to analyze and something to learn. So from the beginning, Tamarix wanted to know things, absorbent as a sponge.

Her kithood was marked by her being led by Honey into various mischief, and Asch pulling them out again or sometimes their parents. They were treated with an uneasiness, as if the Clan wasn't sure how to treat the children of their leader. As for Piper himself, he tended to come around rarely, something that Tamarix realized impacted Asch and Honey more than it ever did to her. When he did arrive, though, she was pleased to see him; she loved her mother, but Fawn could by frustratingly cloying sometimes. With her father, she never worried about being called back from talking to a fierce looking warrior or stopped from wandering away; Piper let her do it as much as he wanted. He was more reserved with her than the other kits, she noticed, as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of her, and it suited her well enough. Word of mouth told her as she got older that it was because she was the runt; this information made her both respect her father's uncanny head sense for power and cringe at the same time, the latter if only because it had briefly felt as if she had been rejected.

But the moment passed. And any aloofness from Piper was well-made up for by Fawn, who loved them so much there was no question about whether or not they got a bad upbringing. She was never quite able to make up for the absence of their father, but the deputy, Dread, did a little to fulfill that need. He was nicer than Piper, of course, and gentler, but there was still plenty of male there to teach them. Then there was Moss, who came around just as often as Piper, and who regarded the kits as a whole with a somewhat untrusting air. Tamarix watched them all, the way they interacted, and had soon figured out the nuances of a plot that confused even the longest standing BoneClan members. But she never said anything. Instead, she took to wandering farther and farther away on each of her solitary journeys. She talked to all the Clan members that let her approach them. Now, at seven moons, she and her siblings are, without a doubt, the trio of the Clan - brains, strength, charm - and only time will tell what they will become.

Though, all said and done, Tamarix will probably not change that much.





About you


Alias
Cassy or Cas
Other characters Look up ^^.


__________________
"Hey, see if they've got any pie. Bring me some pie. I love me some pie."~Dean Winchester

34 Re: Create Your Character on Sun Jul 26, 2015 10:52 pm

~SassyCassySPN

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Howl ✻ BoneClan


Name

Howl

Reasoning

The horriblescreeching and yowls this cat can make.

Age

Twenty three moons

Gender

Tom

Alliance

BoneClan

Rank

Member


Physique


Short description

large golden tom with charming blue eyes.


Physical description

Powerfully built with broad shoulders, Howl is one handsome boy and by StarClan he knows it. Tall for a cat, he knows how to keep his physical image the way he wants it. No laying around and getting fat for him! He is a very vain creature, and for good reason. Muscular enough to be a decent fighter, with a gorgeous pelt of burnished gold that flows smoothly like stream that rushes past uninterrupted and blue eyes that draw in the ladies like a moth to a flame. Long legs give him his height, though they are attached to some rather feminine paws while his tail is like a proud banner, always held high with the fiery plumage waving. Like a barrel of gold was tossed into an inferno, his fur is the color of molten metal and fire with a darker stripe running down his back and along his tail creating a mark that looks like a fire had raced down his spine, leaving a charred color, and a fine flaxen shade runs from his chin, down his chest, along his belly, and the inside of his legs, giving him a more noticeable appearance than if he were just one solid color. Eyes of cornflower blue hold all of his power over others. Seduce them with your eyes. The number one crowning rule of being manipulative. Like a still pool on a blistering summer day he can tempt even the most reluctant to jump in and enjoy the cool water. That water being whatever he wanted the cat to do in the first place.



Personality

Behind that excellent specimen of fineness, there are qualities that aren't near as flattering as his physical attributes. For one, he is a downright coward. He's not afraid of everything like a lost kittypet might be. But the things that do scare him leave him utterly helpless and he often finds a way to avoid dealing with the situation himself. Battles? Sure, he can fight in them. But ninety-percent of the time he would rather slink away and remove himself from the picture entirely.

Vanity is another problem he suffers from. With looks like his, who wouldn't be vain? He often refuses to do anything that could possibly muss his pretty fur which he spends an endless amount of time grooming and making sure everything is in perfect order. There has been a lot of whispers that he would be better off as a kittypet. But he refuses that kind of life. Who wants to live in a box where pink, hairless things like to touch you and mess up your fur? Those silly house cats.

Howl is a very superficial tom, very shallow. Before he even thinks of looking at another's personality when deciding on friends, he chooses first on how the look. Unsightly scars disgust him, and even if the cat is the nicest out there he would refuse to be seen in public with the feline. Its only once he has gotten past looks does he both to look at how they act. But that doesn't hold much weight with him for most of the cats in his life.

