Hemlock where

shade grows

Tribe of Floating Stones

black tom with orange eyes

It could be because the tom is six moons old, or it could be because of his oriental lineage, but Hemlock is an awkward, leggy mess. Lanky is almost an understatement. Gangly might work better, but even then, words cannot fully describe his gauntly frame. Hemlock is a thin tom with wildly disproportionate legs that are much to long for his thin torso.

His head in comparison seems impish atop his slender build, his ears much too large and muzzle much too pointed and narrow. He looks almost like a caricature, his lines overdrawn and salient. The bones in his back and hindquarters are painfully evident beneath his thin coat, not due to undernourishment, but rather to his keen and angular build. The tom is all cut corners.

His fur is short and thin, which offers little to no protection during the leaf-bare cold. The tom rests with his nose tucked far into his stomach, his boney build suckered into a coiled ball, in an act to create warmth. Hemlock has a dark raven-colored coat. There are no white flits or stains. His color is solid and as continuous as the water in the lake. Even his whiskers are dark, near clandestine on his face.

Like two harvest moons, the tom has a deeply contrasting gaze. His eyes are an ominous orange color, and perhaps, it would look intimidating on a more sinister cat; but on Hemlock, it looks somewhat comical – the discs often lit with a mischievous air.

His demeanor is as goofy as his appearance. Hemlock likes to create mischief, his desire to laugh and poke fun much stronger than his desire to have a serious conversation. He is sociable and extroverted. The tom is not afraid to voice his opinions and sometimes wrestles with his need to always say what is on his mind. He has to learn that, no, most cats do not like comments about their appearance, nor does his mother like hearing about his many bodily functions – like the time he confessed he vomited in his mouth two seconds ago and it tasted like old bark.

While a bit dumb, the tom is determined to be the best tribe cat he can be. His mother raised him with heroic stories about his late father; and ever since the tom was a mere kit, he vowed to serve his tribe with that same steadfast dedication. This has led him to become rather ambitious in his endeavors. He does not want to be a mere prey-hunter or stone-guard, but rather, he wants to be the head prey-hunter or stone-guard. It has been this drive that wakes him each dawn and follows him to rest each dusk.

He is also a bit romantic. While he is a mere to-be and knows little about actual romance, he has listened to his mother talk about his father and has seen her face illuminate at the mere mention of his name or late memory of his touch. It is all rose-colored and overstated, of course, but the tom hopes that one day, he can make someone feel the same way.

Hemlock never met his father. Lake where Skies Meet died in battle a moon before his birth. His mother, Maple that Burns at Dawn, never disclosed his death in detail to the kit; but he soon learned from some blabber-mouthed to-be that his father died in a skirmish with a fox hoard. The foxes had cornered a tribe mate and her kits, and his father, a stone-guard, dove between them to save their lives. His death had been heroic, and that word, heroic followed Hemlock like a shadow.

His mother, a beautiful black calico, named her son Hemlock where Shade Grows to honor her deceased mate. Lake had first wooed the she-cat near a hemlock grove one late evening. Maple had admired the white-flowered plants and canted her nose to catch its scent. The raven colored tom intervened, his breath hot on her neck. “The plants are poisonous, love,” he breathed. The she-cat blushed in embarrassment. Lake smiled, unbothered by her ignorance, and her embarrassment vanished with the late leaf-bare sun.

He was also named for his raven coat.

Hemlock was raised on the stories of his late father. Maple told him each dusk, before rest, about his father and his various endeavors across the island. His father hiked far into the hills. He killed bears. He raked hawks out of the sky. He even swam so far that he discovered a new island. Hemlock would listen, his orange eyes wide, and he never once doubted them as true.

He wanted to be his father, heroic and brave.

The tom soon blossomed into a mischievous kit with a taste for adventure. When his mother was absent, he would corral the other kits and to-bes into a formidable band and set out about the island intent on performing heroic deeds. His adventures, for the most part, were harmless in nature; however, some were a bit much for the tribe and Hemlock found himself tasked with mindless chores in retaliation.

He never minded.

When he was six moons old, the tribe welcomed him as a to-be. While it is unclear whether Hemlock will take the prey-hunter or stone-guard path, it is sure that the tom will do his role as the hero he intends to be - for his father.