Post by birdy on Oct 12, 2010 22:36:59 GMT -5
WHITEFIRE
~birdy
~birdy
AGE
29 Moons
GENDER
Tom
CLAN
Shadow
RANK
Warrior
PICTURE
SUMMARY
Thin sharp-eyed white tom
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Runts are meant to be small. They are the weakest of their litter, with the rest of their siblings having drained them of nutrients during genesis. What is not supposed to happen however, is for the strongest kit to be the size of the average runt. Fate did not smile down on Whitefire and his littermates' birth, and the tom even bares a crude, still visibly scar from his chin and down his throat to his chest. The tom is so slender and scruffy he could resemble a fur tree on the brink of breaking in the harsh gales of a Newleaf storm.
There is not much speculation necessary when it comes to Whitefire's name. A one-eyed badger could tell that the tom's fur is bright enough to vanish amidst the Leafbare's snow, and he has learned to master this small blessing in disguise whenever the cold season flies in. Unfortunately, 3/4's of the time, Leafbare is NOT around, therefore his pelt gives him more trouble than assistance, especially when it comes to stalking prey within the depths of Shadowclan's cimmerian shade. His snowy pelt an easy give-away, Whitefire has grown used to climbing trees and using any means necessary to conceal his presence visually. Perhaps all the excess work he must do to roll in mud or seek a hiding spot before every hunt is what causes him to stay so lean and slender. Despite the issue of his fur color though, the tom is an otherwise brilliant navigator. His sharp crystal-blue eyes allow him to pinpoint the vaguest of prey amidst the shadowy roots, and his carved white ears can stand alert for hours on end. Whitefire is not of Windclan, but he is faster than most Shadowclanners. This aids him not only in the hunt, but in combat as well. Swift and agile, he is hard to land a blow on in a fight with a heavier opponent, yet his default is not having hits with as much strength. His limbs are long, yes, but do not hold much force behind them. There is much benefit in the angular tom's physique, yet at the same time many set-backs that require adaptation.
PERSONAL DESCRIPTION
The Talker-
Despite the stereotype that most cats of thin girth seem to be depicted as 'strong and silent', this warrior is quite talkative. In fact, he can't seem to go a minute without finding something new to discuss with his clanmates. Whether his need for socialization came with being born or if it was something that developed over the moons, Whitefire seems to be very smooth with his words, and is rarely caught off-guard by any question or answer. He's the kind of cat that doesn't let social boundaries keep him from starting up a conversation, and when he sees another cat sitting awkwardly off on their own, something inside him seems to grow magnetic. He can't leave solitary cats alone, and though this annoys many felines who prefer to be independent, his chattiness and enthusiasm for conversation is often a treat for those who are tired of the silence and just want a warm voice to listen to.
The Authentic-
An aspect of Whitefire that makes the tom easily approachable is the fact that, not only is he very open to holding a chit-chat with whoever comes along, but the tom is trustworthy and seems to emit a reliable air. He's very down to earth with those around him, and seems to take every step into consideration. He's had to work harder than most to become a warrior, and he likes to think that his experiences have made him stronger. With an ease that doesn't usually come with such a natural flow, Whitefire somehow manages to keep others pleased by pleasing himself. He has a fair memory capacity, and never makes a promise that he isn't positive he can keep. Despite his ability to reason and come off as reliable, there is another part of Whitefire's character that he doesn't much like to mention in his many conversations. The tom is aware of his flaws and just how controversial they are, and therefor he prefers not to think about them or mention them to others. It wouldn't be a surprise if it's the only thing others don't know about the talkative tom.
The NonBeliever-
When Whitefire was a young kit, a cat who was very close to him once told him that a lie unspoken is a truth unknown. To Whitefire, this has never changed. He is honest as he is straight-forward, which is what makes it so difficult for the tom to trust others. While many find it easy to put their faith in him, he himself cannot even summon the strength or courage to rely on Starclan. Whitefire does not believe in the existence of his warrior ancestors. This is not because he feels there is no proof or evidence of their presence, but more so because he does not want them to exist. For, if Starclan are around, then that means every cat who has ever hurt or betrayed him is still around and able to influence his life. The tom lies to none but himself when he says that Starclan is not real. Maybe, somewhere in his sub-conscience, he may be aware of their existence, but he shows no intentions of ever revealing this to himself fully. The idea of living alongside dead cats once you've already moved on is too painful for the tom to comprehend, therefor he has pushed all ideas of Starclan to the back of his mind. To Whitefire, Starclan is merely something irrelevant. Many cats have survived without their warrior ancestors, and he believes that he can do the same.