Even though he is shallow, vain and cowardly, Howl can have a kind heart under all those faults. Even though he is not fond of kittens, he will watch out for them. And he usually will pull someone out of a mire if it doesn't risk his beautiful fur too much. Because of those negative traits, the tom has very few true friends. This is because he prefers surface to the interior. But a few have stuck to his heart, though these few were met at a very young age, before he learned he could manipulate easily.

Manipulative. That is another quality that Howl can lay claim to. It is quite easy for him to use others for his own personal gain. Even his best friend, ____ (insert name here) falls victim to this kind of treatment once in a while. Though Howl usually doesn't get the better of him, he can sometimes get lucky. He uses his power of guidance mostly on she-cats. With looks comes an attitude that he can do whatever he wants without reprimand. Its such a common occurrence for Howl to just use she-cats and throw them away the next day, that it is almost expected of him.

But he does have a sense of humor. Witty remarks are always leaving his pretty mouth, funny comments can almost always be guaranteed in a conversation with him. Verbal battles are what he is best in.

As a friend he really does come through. He isn't the best at offering support or comfort, or feigning sympathy. But he at least gives it the best he's got. He tries hard to shield his friends from what he can, but he isn't always successful. And though he doesn't beat himself up over a failure now and then, he does feel guilty for a moment.

Prone to throwing tantrums, Howl is almost like a small kitten who's ball of moss got taken away during a game of toss-the-moss. Not many things can set off these fits of rage. But messing with his appearance will certainly earn you a fiery bout of agitation.

After these ragequits, Howl tends to experience a short period of melancholy. Sometimes these bouts of sadness and self loathing can last for minutes, sometimes they can go on for days. During these times, he truly isn't fit to be around, moping all the time and whatnot. Not that it stops ___(insert best friend name here). The tom tends to try and bring him out of these sad moments by doing just about anything he can.

But there is a part of Howl, that he hides from the whole world with the exception of three cats. Its his self loathing. He truly hates the fact that he is such a weak-kneed coward. It bothers him that he is so easily scared by somethings most cats would consider nothing but a bump in the road. But the counter to this is that he always trying to find ways to overcome this cowardice. Though he has found that pretending he isn't doing something scary helps him get the job done.




The past


History



Clouds rolled across the sky, dark and angry in their color, spears of light being thrust from their depths to strike the ground with a clap of thunder to follow as the sky cried, relinquishing all the worlds hurt back down upon the earth in a watery torrent that washed all the filth from the surface for a brief time.

A small complaint could be heard, cutting in and out like a radio full of static as the rain fell in sheets, deeper voices would waver in and out as reprimands and promises were delivered. The merciless pounding of the rain as it was hurled from the sky muffled the sound of cars that slushed slowly though the water that flooded the streets, the spray produced from the tires was dirty and grey as it splattered anything unlucky enough to be caught in the passing wave while the rainwater washed down slopes to pool in potholes or ditches.

Tiny sullen paws were drug through the mud, long golden fur was plastered down and darkened with the water that had been absorbed, making it a pain in the tail to walk with the extra weight. Mother and father refused to carry him, insisting a little dirt wouldn't hurt as they sought out a dry den to nest in until the downpour ceased. A defiant grumble would arise from his small chest only to be quelled with a sharp look from father or a flick of the tail from mother.

Eyes that captured the blue of the sky alighted on a soggy bundle curled up, unmoving in the cold rain. What was this? Ears pricking in interest he parted from his parents side and ignoring their demands to return that instant, the rebellious streak in him refused them. Their cries fell on deaf ears as he nudged his nose into the wet mass, provoking a grumble of displeasure and the rising of a small head to look at Howl. Another kitten! But he was so cold. Howl could feel the kitten shivering under his muzzle. And he didn't look so good. His nose and eyes were streaming, and the shudders that wracked his small frame weren't just because he was a little chilled.

Thoughts ran through his mind before he decided to do something his mother had done for him whenever he had gotten so cold that nothing else could warm him up. Granted, he wasn't big enough yet to just tuck him up beside his belly and wrap his tail around him, so he did the next best thing. He laid directly on top of the strange new cat, sharing as much body heat as he could in this cold weather.

He could hear his parents shouting his name, demanding that he return this instant or he would be eating mouse tails for a moon. But he could leave the other kitten. Howl might have been selfish and self-centered, but he wasn't a cruel bastard. Cracking his maw wide he uttered a yowl as loud as his little lungs could produce, drawing the attention of both adults.

