|
|
Post by small • claw on Apr 13, 2008 0:21:37 GMT -5
Other Accounts:
Brittlebreeze[smally], Midnighthowl[midnighthowl], Wildtalon[smallpaw].
Character:
smallclaw
Gender:
tom
Clan:
shadowclan
Position:
warrior
Reason For Name:
smallclaw’s name stands for two disconnected things and neither have anything to do with the other. which means he does not have small claws.
SMALL: when he was born, he was relatively puny. this was his most prominent trait, for being undersized. nobody made fun of him for this, either; it was a harmless name to give him. smallkit, smallpaw, and so forth.
CLAW: he isn't one for endless chatter, or notorious benevolence. claw simply puts that he's sharp like one, somewhat serious, too.
Appearance:
smallclaw is not an ugly sight to see, certainly, rather a gift than anything repulsive. his body has grown, from his childhood, to fit that of a loyal warrior, rather than a puny kitten; his build is average, and from his thirty six moons of hard work, interminable effort and devotion, hard muscles have formed underneath his jet black coat. which, by the way, his fur itself is lustrous, and seemingly lengthy over his refined mass. however, he is not considered a long haired feline, but he also isn’t considered a wiry or coarse cat, either. to add onto his body, you could say his paws are plump, but not enormous, their size doesn’t leave any important imprint on ones memory, and this is not something anyone would surely remember anyway. as for his back, it arches up only slightly, allowing his hind legs to be noticed; they’re vast but not uncanny, more like a bobtails, used to jump.
this blends in with his heredity that is a mixture of many things, to say the least. his claws are an ashen ivory; small gray dots line them randomly. he may be a rather striking tom, but he’s not perfect, and this is only the beginning of his flaws. over his forehead, just above his right eye, is a noticeable scar, that comes down aligned from his ear towards the corner of his eye, to the right even more. while we’re here on the body, it’ll be easy to add that his ears are common, run of the mill, ears, put aside the fact, of course, that the fur on them is longer, because the fur on his body is longer than a cat that has standard short hair. nothing unusual, though. His muzzle is long, but not outstandingly extensive. it fits well with the rest of his exterior, and with his very beautiful green eyes; close to the shade of an emerald, if not for the lighter hue around the pupil, of the iris. this would be something i would remember, if I were another cat. his tail is average, but not skinny, a bit plump for a tail.
Personality:
smallclaw, towards his clan, shadowclan, is incessantly loyal and would die, by any brutal hand dared to challenge him, to save another life, and for his clan. never has he had any interest in going against the warrior code, because doing that would prove nothing and he would gain nothing in its agitating wake. to him, cat’s who dare do something as fowl as that, don’t deserve to live, and in all significance, he could imagine himself punishing them if the chance was ever offered. however, he isn’t an evil or macabre being; his constancy often confuses others, leaving the impression that he’s as sinister as his aura. towards any of his simpleton family members, he would have said, in the least that he had loved them as much as he loved his clan; however, they’re dead now. he grieves for them still, but he doesn’t broad over the matter, or the actuality and verity that they no longer walk with him. He has accepted this reality. he doesn’t like to see death, or to see someone he cares for, fall to an enemy, or to anyone, for that matter. although death is an inevitable, because ultimately everyone dies, it’s a worry that he contemplates over frequently, underneath his carefully composed mask.
allowing others to know what he’s thinking, or feeling, or what he’s going through, for him, seems like a drawback. he doesn’t take pleasure in having his thoughts read like an open book, so, how much dissatisfaction can be felt from closing that book? that’s all he does, to put simply. nobody needs to know his problems. the clan needs him, not his dilemmas. he has little interest a mate at this point, and finding a family and settling down is the furthest thing from his mind. he wants to defend and protect his clan, and put forth as much attraction towards it as possible. a she-cat would only cause him hindrance, and pull him back from doing what he wants to do, he believes. his belief in starclan is tremendously potent; nevertheless, he doesn’t put them at hand for everything wrong that happens. his intelligence has shown him that starclan cannot control the very seed of everything, and they can’t manage what happens to that stream later on. sometimes things just are, and are unable to be described so easily as “starclan did it!”. that way of handling things is juvenile, to him, and a bit adolescent. as warriors, they need to accept that sometimes they are at fault for their mistakes. he’s long since discovered this; but this doesn’t make him illustrious or notorious, simply, just another thought inside his intricate mind.