FAMILY
Larkwhisker- mother: Deceased
Darkclaw- father: Deceased
Sparrowpaw- brother: Deceased
Pheasantpaw- sister: Deceased
Jadefern- uncle: Unknown
HISTORY
Whitekit was happy in the nursery; he had his compassionate mother, Larkwhisker, who prayed to Starclan every time she killed an animal, even for food. Whitekit's father was popular amongst his clanmates for his noble, charismatic demeanor, and many cats speculated on him being chosen as the next deputy seeing as the current one was due to retire soon. Whitekit's family looked normal and sweet, with a childish innocence to his kithood. He was born the strongest and oldest, yet remained the size of a twig. Despite this, he rose on steady paws, and soon his younger brother and sister follow suit. He loved his family; found their warmth more comforting the Greenleaf sun overhead. They made him smile wider than the sky, and he knew they would always be by his side. Those first 3 moons were blissful and carefree; Whitekit wouldn't have had it any other way.
But Shadowclan's leader did not share Whitekit's enthusiasm for life. The coming Leaf-bare would be ever harsher on the clan, and tensions were high with their neighboring felines. War was waged, and Darkclaw, Whitekit and his clan's hero, lost his life to the battles that took place. A dreary air loomed over the camp during the warring period, and even Larkwhisker seemed down and out. Jadefern, Whitekit's uncle, seemed to take the loss of his brother the hardest. Having been orphaned at a young age and with no other siblings, the senior warrior had lost his best friend and last remaining kin. Grief turned to resent, which turned to anger, and eventually the desire for vengance. The tom openly accused Shadowclan's leader of leading the clan into a pointless, unreasonable conflict that was sacrificing their clanmates and slaughtering them like flies. The tom, much to his clanmate's shock, was exiled for speaking out, yet before leaving, he swore to purge Shadowclan of its tyrant. Whitekit had always looked up to his uncle as his mentor, and he felt lost without the valiant tom's presence. The days grew cold and lonely, and suddenly Whitekit's life didn't seem so warm and brilliant anymore.
No one had time to pay attention to tradition as the war grew harsher and the seasons passed. By Leaf-bare, Whitekit, Sparrowkit, and Pheasantkit were due to be apprenticed, and yet it took one more moon before their leader finally found the time to rename them. Whitepaw was determined to fight alongside the other warriors and end the war that had claimed his father and driven off his uncle, and he worked hard and long, even after his mentor had called it a night. When Darkclaw died, Whitepaw had grown quite close with his littermates; especially his beloved little sister Pheasantkit. She was the smallest of the three and the spitting image of her oldest brother. Whitepaw adored her, and she held a special spot in his heart. Their brother, Sparrowpaw, had long been suspected of possessing some sort of birth defect. The tom was cheerful and friendly, but he often had strange, uncontrollable spasms that were unknowingly symptoms of epilepsy. Sparrow adopted severe mood swings, and eventually even Whitepaw and Pheasantpaw could no longer risk being too close to him lest he decide to attack at random.
One cold Leaf-bare morning, Whitepaw awoke to the sound of his sister's wails. He rushed over only to find her nudging their brother's limp body in a hopeless attempt to bring him back. Pheasantpaw never really seemed the same after that, and it tore Whitepaw apart to see his sister's bright smile die into a hollow emptiness. For all Whitepaw could tell, his sister had died along with Sparrowpaw, leaving behind only a ghostly shell of what she had once been. The tom developed a rebellious habit after that. He would sneak out of camp, purposely leave thorns in the elders' bedding, and had an on and off temper. His clanmates grew tired of his attitude and shied away from him. All Whitepaw wanted was to feel like there was something he could do to change things, and finally, when he was 12 moons old, he got that chance.
