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Post by •Hawkeh• on Jun 19, 2008 22:40:19 GMT -5
Name: Stormwater
Age: 13 moons
Gender: Tom
Clan: WindClan
Rank: Warrior
Personality: Stormwater is loyal to three things: friends, kin and his Clan. He enjoys being a warrior, and loves patrols with his sister, Cinderfall. He would like a mate, but he does have a crush on a certain apprentice called Waterpaw, but he isn’t sure that she likes him. He idolizes Crowfeather because he was one of the few cats who were chosen to lead the Clans to their current home. He cares about his sister a lot, although he disapproves of her personality. He believes in StarClan a little, but he has several doubts.
Appearance: Stormwater has a storm gray pelt. His eyes are a crystal ice blue. He has snow white paws with small flecks of gray. He has white tipped ears, but one is a little shredded from a fight with a ShadowClan apprentice. His underbelly and tail tip are pure snow white with no gray marks anywhere what so ever. He has a tabby striped pelt like his sister’s, but his darker. Due to his lithe frame and figure, he is an excellent fighter and hunter. He has rather strong shoulders with a semi broad head and small, yet strong, paws. He has a small scar from escaping from a Twolegplace as an apprentice. He has a fleck of black on his underbelly that has been there since birth. His eyes have a very tiny fleck of gold in them.
Past: Kit: Stormkit was born to two WindClan warriors, Shadowstream and Shrimpfur. He was one of four kits, two toms and two she-kits. His sisters were called Cinderkit and Glimmerkit. His brother was called Bluekit, and he looked exactly like Stormkit. Unfortunately, Bluekit was killed only one moon later by greencough. Glimmerkit and Shadowstream were killed by a badger when the remaining kits were three moons old.
Apprentice: About a moon into Stormpaw’s apprenticeship, Shrimpfur disappeared while she was on a border patrol, and her body was found on the ShadowClan border. When Stormpaw was about seven moons old, his cousin, Swiftpaw, and his cousin’s mentor, Sharptalon, were attacked by a fox, killing both. When he was about 11 or 12 moons, Stormpaw was training with his mentor, Brightwind, when he was kidnapped by a Two-leg on a horse. Thankfully, Waterpaw and her mentor, Brambletail, were nearby, and Waterpaw helped him attempt an escape, winding both of them in a Twolegplace. However, they both escaped, barley making it for Stormpaw’s warrior ceremony.
Warrior: Nothing major has happened during Stormwater’s short time as a warrior. He has grown farther from his sister, as she grows closer to a certain WindClan tom…
Codewords: RougeClan’s Destruction
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Post by x× | b | r o k e n on Jun 22, 2008 14:29:15 GMT -5
What ever... I don't find that a very good idea. We should be keeping them on their toes, and striveing for the best.
This is a typical bio on my other site that I am on, and I strive to be this good ((Not on Viprepaw thought))
Name: SNAPDRAGON.
Gender: Tom
Age: 19 moons.
Clan: ShadowClan
Rank: None
Mate: ---
Kits: ---
Breed: Randombred Cat
Appearance:
i'm your love god
i'm your man
As Snapdragon often said it himself, he’s “one beast of a cat” – a handsome, knock-em-down-pick-em-up-throw-em-off guy with a daredevil’s grin. At least, so he imagines himself. Whenever some she-cat glances over in his direction with the slightest hint of interest (he hasn’t yet learned the difference between scorn, disgust, curiosity in front of nature’s deepest moron and that paws-down love-at-first-sight shtick), he thingys up an eyebrow, flashes one of his toothy half-grins and sets himself up in some clichéd jaunty pose. Some think he can’t help it; it’s such a self-centred reaction that it couldn’t be anything other than stupid. Others, unfortunately for them, know him enough to tell apart his idiocy from his over-bloated vanity – and, of course, to see that acting like a love-magnet is completely natural to him.