They were surprised to find their only kit laying on top of another, looking up at them with those big blue eyes of his."Mama!" he cried, sliding off the other kitten and rubbing up under his mothers chin. "he was just laying here! Out in the rain! We gotta take him with us, 'kay?" it didn't take much convincing before the she-cat nodded her acceptance and picked up the dark gold kitten.

The next day, as sunrays filtered through the roof of the den in the BoneClan camp. A pile of rags in the Haven held the two small kittens. Howl, groomed to perfection from his adventures last night, and the strange new kitten, cleaned almost as well. The small tom stared unwaveringly Howl, curiosity in his blue gaze. From the broken glass shards that sat at one end of the room, he could see that he and this kitten looked remarkably alike. They could even pass off as brothers. Though he would obviously be the more handsome one. Obviously. His mother always told him he was the most handsome kit ever.

"you look like me, quite beautiful"

he remarked, twitching his tail over to cover his paws, his gaze never leaving the gold orbs of the tom. But rather than give him a chance to speak, Howl just continued on like he normally did, putting himself one step higher than others, giving himself the right to speak and interrupt others.

"I'm Howl."

before hHwl could continue on being himself on a pedestal, mother padded into the nursery, a wad of wet moss clutched gently in her jaws. She placed the bundle before the kitten before looking between her son and the other before turning and slipping away to continue on with her business, not a word more said other than "play nice boys."

Days passed and Howl continued to watch over ____, always appraising with his blue eyes. Sometimes he would speak. Sometimes he would remain silent as a rock and simply stare. Howl would always leave for short periods of time and then return with food to place beside ____. At night, mother and father would join the two on the bed of rags and moss for sleep and leave without a word the next morning, not wanting to wake up the children.

"you're pretty."
he commented, blue orbs grazing over ____'s pelt.
"you should eat, it would definitely make your fur shiny. Like fire"

and Howl could tell he irritated this kitten to no end. The narrowing of golden eyes and flicking tail gave that away clearly. And a smirk appeared on Howl's face as ____ complied with his wants and began eating the food Howl had been bringing him.

As time wore on, the two became closer and closer. They did just about everything together, and if a cat wasn't any the wiser they could mistake the two as being brothers. And they were except in blood. They got bigger and stronger, and ____ retained his sense of injury and anger, while Howl was the opposite, and a complete coward. One day, ____ made a declaration that shocked Howl. "I'll protect you." he told him, a fierce look in his golden eyes.

And since then, that's the way it has always been. ____ was Howl's barrier between him and the rest of the world. And he wouldn't have it any other way. But if it came down to it, Howl would fight to the death for his best friend.



About you


Alias
Cassy or Cas
Other characters Look up.


__________________
"Hey, see if they've got any pie. Bring me some pie. I love me some pie."~Dean Winchester

35 Re: Create Your Character on Tue Jul 28, 2015 1:57 pm

BowTiesAreCool

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Archangel
Archangel

Skunk ✻ BoneClan


Name

Skunk

Reasoning

Because of his black pelt and the white stripe on his back.

Age

8 moons

Gender

tom

Alliance

BoneClan

Rank

Apprentice


Physique


Short description

Skunk has a black pelt and dark brown eyes.


Physical description

Skunk is a black tom with a white stripe going down his back to the end of his tail. His muzzle, belly, and paws are white, and his fur on his head.



Personality

Skunk is a loyal cat, who always wanted to try and catch a bird. He is extroverted, and gregarious.



The past


History

Skunk had a normal Clan life. nothing special have happened.




About you


Alias
Bow Tie but really anything is fine.
Other characters Spottedpaw, Foxclaw, Shadowfall, Finchpaw, Brookstar, Fish, Turtle, and Lynxpaw. Spottedpaw is from MistClan, Foxclaw is from MountainClan, Shadowfall is from MountainClan, Finchpaw's from StreamClan, Brookstar's from StreamClan, Fish's a kittypet, Turtle's a kittypet, and Lynxpaw's from StreamClan.

http://warriorcatsroleplay1.forumotion.com

36 Re: Create Your Character on Tue Jul 28, 2015 2:10 pm

BowTiesAreCool

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Archangel
Archangel

Snake ✻ BoneClan


Name

Snake

Reasoning

Unknown

Age

15 moons

Gender

she-cat

Alliance

BoneClan

Rank

Member


Physique


Short description

Snake has a dark brown pelt and green eyes.


