Mapleroot

RedwoodClan

A large, red-and-white tabby tom with amber eyes.

Considered a prolific fighter during the previous war between LichenClan and RedwoodClan, Mapleroot left the fighting generously endowed with a fine assortment of battle tokens. From his tattered ears to the niches and cuts that mar a coat that is exceedingly soft and lustrous, it would seem very little of him was spared from the molestation of enemy claws. But perhaps most glaring of all is a deep and puckered gash in his shoulder, one that has refused to close and remains a gruesome, pink reminder of a past altercation. It is this wound that haunts him most egregiously, stripping from him his formerly effortless gait and leaving in its place a hobbling, limping thing—a sorry sight for one still in their prime, but one he takes in stride.

hard-work·ing | /härd ˈwərkiNG/ | tending to work with energy and commitment; diligent. || Persistence and hard work. These two values have gotten him far in life—not only in achieving his goals but in establishing a place for himself among his clanmates. Mapleroot believes strongly in applying all of one’s beings to the task at hand, no matter the request. Whether a battle in need of being fought or a prey heap in need of restocking, he views a warrior’s responsibilities with equal and unbiased importance and tackles each obstacle accordingly and with unfaltering vigor.

pas·sion·ate | /ˈpaSH(ə)nət/ | showing or caused by strong feelings or a strong belief. || RedwoodClan values and beliefs are one’s he upholds with undying devotion. Strong familial ties and foundations are of the utmost importance, as are tightknit communities and working forces. He believes strongly in instilling the younger generation with his own militant and inner-working mindset, considering it the only way to return RedwoodClan to their former glory—a history lost to them beneath former leaders’ passive rule.

as·ser·tive | /əˈsərdiv/ | having or showing a confident and forceful personality. || Emboldened by his own merits and achievements on the battlefield, Mapleroot has developed a domineering attitude that does not submit to those he deems unworthy. Few he considers his equals, and it is because of this he carries him with the unshakeable confidence of a general among his troops.

in·stinc·tu·al | /inˈstiNG(k)(t)SH(o͞o)əl/ | relating to or denoting an innate, typically fixed pattern of behavior; based on instinct. || Pragmatic where it suits him, this tom is not guided by the inner workings of logic but rather the inherent intuition manifested from experience. Should he act, he acts without thought, led by a strong will and sense of justice he relies on to great lengths to see his visions through. He is no expert in the arts of planning or idle waiting and organization, but one who believes deeply in the ethics of trial and error, though he is not like to admit defeat, even when met with opposing results.

chau·vin·is·tic | /ˌSHōvəˈnistik/ | feeling or displaying aggressive or exaggerated patriotism. || To entertain ideologies of compassion are but a symbol of weakness in his eyes. One should be indebted to their people and extend their generosity no further than their own borders. For that reason, he looks upon none but his own clanmates with anything in the way of respect and will stubbornly defend his right to deny aid should it be requested from those outside of his own people.

zeal·ous | /ˈzeləs/ | filled with or inspired by intense enthusiasm or zeal; ardent; fervent. || Ever his grandfather’s son, Mapleroot upholds Raggedthroat’s beliefs as if they were among the highest echelon of Clan ideology. He envisions a future in which RedwoodClan reigns, where their neighbors bow before their majesty and militant prowess, never to transgress on them again so that they might live on in relative peace, untroubled by spiteful adversaries.

tem·per·a·men·tal | /ˌtemp(ə)rəˈmen(t)l/ | liable to unreasonable changes of mood. || Guided by his own emotions—and much to his own detriment—Mapleroot’s shortcomings arise in his affinity for personal wants. He lacks the ability to bar his feelings from the pragmatism he dearly lacks, and as such, is volatile in nature and easily riled should the proper jab be afflicted to his ego and fragile pride.

be·grudg·ing | \ bi-ˈgrə-jiŋ/ | envy (someone) the possession or enjoyment of (something). || Deeply embittered by past indiscretions dealt to him, Mapleroot is not one to forget a slight easily. Consumed by deep-rooted jealousies and personal feelings of inadequacy, he is not a tom to put the best interest of others before his own, especially those who have profited on his shortcomings.

re·lent·less | /rəˈlen(t)ləs/ | oppressively constant; incessant. || A force to be reckoned with on the training field and beyond, Mapleroot is unceasing in his energy. He cares deeply for perfection and results and will confront each issue presented to him fervently until it can be resolved. This reluctance to infringe on immaculateness extends into all he does; even on the battleground, he is the last to withdraw, more willing to spill his life's blood till the very end than turn tail and flee for the sake of upholding his own values.