Of course, a few of the cats around him do see sense in his narcissist behaviour: it’s not as though he’s one of those butt-ugly toms too crazed over their own ego to see the truth of things. Tall on his legs and wire-lean but not skinny to the point of looking like some mutated grasshopper, he could be a very attractive tom in matters of stature – if not for his extravagant stance. As for his fur, though he nearly never actually cleans it and so lets it stick into messy clumps and tatters for that ‘just-got-out-of-bed’ look, its colour is of a dawn’s orange under all of that clinging dust and earth, and the pale spaces between his stripes are of a creamy ginger so pale it is nearly white. His face has a strangely appealing shape, though his slanted eyes are a bit too far apart; it tapers down into a slender muzzle, elegant even when twisted by his better-than-you grin, and is topped by two long, pointed ears. Even the thick scars crossing his cheek, long-ago wounds that nearly made him lose an eye, finish off that roguish I’m-wild-and-you-know-it look (anyway, even if it didn’t, he shows them off as though they were prize trophies won at some fanatic contest). Slender shoulders, firm and agile paws, a waistline to make the snakes melt with envy; yes, Snapdragon could have been a magnificent tom. It’s a pity that he constantly abuses his attires.
His only features which are steady as most ShadowClan she-cats’ point of interest in him – in any case, he wouldn’t accept being liked by any cat with ‘pure’ ShadowClan blood – are his eyes. A gleaming molten yellow, pollen-bright and more liquid than sunlight, fills his irises like honey does a dip in a stone, mesmerising any cat weak enough to believe that they are portals to his soul. Wide open with kittish excitement or narrowed in a bout of arrogance, they have always captivated the gaze of those around him – like a monster’s blazing headlights does a cat in darkness.
Personality:
you must be looking for the exit
'cause this dance floor's for the pros
Most of what Snapdragon is was carved into him by his own mother. Not that she is a particularly cruel or demanding cat – completely the opposite, in fact. A commonly gentle soul, helpful and caring when it came to her only son; the only problem was that she cherished him as the most wonderful thing on this earth, and that detail was exactly what little Snapkit picked up on and developed. His ego swelled proudly every time she complimented him, every time she whispered in his ear: “You’re my treasure, you’re my wonderful gift.” As he grew, he became not only completely infatuated with his own tendency to radiate power, attraction, pure superiority and on and on, but also completely sure of the fact that he, Snapdragon, was by far above all other cats – in height, in skill, in mind, everything. In any case, ShadowClan cats; he considered anything else too low to even consider measuring himself against them, be it Clan cat or loner. Even the half-Clans or cats from elsewhere who had managed to enter ShadowClan were more often than not ignored – scorned in the best cases. If he’d ever thought of being leader, he probably would’ve tried to get there with his sacred opinion as only backup (if only for the prestige).
When it comes to simple or dirty work, however – changing the elders’ moss, picking their ticks, supervising kits or bringing them on outside trips – he acts as prissy as a kittypet. He’s always described tasks as low as this ‘unworthy’ of him, as though a being as perfect as himself could only ever do things which brought him fame, valour, she-cats and other such points he often refers to when it comes to himself. Only once was he ever made to carry out a single one of them, and that had been when his mentor had made him undergo “a terrible, heart-wrenching torture worthy of the most black-hearted cat in these lands”. Being a poet at heart – or at least thinking he is, Snapdragon has never gone easy on the description of those he does not hold dear (which, of course, are starting to get numerous by now).
As anyone can see, Snapdragon is a tom whose arrogance has gone beyond the average limits; he’s ‘full of himself’. Yet his self-adoring doesn’t stop there. Once he began considering himself as the best-looking guy in the world, he just had to think that everyone else believed it too – reason for which he shamelessly flirts with every she-cat who by chance crosses his path (they probably wouldn’t cross it any other way, seeing the reputation he’s built up over the moons). He goes to the point of spying on his victim of the moment, stalking her like a shadow to make sure she does no traitorous moves. Whenever some other tom shows up and contests the prize he’s set himself on capturing, he viciously defends his territory – and usually refuses to let go of the she-cat until the tom backs off; then he’ll just happily dump her and twirl into some other one’s paws.