Physical description

Snake is a fluffy, dark brown she-cat with a black stripe going down her back.



Personality

Snake's neat, intelligent, and courageous.



The past


History

Snake had a normal Clan life. Nothing special happened.




About you


Alias
A, Bow Tie, anything is fine.
Other characters Spottedpaw, Lynxpaw, Foxclaw, Finchpaw, Shadowfall, Brookstar, Fish, Turtle, and Skunk. Spottedpaw's from MistClan, Lynxpaw's from StreamClan, Foxclaw's from MountainClan, Finchpaw's from StreamClan, Shadowfall's from MountainClan, Brookstar's from StreamClan, Fish's a kittypet, Turtle's a kittypet, and Skunk's from BoneClan. (I might forget some)

http://warriorcatsroleplay1.forumotion.com

37 Re: Create Your Character on Wed Jul 29, 2015 12:18 am

-Crow-

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Placidpaw ✻ HawkClan


Name

Placidpaw

Reasoning

They named him for his eyes. Well, technically, the named him for his temperament; when he was first born, he was so still and calm that there were fears raised that he might have been dead or, worse, have some kind of handicap. When the medicine cat confirmed life, there was jubilation and ecstasy in the Nursery, and he was gifted his name then and there

Age

10 moons

Gender

Placidpaw is a tom

Alliance

HawkClan

Rank

apprentice


Physique


Short description

long-haired dark orange tabby tom with green-gold eyes


Physical description

 "He's perfect, you know." That's what his parents say, and why would you ever have a reason to disbelieve them? He has a long, luxurious coat of red-orange-gold, the vibrant colors of a leaf-fall only seen once in a blue moon. His eyes are more green than gold, sometimes even creeping to a faded teal, and the face from which they peer out is perfectly arranged as if by StarClan themselves. His body is a mixture of the best qualities of his parents, blessed a thousand times more and tailing the edge of untouchable-gorgeous. Long, hooked claws curve from the ends of powerful paws, firm legs trailing up to broad shoulders and an impressive frame. His voice is like a mix of honey and rough velvet, sweet and sure and made for comfort and something beautifully intimate. He's perfect, you know. Why don't you believe that?

If anybody asked Placidpaw (but nobody does) about his appearance, he would have looked left, looked right, and never answered you anyways. Presuming that this sort of rejection hasn't gotten you down, you can follow him, tracing his movements and gestures and habits throughout the day. Twenty-four hours should be enough. You'll know what you need to know by then; you'll see the way he avoids his reflection when he's with others, but when he's alone, he'll instinctively seek out puddles or pools of water. You'll find that he can sit hours there, time passing him by, staring at himself unwaveringly, and his expression might shock you - until his unhappiness reaches a climax and he leaves, being sure to shatter his picture into a million shimmering fragments before he goes.

He doesn't see perfection. He's spent hours, days, minutes looking for it. Is it in the long sweep of his tail? It is in the bluntness of his neck, the sharp white of his whiskers? The curve of his claws? He's examined himself for any signs of perfection many times over, and he's only found flaws. The way his eyes, clear and calm and reassuring, never seem to display anything more than that no matter how desperate he feels. The stockiness of his legs, blunt and short and useless for running or anything other than force. The way his fur catches on everything, leaving behind unsubtle trails everywhere he goes. His size and simultaneous resemblance to a kit; overgrown, gawky, awkward, unsuited for anything remotely resembling stealth. No; he doesn't see perfection. All he sees is the lack of it.

It might have made it all easier if his parents had acknowledged his flaws, but they never had, and if he were brave enough to ask, they would have never listened. He was never comfortable in his own skin the way everybody else was; the way his sister seemed to be - though StarClan knew he tried. To some extent, it worked. The humiliation of being a boy with physical self-image issues narrowly beat the humiliation of feeling paranoid about his imperfection, and he was able to conceal the former as vanity he supposedly possessed. For now, at least, it works, and nobody has ever suspected the extent to which Placidpaw loathes his appearance. He suppose he should be grateful. It means he's mastered the art of perfection, at least. The real thing would always elude him, but he's glad to be a master of illusion.

His movements are always slightly shuffling, as if unwilling, and true to his name, he's content to stay rock still for ages. To him, it's always seemed as if he were in a battle with his own body to do what he wants it to do. Move here. No, no there; here. Don't duck. Don't flinch. You flinched! What kind of worthless unable-to-follow-orders sack of blood and bones are you? These internal battles are common and devastating, and the subsequent ruin on his body is something he takes a savage kind of pleasure from. See, he whispers to his aching paws, to the cuts around his shoulders and face from where he spent the day, in secret, trying to force his head into a tunnel that his sister could slip easily into without a thought - see, that's the price you pay for disobeying me, that's the price you will always pay, and it makes him feel disgusting and imperfect and he can't decide what he hates more.