in battle, he is quick to assume a fight or a challenge, but his patience is more than what others suggest it to be. he is aware that fighting leads to death, but as long as love and hatred exist, there is no way to avoid bloodshed and war. he would fight for his family, friends and clan, and he would go as far as necessary to put them back in the clear zone labeled safety. he put forward incredible interest as an apprentice, but this doesn’t make him an amazing fighter, only that he is capable of doing a good job, if he continues to show that staggering interest. he can tolerate apprentices and kittens, but they, by far, exceed the limit of his serenity. their simple questions, or even stupid, bother him somehow. he would be kind to them, nonetheless; even though he, himself, is not a cat of such a simple compassionate nature. he listens to his orders, but sometimes fails to meet their expectations. he doesn’t defy authority, but he doesn’t like doing things for others he’s picked bones with, or the other way around. he’s a bit of a spitfire, and this has proven to madden others or provoke a scuffle. he often corrects mistakes by other cats who are also warriors or under that rank, but he’s not a show off. in other words, he’s not full of himself.
Likes:
• fighting.
• gossiping.
• laughing gags.
• tweaking mistakes.
• surprising others.
Dislikes:
• obnoxious apprentices.
• getting old.
• show offs.
• thick undergrowth.
• sharing.
History:
• - • - •
Through the night, the wind howled against the side of the Nursery. Its cry was thunderous; echoing in the sky before the sound had completely vanished. Smaller cries erupted eventually; little squeals that reminded the Clan of Shadow that new life had just entered their world. The black queen crooned softly, her pretty ocher eyes pools of adoration for her new children. They searched to feed, their eyes closed, their bodies just bundles. The two kittens were toms, one a fiery orange and the other, a smaller black. What would she name them? She wondered; the corners of her eyes crinkling up in contemplation and concentration. It was only in those quiet minutes that she had discovered one that made a perfect fit, one for each. She glanced up to her mate, a darker gray tom, with a patch of white covering the entirety of his jaw. “We can call this one,” her tail tightened around the ginger kitten, “Blazekit, and this one,” the attention shifted to the runt, but the silence lagged on for too long. She’d thought she found the perfect name, but it didn’t seem to fit him as well as she’d hoped, she didn’t want to voice it, not when it would prove a waste. “Smallkit.” The father’s voice broke the hush, and his tone had been warm, hopeful, expectant. Robinrose nodded, her maw curling up into a delicate smile. She crooned to her kittens again, before meeting Cloudfeather’s pallid green gaze, “They’re perfect.” And she was pleased.
• - • - •
smallkit as a kitten was loved as much as any kitten by the parents. He was treated as equal as his brother, blazekit, and was given the same amount of compassionate affection. his size made no difference in how he was treated, or that he was the runt of the litter. nobody was perfect, and his parents respected this, and they wanted to give him every opportunity and chance to be as happy as any regular cat. they didn't know if he would live, because he was indeed, so miniature, and they wanted him to die, if he did, a content and joyous kitten rather than a kit who was shunned for something he wasn't able to control. He lived, thankfully, and his parents efforts were proven useful. him and his sibling got along perfectly fine, even though blazekit was a wily, rebellious tom who couldn't stay out of trouble for three seconds even, smallkit had been idealistically similar.
in the rest of the moons that blazekit and him were in the nursery, leaf-bare came around and nailed blazekit hard. he didn't survive, and even through smallkits grief, he was grateful it hadn't been him. such a selfish thought it was, but it was true. he was already proving to be a strong as any other kitten, and as intelligent. being undersized didn't seem to be a drawback for him, not in the least.
when he finally had become an apprentice, his new name, smallpaw, was cheered throughout the ceremony, and he enjoyed it, and remembered the way it sounded because it had been the proudest day of his life, as of yet. both his parents were delighted, more proud of him than he was of himself. they still mourned the death of blazekit, but cherished the actuality that they were still parents, and that not both of their kits had been taken from them so coldly. his mentor had been blackhawk, an average warrior who vowed to do their best in training him. smallpaw found them a cheer to be around, and he was of course, not only due to the merriment of that day, content with his mentor and the choice.