Whitepaw had always tried harder at fighting than anything else. He knew that he would need to know everything he could if he wanted to make his father's spirit proud, and in a way, he hoped that if the war ended, his sister would return to her former warm and loving self. That's why, when Whitepaw was told to come along for the final battle with Thunderclan, he felt every fiber in his being lurch at the opportunity. It was what he'd wanted all along, and he jumped at the prospect. That night, the tom set off alongside his clanmates, his white pelt a splash of lightning against the opaque undergrowth.
Whitepaw wasn't quite sure how or when the fighting started. All he knew was that his leader was shouting something at Thunderclan's commander, and suddenly the yowl for them to attack had shattered the air, and he was locked in the fray. Fur was ripped off his pelt, and he was filled with a pain and excitement he'd never known before. The thin cat was able to fight his way into the thickest of the battle until he could see his leader caught in a fierce tangle with another cat. Whitepaw launched himself to his leader's aid, and was able to free the tom. However, as he rose to fight alongside his leader, the cat turned cold with fear and fled, leaving Whitepaw to fend off the warrior alone. Shock and disbelief numbed and slowed Whitepaw. The realization that his leader had abandoned him, a mere apprentice, did not click in instantly, and before Whitepaw knew it, he was out cold, a long gash running from his chin to his chest. The Thunderclan warrior did not kill Whitepaw, for that was against the Warrior Code and the cat was not inhumane, but it was enough to keep Whitepaw down for the rest of the battle. By the time the tom had awoken, the fighting had ended and Shadowclan were fleeing the sight. The tom had to struggle to get back to camp, and he was left behind to straggle as his clanmates ran far ahead, unaware of the injured tom's presence. By the time Whitepaw reached camp, the others had realized his absence and rushed to his aid. However, the tom could not bare to look them in the eye. He had wanted that night to show his father that he could protect the honor of Shadowclan. Instead, he had been stabbed in the back, ashamed, and left to die. A bitter feeling grew in the pit of his stomach, and that was the day that Whitepaw stopped believing in Starclan.
When Shadowclan's leader died and was replaced, Whitepaw was happier than he'd been in a long while. The tom had not yet been made a warrior, for his injury had kept him in rehabilitation for nearly a moon, but he was almost immediately moved up as soon as the previous leader passed on. Much to Whitefire's dismay though, Pheasantpaw was not permitted to become a warrior. The clan was no confident in her ability to fight and hunt; the she-cat was a walking ghost nowadays. If she didn't have the will to survive, there was no way she could keep her clanmates living and breathing. Whitefire was infuriated by this verdict, and was forced to watch his beloved sister moved into the Elder's Den.
Whitefire visited her everyday. He stayed by her side when she broke down at a random, and yet he could not break through her shell and into her mind. The she-cat was in turmoil, and all Whitefire could do was lay beside her and hope that she got better. But he missed her, and the pain ate away at him. In less then 3 moons of his time as a warrior, Whitefire once again watched as Starclan took away his most precious someone. With the depression had come sickness, and it was too much for Pheasantpaw's spirit and body. She died in her sleep, only this time Whitefire awoke and found her. The burial was a silent one. No words of comfort or herbs could be administered to the deep wounds that scarred him.
Once, when Whitefire was a kit and his father and littermates were still alive, the tom was snuggled up in the den alongside his mother. It was a star-filled night, and a soft breeze filled the air with the scent of flowers and moonlight. Whitekit was nestled comfortably into Larkwhisker's creamy white fur as he dozed off, his brother and sister already deep in a tender sleep that only kits can fall into. Whitekit was awakened by his mother's yawn, and he looked up at the she-cat with sleepy blue eyes. He asked her why she was sleepy, and she told him it was because the idea of Leaf-bare coming soon tired her. He asked what Leaf-bare was, and she told him of snow and the cold cold days to arrive. When he asked about that, she sighed and told him to go to bed, claiming that one day he would get the chance to see it all. He swore to her that he'd forget half of it by the time he was an apprentice, and the she-cat laughed and told him that one never truly forgets. Memories are the pawprints you leave behind. They may fill with the dusts of time, but their mark will always remain printed into the ground, left there for others to follow in the wake of. She said some other wise things, but the blue-eyed kit had already fallen asleep. The she-cat had smiled and joined her kit in Green-leaf's carefree slumber.