Is there anything he does like about his body? He doesn't know. He has enough foresight to recognize the effect that disliking his own body will have on him in the future. When maybe he pushes it too far and it breaks, in which case he'd likely be dead and even though it would be the ultimate punishment to his disobedient body, he'd rather not meet his grave anytime soon, thanks. So he takes care of it. He grooms his fur, cleans his whiskers, picks the burrs out of his tail and crunches the ticks between his teeth. He cultures himself so that his despicable body will have no effect on his interactions with others. He refuses to maltreat it, refuses to quit eating or eat too much or inflict purposeful damage that he cannot easily justify to others. Only when he is frustrated does his facade slip, does his speech grow less than genteel and kind, do his movements grow jerky as if he is fighting an internal war between impulse and thought. Then, maybe, if people knew his thoughts and recognized the signs they would be frightened; then, maybe, would his parents no longer say "He's perfect, you know," as if it were the best thing in the world. But there's a final barrier to this last freedom.

There is no question as to what Placidpaw hates most about his body. 'Eyes are gateways to the soul' - but his eyes have never shown anything other than calm kindness and quiet and reassurance and a naive innocence and goodwill those around him look kindly on. They're not doorways; if anything, Placidpaw has deemed them as mirrors, because they reflect only a broken loop of an image, perfect and beguiling and oh-so harmless. People have told him that he makes them feel calm just by looking at them. 'Something about your clear eyes,' they say. 'They make me feel centered.' And because those eyes are nothing but placid, they cannot see the disgust that flares up inside him, the desperate urge to tear his eyes out and demand to them what do you see now? But he has no justification for that level of harm. He has to be content with focusing the most of his hatred on the part of his body that carries out perfection and deception best. And it would be be the perfect truth to say that he blamed everything wrong with him on them.




Personality

"Listen to me." If he had the power to create a voice that would shake the world and bring the Gods to their knees, this is what he would say. He would scream it to the heavens and send it booming to the lowest depths of hell; there would be nowhere anybody could hide from his declaration, his order. It's all he's ever wanted so much that it hurt. He's come up with speeches; with plans of what he would say, statements that he would make - and then even just days later he would begin to second guess himself, would discard his ideas of glory as stupid and ridiculous and not worthy for a proud ThunderClanner. Besides, who would listen to him, especially if he had nothing useful to say? He knows he wouldn't. And that self-knowledge has burned its way to his very core.

On the rare chances that he is listened to, he'll inevitably end up saying something so stupid it's hard to believe it was ever allowed to be vocalized. They're all imprinted indelibly on his memory, statements he would have liked to forget or take back but never could and never can. "If daisies fly, then you're the apple of my eye." "Don't worry, the leaves will keep falling." "I saw a striped mountain cat on the border today." He's so eager to be heard that when he's given the chance, what he says is never worth hearing, even though he curses the blankness of his mind and the knee-jerk reaction whenever he's in this sort of situation. Not that anyone notices, or at least, he doesn't think they do. He once overheard someone telling his parents "your son's voice is so beautiful he could say he hated me and I don't think I'd mind, because he was talking." And so even when he speaks up, speaks what's really on his mind - or at least some variation of it - they don't listen to him. "Listen to me," he whispers to himself, and even if he said it aloud they would never hear him.

But here you might begin to wonder. To others, he is the perfect example of a perfect apprentice, cat, warrior, whatever. Rumor has it that he'll be somebody powerful someday, especially the way he's going and the way he never fails to charm any cat, no matter their disposition. So how can he hate himself? He's outgoing and independent. Already, he's the tom that queens are eying up for their own daughters and that those young enough to consider him becoming their mate without it being weird are thanking their lucky stars for. Everything he says makes sense and he's always thinking ahead, saying exactly what's right for the situation. He speaks with a gravity that causes even the oldest of warriors to bend their ears towards him, knowing that he'll offer up sensible and realistic solutions. In fact, most cats envy him for the amount that he is listened to. So how can he even begin to believe the amount of hypocrisy he has seemingly set such a great store in?