there was one thing during his apprenticeship that brought sorrow and woe to his life; it was the death of his mother, robinrose. she'd caught an illness that didn't seem to react to any of shadowsong's herbs. it was a tragedy for smallpaw, and he would never forget that night; it was sunny out, unusual for day that held so much tears. maybe it hadn't rained, but it sure did in smallpaw's heart. the only thing he'd loved more than his where he was, had been robinrose, and with her gone, the only thing he could do for her, was be a true warrior for his clan. he trained harder after that.
cloudfeather was effected, too, he wouldn't eat anymore, and he didn't seem to want to do much. he say in the shade of the warriors den, staring off into space, watching as the day went by. seemingly, if he denied any chance to give into the system of the clan, he wouldn't take from it. but their time, wasting away to a shadow underneath an even darker one. he didn't last too much longer after that, and smallpaw knew he'd been in pain, and maybe it was better for cloudfeather, to meet robinrose in starclan. he could find peace where his heart lay, with her.
when smallpaw became a warrior, not only had he toned up, and became stronger, hard muscles formed under his beautiful coat, his personality had blossomed and he knew who he would be for the rest of his life; that thought didn't bother him. he was named smallclaw, for his unmistakable size, that was no smaller than an average cat, just as blackhawk, his fulfilled mentor was. and for his temper, and certainty. he was still on that dreaming road, doing what he'd promised to his mother even before she'd passed away.
IC:
The pretty she-cat's tail flicked, he could see, from the corner of his gleaming moonstones, and her own eyes, watched him in weak revelation, simple surprise, is all. Starving. Glad to see no one's forgotten me yet, Dustwhisker's voice was humorous, and he felt the corners of his maw curl up into a grin. Well, she wasn't boring, which was select and amusing. He supposed that was something to respect amongst a Medicine cat, whom most he could think of were either wise, too wise for their own liking, or as cliche as each damned bird in the sky. However, in those moments that lagged on, seemed to take forever and were really only just that, moments and seconds ticking by, barely a minute had been made; Dustwhisker went for the antechinus.
His emerald eyes flashed with interest, and in delight, a small murmur of merriment erupted soothingly; his deep, velvety voice clearly in approval. He leaned in and took the blackbird eagerly by the throat, his jaws clamping down enough for more of it's crushed bones to snap, like tree branches. The blood that began to seep through the feathers, dripping off it's oily skin and coat like water over leaves, the taste was delicious, even the territory could hardly be tasted among it's meat. In silence, he, ravenously, finished off the prey, making short work of it's plump body; allowing the pile of bones to lie beside the entrance, he would take them out when he left. He wasn't finished yet, with Dustwhisker. He wanted some company, still. Approaching paw steps brought his brow to a narrow, in curiosity, and his muzzle whipped towards the doorway, where a golden Warrior, Firestorm, slipped into the darkness of the herb filled den.
Smallclaw hadn't missed the small flare in the young toms eyes, in his own direction, before his voice and attention, was finally turned to the she-cat; was he giving a warning? Or perhaps, only recognizing the ebony Warriors presence, because surely, Smallclaw would not leave the den. If work was to be done, it wouldn't take very long to do so, and he could wait. His patience was not being tested, as of yet. Hey Dustwhisker, I've got a bit of a problem, I'm sure he does, the black tom's conscience muttered grimly, and his green moonstones darkened into a liquid smolder. He turned back to the prey scrap, crouching, his tail tip twitching in contemplation, and anticipation. How long would his take? The scent of blood hung in the air, feeble, as if it were merely a sliver. Dustwhisker replied, a teasing edge to her query, an unnecessary one. A problem? Whatever could it be? paw steps faded off, before they returned heartbeats later, he guessed it was the medicine cat, weaving through her work like breaths. Here, eat it. You'll feel better.
Turning his head around to glance, and keep it steady, at Firestorm, his eyes did not betray his composed mask, and the side of his mouth curled up again, but it was a lie, he wasn't pleased with the look he'd been given. He didn't appreciate things such as that. "Seize a flesh wound, did you?" His voice, velvety, natural and deep, powerful, became a chuckle from his throat as he rose to his paws, his tail tip flicking off before it swayed gracefully as he padded closer to the youthful tom, "That's not good," his rays burned like embers for a moment, as irritation and panic swept through for a single solitary second, "Not at all."
Picture:
In signature.
|
|