After Pheasantpaw died, it took Whitefire a full season to recall that night when it had been just him and his mother. Suddenly remembering that Larkwhisker was still around, he sought her out in the Elder's Den. He was shocked at how old and tired the she-cat had grown. Guilt plagued his heart when he realized that all this time the elderly queen had dealt with the loss of her family alone. He had left her to bleed out her emotions, when all along they could've made it through by leaning upon one another. Whitefire and his mother talked, and the two grew close. Every day, he would drop by to tell her a story that he found witty or interesting, and she would always listen with the patience and faith of an old friend. The two enjoyed each other's company, and Whitefire found a love for having someone to talk to. He had never realized before just how good it felt to get everything off his shoulders and share it with someone else. Whitefire had never loved his mother so much, and when Leaf-bare came again and stilled the rise and fall of Larkwhisker's flanks, Whitefire made sure to never forget his mother. He would keep her pawprints there in his mind, right in front of him so he could look back and follow their path whenever need be.
Whitefire never lost his desire to share. Whether it was one word here or there, or even a full-on debate, he gradually developed excellent communication skills overtime. Though he never truly got over his inability to rely on someone else, he has fought hard to make it through the war that took his family from him, and is always open to taking in or giving advice. Within the tom is that cold shiver that is only warmed when the tom finds another to lay beside and speak his mind to. He is a talker, a listener, and though he may not be a believer, there is one thing he always looks forward to. When the air is warm, the sky clear, and the space by his side empty, he knows that all he must do is look up, and there, the sun will look down at him and remind of the days when that coldness inside was filled with love; the days that will always live on as long as he keeps them there in his memory.
ROLE-PLAY
The sun was smiling down on this day, the air warm and the trees stretching in the breeze. Down beneath the treetops, amidst the light-speckled shadows, feline bodies moved about. Some were sluggish and clumsy with the morning, while others, the younger and stronger, moved with an ease that seemed so natural. A set of blue eyes of the clearest tint scanned the clearing before falling upon the Freshkill Pile. The tom had noticed how no one had really bothered to replenish the stock since yesterday. He snorted at his clanmates' laziness and deliberately dismissed the fact that he himself had been completely free yesterday to help out his clan. Of course, he was just lacking in motivation. The thin tom had never had much of an appetite in the first place. It wouldn't be his problem if his clanmates needed more fat than necessary. Still, he didn't have anything better to be doing, so, seeing as he was in the mood for a stroll anyway, the tom rose and shook himself, white pelt ruffling on cue and adapting its normal tussled appearance.
"Hey, anybody up for some hunting? The Freshkill Pile's looking a bit pitiful for Green-leaf." The tom called, voice rising clearly above the camp.
Several heads turned and there were half-hearted mumbles. Whitefire didn't bother listening to the individual excuses, for a tabby was adapting a look of momentary consideration. The tom wasted no time in reading his clanmates expression and rushed over to push him towards the camp entrance.
"Alright! Thanks for volunteering! Your service is much appreciated. Any other good somaritans out there? No? Alright. Best be heading out before it gets dark."
And with that, the warrior was shoving his clanmate up and out of camp before the tabby could make much of a protest. Several eyes watched the two reseeding felines before they all rolled in unison and set about to finding useful things to do that involved minimum effort. Days like these were just lazy; what with the warm air and gentle whisper of the season. It was like Greenleaf was begging them to bed down and take just one teensy short nap.
Outside of camp, Whitefire's comrade was forced to tag along as he started at a brisk pace, already knowing where he would hunt. It would be somewhere with plenty of shelter and trees with low-hanging branches. Yes, that would do it. He turned and grinned at his hunting partner, who recoiled in surprise before softening up and smiling back. It was hard not to be dragged around at Whitefire's pace. The tom had a way of making others want to talk just by speaking the first words.
That day, the two caught a hefty amount of prey and came back to camp where they were treated like heroes. Whitefire and his clanmate decided to keep quiet and not mention the fact that half of the food had been found in an old shelter. Besides, it was nice to feel like a winner every now and then, especially when you seemed to be on the losing side most of the time. Whitefire grinned at his clanmates' praise, soaking up the warmth that he felt from the cats around him. Who needed Greenleaf when he had a summer-full of cats around him?
OTHER
-Nomnomnom-