Because of his many betrayals, his self-centred thoughts and actions, his constant insulting of those he dislikes, few are the cats who think he loathes solitude – when, in fact, this is exactly the case. Complete and utter isolation is a recurring nightmare for him. He suffered it once only – and this was the “terrible, heart-wrenching torture” that his mentor persuaded him into working with. He absolutely despises being completely alone, and is only comforted when at least two cats are nearby – with one, he is at the limit of the tolerable. Yet this is a weakness he cannot admit, and so he keeps up a pretence of what he is not to keep the curious at bay.
History:
does this crap actually matter?
She hadn’t meant to do it.
The feeling came up unexpected, like a sudden tidal wave when all you’ve felt is the faintest of tremors beneath your paws. It overwhelmed her senses, submerged her in a sea of confusion, chaos and doubt. Why? Why now, why him, of all cats? There was nothing about him that made him better than those of ShadowClan – in fact, every aspect of him only seemed to worsen her prejudiced thoughts. He was scruffy, skinny, his amber eyes wild, his pale grey pelt in tatters – a sorry excuse of a tom, even a rogue. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand; the sensation was inexplicable, unfathomable. And yet there it was, clear as day.
That was how Clayheart fell in love.
He was a simple tom, his voice quiet but assured, his words short but full of meaning; his heart beat so strong that the dark ginger ShadowClan she-cat could feel her own thumping his life-rhythm even while they stood fox-lengths apart. She, simply put, was a passionate, pretty thing, all lean muscle and fierce expressions. Dark never made her melt like so many toms did so many she-cats; no, instead he let her fiery being run free and savage as a hunting falcon – and that was what she adored about him. He did not crush her, did not loom over her every moment. ”Live, and let live.” She felt as though the harness of Clan life disappeared at the mere sight of those cool, expressionless mud-brown pools. They ran with fur flying like the manes of horses, shoulders nearly touching, gazes intent on what lay ahead. They spoke, argued, laughed, lived more fully than either had ever done – serving the Clan or living with no restrictions. Their fleeting visits by the ShadowClan border never lasted long… but oh, such joy they brought to both. For five moons they saw each other, catching glimpses of the other’s pelt on a patrol, or warily escaping duties to race flank against flank with ShadowClan’s pine-scented winds.
And then, like an uninvited guest, in crawled that event which queens fawn over like sky-sent gifts: kits.
Clayheart hardly cared, as long as Dark was there with her. Once again she silently padded to the border, and her cautious yellow eyes searched the undergrowth beyond for signs of her soul-mate. She found him quickly, much faster than she had done at the beginning; moons of practice had sharpened her eyesight and hearing, finely tuning her to those discreet signs that showed the pale grey tom was around. He stepped forward, deep eyes as calm as ever, and quietly touched her nose with his own. It was their greeting, their sign of understanding; they would not run at each other, lovingly nuzzle their necks and purr until their chest would burst. As their love, so their relationship was: simple.
The self-satisfied grin at the edge of Clayheart’s maw told Dark enough. He glanced into her sun-kissed eyes, no expression on his ash-pale face. “Kits?”
“Yes. Happy?”
Dark paused before answering. “Somewhat.”
Clayheart thingyed an eyebrow at him. “That’s all I get? ‘Somewhat’? What’s with you, Dark?”
For the first time in these many moons, the sleek grey tom seemed uncomfortable about something. Clayheart frowned, the tip of her tail flicking impatiently, then glared right into his evasive face. “Explanation? Hello, reality to Dark. I’m still existent.”
He hunched a shoulder as though he was shrugging, then said in a voice so low Clayheart had to lean forward to catch his words: “I can’t come to see you.”
At first, she didn't know what he meant. Would he be gone? Was there something he had to do before he could return to her? She looked at him sideways, suspiciously, the questions clear in the tense lines of her limbs, the grim stretch of her mouth. Clayheart wanted answers, and she would get them. But those she received were not what she wanted to hear.