It's simple. Placidpaw has perfected the art of telling them what they want to hear. Even though he doesn't realize it, Placidpaw's great gift is the ability to anticipate things; to say to others merely what they knew or wanted already but, for reasons of their own, were in a quandary over. He handles fights and words of comfort with equal skill because he instinctively knows exactly what to say. It doesn't matter what his true thoughts are - and more often than not, the amount of nastiness embedded in those would be shocking - he only has to know how to blatantly lie, and do it so well he's never suspected, even for an instant. Over times, it's become a habit. He doesn't even have to think; it's a reaction so instantaneous that even he isn't aware of the way he watches the object of his interest closely, making note of their twitches or their body language or their tone of voice, before he speaks precisely what they want. Watch him closely. You'll notice he never says things first if he can help it (too awkward, too likely to get it wrong); and if you take it a step further, run an experiment where he cannot see the person he is talking to, cannot properly hear them to distinguish their tone, he will be reduced to guesswork and fervent prayer just like everybody else.

There is another reason Placidpaw is never listened to, and contrary to his belief, it's all his fault. He's gotten so used to being told what to do and how to run his life that it has never occurred to him that he might be able to say 'no.' He's made a long and successful career out of saying 'yes,' of doing what was was expected of him and trying very hard to be the perfect son, and it's become ingrained in his personality. There is no longer a difference between 'Placidpaw' and 'the boy he hates so much.' They are one and the same, and are destined to forever be so, because Placidpaw lacks the incentive to take that final push and carve a new identity for himself out of the uncut rough. Perhaps he realizes this. Certainly he doesn't fight it, no matter how much he begs to be heard. It would be terrifying to change so much, to begin making decisions for himself, and at the end of the day, he's only another cat, no matter how perfect and imperfect and hypocritical and yearning he might be.

He makes do, though. He's gotten accustomed and resigned to his 'fate' and acts appropriately on that. He strives to be an example and to dissuade insurgents, comfortable with those twice his age as he is with those barely a moon old. If he comes off as a little arrogant, he is. To understand Placidpaw, you have to understand the difference between somebody who loathes every part of himself and somebody who loves and loathes simultaneously. Placidpaw does not hate life; he does not wish he were dead, does not wish others were dead. He's torn and drowning deep in the puddle of hatred for his imperfections, because he has yet to realize that the coveted perfection will never be his, but it does not carve away at his self-image until all that is left is a shallow fake. Everything his sister despises about him and his parents adore is all truth, and everything that disgusts him is only another facet to this complicated reality. If you tried to tear away all the 'ugly' to leave only the best, you'd eventually find that you had nothing left. He cannot be good and he cannot be bad, and taking away one means to take away the other.




The past


History

They named him for his eyes. Well, technically, the named him for his temperament; when he was first born, he was so still and calm that there were fears raised that he might have been dead or, worse, have some kind of handicap. When the medicine cat confirmed life, there was jubilation and ecstasy in the Nursery, and he was gifted his name then and there. Only a very few noticed the lack of attention focused on his sister, and even then, they found ways to justify it to themselves. At this point, though, Placidpaw couldn't have cared less about the words being thrown over his head, the fond labels given to him that he'd have to spend the rest of his life living up to and failing. There was only his mother and sister, and soft, quiet little hopes and dreams and possibilities, and even that was nearly overwhelming. Placidkit might have been born into the world, but he was drowning in love.

To say that Placidkit was 'silly' as a result from being continually pampered as a kit would be an understatement. He could do no wrong. He developed bad habits because he could get away with them, abused his power in the Nursery because his mother would always spring to his defense, and bragged remorselessly about his father because nobody would dare contradict him. As far as kittens go, he was a bit of a spoiled monster, and he never failed to remind everybody of the fact. So when did the change come? It's hard to say. Placidpaw can't pinpoint an exact time of his life where his viewpoints were altered, as it happened over time, but he clearly remembered when he had first gotten more things to think about than what sort of game could be played that day. It was quite by accident that he overheard the conversation between his sister and mother; he had been pretending to be asleep, having planned to carry this out for as long as he could and then spring up, showing everybody how smart and clever he was for tricking them all, when he heard his name. And then his mother's answer, sharper than he had ever heard and brusque - "He's a boy, you're a girl. The expectations just aren't the same." And it confused him.





About you


Alias
Crow, but whatever works
Other characters None yet

38 Re: Create Your Character on Thu Jul 30, 2015 2:45 am

~SassyCassySPN

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Lead Archangel
Lead Archangel
Placidpaw has been accepted! You may create another character or begin roleplaying.


__________________
"Hey, see if they've got any pie. Bring me some pie. I love me some pie."~Dean Winchester

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