Too dangerous. A risk he couldn't take. Clan cats, middle of camp - he'd be killed for sure. She'd have to wait it out, until her kits were old enough to be by themselves. He couldn't come. It was impossible. He loved her, yes, she knew it - there was no need to say it - but that was exactly why he wouldn't put his life on the line. What if he died? Then she would have no one.
The worst thing in all of this was that he was right.
And so, in a righteous rage, Clayheart turned on her heel and padded stiffly away.
As she waited for her kits to come, getting more bored every morning she woke up and discovered that another day of lying around talking to soppy queens was looming ahead, the fierce she-cat moodily brooded over this turn of life. If he had truly loved her, she told herself, if he had truly loved her, then he would've stayed. He would've done all he could, sneaked, hidden and fought to be with her. She would've done it for him. Why should she be more devoted to Dark than he to her? That black-hearted, filthy liar... He was no better than the Clan's rules, the endless restrictions. Her heart consuming itself in a rage uncustomary even to her, she slowly tarnished her memories of the pale grey tom who she had grown so close to - and of his kind, the loners, rogues, the Clanless cats. Traitors all, heartless, deceiving, sly; the concentrated core of what so many believed ShadowClanners to be. When she was alone, Clayheart would bitterly laugh at the irony of her world. Stupid. She'd been stupid, she'd done some careless mistake. Now she would suffer the price.
And she did suffer. She refused to reveal her mate's name, and everyone kept on glancing around, looking for who could have ever softened such a spiked, fiery she-cat enough. Without Dark there to run with her, without his calming presence, her anger and resentment grew with each passing dawn, each dying dusk. It was a hopeless battle for her, who had got so used to being helped in controlling the raging fury that galloped through her veins. So when Snapkit was finally born, a single kit with a mother as full of loathing as the sky was studded with stars, he became the vessel of her angers set free. Since the day he gave his first pitiful mewl, since that time when his ears perked up and listened, since his eyes opened and took in the colors of ShadowClan with that wondrous amazement kits so easily show, he was taught that those of ShadowClan were the only ones worthy of his attention. From this he deduced that those from outside ShadowClan but who had managed to enter its ranks were nearly as bad, and the same went for ShadowClan cats in exile or those with only part of their blood anchored in ShadowClan's lineage. Ears full of hateful words, mind overflowing with prejudice, Snapkit took his starting steps in the path of his life.
It had to happen. The spite, the hate and rage that burned in Clayheart's yellow eyes had been too strong for Dark to glance over it, to ignore it. And so the day when the dark ginger she-cat looked out into the camp at the sound of commotion, it was the ash-grey tom's face she saw beneath the ShadowClan warriors' paws. His amber eyes wildly searched around him for a face so familiar, so clear and perfect to him that he hadn't been able to leave it - and settled on Clayheart. A wide smile spread across his maw.
"Clayheart!" he called out, his voice full of hope. "Clayheart, I-"
One of the warriors suddenly stopped him, and gave the ginger queen a glance full of suspicion. "Why does he know you?"
"I don't know him, in any case," she hissed angrily, sweeping Snapkit away from Dark's sight. "No idea where he got my name. Do your job and get rid of him."
Snapkit struggled out of her grasp and leaped forward, snarling savagely even in his young age. His high-pitched voice was full of hate as he mewled an imperious sentence: "Yeah - get rid of the filth."
And the ShadowClan cats did. Dark was never seen again.
But though his features disappeared from the memories of every cat, including Snapkit, Clayheart could not forget him. That anguished expression as he was dragged away, the pure sorrow in his yowl of grief; it echoed in her head, endlessly repeating like a faulty record. When Snapkit asked her who his father had been, or at least what he'd been like, she refused to tell him the name - but she did say that he'd been a brave, powerful tom, calm as a summer pool, and though she never told him that he'd been of ShadowClan, Snapkit only assumed that he had. However, the little tom-kit went on believing that all loners, outsiders, half-Clans and impure cats were the lowest of the low.
Once he became an apprentice, Snap-paw started growing fond of another young she-kit. As soon as his mentor looked away or forgot to give him orders - and sometimes even when he did - the young tom would sneak off to sit with her. It was clear that the little she-kit had more than admiration for him. He enjoyed talking with her, lying about doing nothing, just for the pleasure of hearing her voice. However, something else came along to disturb their quiet relationship. Another she-cat, an apprentice only slightly older than he was, had also fallen for his pretty face and charming words. Though she was a half-Clan, Snap-paw had always made a point of being polite to ladies. To hear that this other young creature loved him was too much for his bloated and growing ego. It embellished his arrogance to a point of no return, turned him into a flirtatious tornado, made his pride swell beyond one's wildest imaginings. Leaving the little she-kit he'd loved, he went out in search of bigger, better prizes.
Of course, the more his self-satisfaction grew, the less he wanted to do. He was too perfect, too handsome, too powerful for certain aspects of an apprentice's life: chores, for example, like picking the elders' ticks away, changing their moss, or always hunting for the Clan before hunting for himself. They were unworthy or pointless tasks in his book. Of course, this made him stand out as a rebel, a trouble-brewer in the apprentices' den; that, in turn, made him an adored subject by those who dreamed of fighting back or scorned by those who wanted to be respected for working hard. The punishments he received came quick and often. His mentor would make him hunt for a day, or force him to do something for the other cats of the Clan. Usually, though, the young tom got his way. Disobeying began to show as a sign of power in his mind, and the frequency of his rebellions grew by the day - until his mentor, gone mental with frustration, decided to do something drastic to change the arrogant apprentice's ways.
The warrior had pleaded with him that morning, begged for him to fill his quota of apprentice chores. Snap-paw had flatly refused. He was already being delayed from his warrior's ceremony; he wasn't about to add insult to injury. So his mentor told him to move to an isolated corner of the ShadowClan land and stay there until nightfall. Snap-paw, fully satisfied of his new victory, swaggered off to wherever he was meant to go. He told himself that this would be easy. He would sit there the whole day long, maybe grab a mouse while he was at it, and walk back to camp once it'd gone dark with as much assurance as he'd always shown. His mentor did not follow him. He grinned to himself and sat down.
He hardly lasted until sunhigh. Already he was crouched and tense, eyes flickering everywhere, his breath ragged with agitation. Fear made his heart beat like a drum in his chest, faster than a bird's, a thrumming rhythm that made him feel as though he was vibrating. He trembled violently at every sound, bristled with anxiety at every flash of a shadow, and nearly screamed in horror as his mentor loomed out of the undergrowth. Then and there, Snap-paw threw himself at the tom's paws and meowed that he'd do anything, anything at all, if only the warrior would let him back in camp. Half-heartedly, reluctantly, Snap-paw cared for the elders for the first time in his self-centered life - and never did again. The punishment had taught him only one thing: know where the limits are. He still did what he wanted, disobeyed often, but responded to orders when he saw that going farther would be stepping beyond the line.
Of course, rumours spread around the camp about him being scared of the dark, the forest - in general, a scaredy-cat. They'd all heard about him freaking out while he was left alone in a deserted bit of ShadowClan. In answer to their questions, their taunts and jokes, the aging apprentice hissed vicious insults and names right in their faces. They soon backed away, hoping to scare him by not speaking to him, or leaving him alone at the edge of the camp; but all he needed was their presence, the reassuring feeling that he wasn't alone in the world, as he had always been with others from the moment he was born. Another battle against the world won with flying colors, he settled back as was made a warrior.
Soon after he was named Snapdragon, an epidemic of greencough ravaged the ShadowClan camp. His mother was one of the victims. He felt nothing as he looked down at his still shape, about to be carried away and buried, but had the moral sense to appear sorrowful and grief-stricken. He felt no need to spend the night with her - she was dead, wasn't she? Why not leave her alone? - but knew that the other would give him funny glances if he didn't, and so he lay at her side and slept in the cold. His face kept an expression of regret for a few days, and act easy to carry out since he'd practiced looking as though he loved those she-cats he managed to woo before throwing them away. Then his reckless self returned quick as lightning, and Snapdragon was soon off to find more victims.
Then he remembered that she-kit he'd liked long ago, and realized that she'd already been made a warrior. He'd been held up a long time as an apprentice. But when he spoke to her, as cool and charming as always, the muscle was tense beneath her pelt and her voice was cold as ice - and however much he tried, Snapdragon couldn't get her to look him in his eyes. He wandered over to the apprentice who had loved him once before and asked her what was the matter. The she-cat, bristling, haughtily told him a single sentence before turning on her heel and striding disdainfully away.
"Any sane she-cat who's been thrown away won't crawl to your heels like a dog when you come back around."
Snapdragon was peeved at this answer, but decided not to care about it, and went right back to the younger she-cat. When she saw him approaching, she pointedly turned her back to him. He went round her, though, and looked her straight in the face - then grinned. "We could start over, you and me, like in the old days."
Something must have snapped in her, because the she-cat lashed out at his face and clawed nearly half of it away, barely missing his eye. She screamed at him that yes, they were the old days, and that was because she would never, ever, ever look at him again. If she hadn't stormed off in a rage, she probably would've been exiled. Snapdragon took days to recover, but soon enough he was back on his feet and proudly showing his scars, immeasurably pleased with how dashing he looked.
In fact, he's probably forgotten so much as their names by now.
Roleplay Example:
yeah you know it; i'm divine
In the shade of a sweet-scented evergreen, twin pools of molten gold blinked open.
Feeble red sunlight slanted into the clearing through the cracks in the rare trees’ branches, bathing the ground of emerald grass with carmine blood; the sun had barely hoisted itself over the blurred edge of the horizon. There was nothing there except for the solitary shape of a tom, his pale ginger fur blazing with fiery light in the early morning rays, stretched out on his lean side over a much-trod carpet of needles. He gave a casual glance around him, pollen-bright eyes quickly noticing the flattened spaces where other cats had slept not so long ago. A thin little smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.
They would all be sitting around the camp, pointlessly talking to each other… while he would make a king’s entrance, striding proudly forward, and charm the ladies’ hearts right out of their slender chests. A single claw pensively traced the thick scars that crossed his cheek, its tip finishing off at the one closest to his eye. He would look quite dashing with the pale skin of his wounds clear against his ginger fur. Yes, a perfect opportunity to show these lesser beings who really was the boss around.
He calmly rose to his paws, lanky body going through the motions with an easiness born of practice. The length of his legs had taken a while to get used to, but they only added to his amazing panache, though not as much as the scruffy just-out-of-bed look he’d given to his fur nor the honour of his battle wounds. Of course, he had to admit that the battle itself hadn’t been very honourable – what wondrous deed could he make of a she-cat nearly clawing his face off? – but that didn’t matter as long as he’d been hurt enough. He grinned to himself, feeling completely at ease with the thought of all eyes turning to his glorious, magnificent self, then padded outside with wiry muscles rippling beneath his short coat.
He stopped short, a dubious expression crossing his face, and thingyed an eyebrow.
There was no one around.
With a derisive snort, he sourly stomped over to the fresh-kill pile. No one. Not a single cat. Except for the elders, muttering away beneath the enclosing branches of their pine tree, and a couple of queens chattering to each other as though they’d never get through the day. His face melted into a grumpy look of disappointment. Dammit. He’d gone to all the trouble of making himself look cool for nothing.
Then, with a bored shrugged, Snapdragon moved all the bother away. Who cared about a bunch of dips, anyway? He didn’t. So, with a dismissive swing of his tail, he swaggered right out of the camp. He’d make an explosive entry some other time.
I mean, I don't want the site to be this way, but, thats because, every bio, you have to have a RP example.
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