Amongst the stillness, she brought them forward, in that place where the mosses warm embrace and the bunt of a warm belly were welcomed to the tight security of their previous dwelling. And so they did draw towards that veritable and soothing warmth, giving suck and filling their wailing bellies with the comforts of milk until they were round and drowsy with it and fell into easy slumbers.

All while she watched over them, her lungs but spent with their previous grief, at the three that had come before, borne from her womb deathly still and deathly quiet, never once to plead for milk or wriggle to her tummy in search of it. Instead, they lay limp, to be plucked unceremoniously from her by a medicine cat who could not meet her eyes, nor soothe her shattered heart.

He only commented on the living. He offered her no comforts, only drew her to that which remained to her—what StarClan thought necessary to leave her with.

“They’ll need names. Strong ones,” he murmured. She could never remember if it were pity or detest that made his voice sound so hollow. She found she didn’t care.

She had her kits. Two. Alive. And they needed names—strong ones.

Her thoughts wandered. She thought of names but found such thinking warded from her as she laid eyes on that tom that nestled fitfully against her stomach, a startling copy of… him.

Her throat grew dry. But he will be nothing like him. He cannot ruin these ones. These ones will be an example; they will not make the same mistakes as those before them. And so she vowed, and so they were named, one after the veritable maple tree, the other after the large larch. Strong names. Good names. Names beyond his influence.


Even now, he remembers how her teeth had pricked at his scruff as she hefted him, wearing her anger plainly, letting it seethe in her eyes, her every movement. She was not pleased. But then, she never had been when he visited the elder’s—when they told their stories, woven with fallacies, with the telling of past deeds most heroic and most oft untrue. But never his. His were without their embellishment, and he loved them most for that.

His mother hated them most for that. She detested those stories, and she abhorred that old ‘crone’ that told them.

He was never to revisit them, she told him. Never. And if she caught him listening to those stories and filling his head with that he did not truly understand, he would have more to contend with than her teeth at his scruff.

He understood and never visited again—or at least not when Mottlefoot was around to catch wind of such wanderings. He never understood what made her hate Raggedthroat so much—so much that she would not even utter his name in the presence of himself and his sister.


It was mere luck, what had led to Beaverpaw being entrusted into the care of Raggedthroat—or so that was what he told himself. If he’d only been a moon older, it would have been different. His great-grandsire would have seen him and his merits and chosen him instead, he was sure.

But he hadn’t. He had not even held out for him to approach his sixth moon and so took on the other, the softer one whose common birth and meager ambitions were shadowed by his own—he who had never been able to best him in a spar.

He swathed him in his time, basked him in the radiance of his teachings, and when it came to Maplekit, who yearned just for a moment alone with him, he offered nothing.

No wound cut quite so deep as the indifference. It wounded him, made his mood grow dark and jealous. However, his mother rejoiced in her own quiet way, as if some great danger had been averted at last.


His mentor was a war hero himself—that was what his mother told him, to soothe his bitterness and the ornery cravings that writhed within him—he was a hero and had fought valiantly, even alongside Raggedthroat. Yet his achievements paled by comparison. He was a war hero, it was true, and his merits were widely spoken, but he was not his great-grandsire, and perhaps he was always aware of that when that plucky young tom had been entrusted into his care—maybe he had always known.

Yet he still learned from that tom a great deal, though it never compared to the rapid progress Beaverpaw seemed to always be achieving. That only fueled him more. It made him ravenous, filled him with an insatiable want to prove himself, until he threw himself at his training with a new vigor, drilling even in the dark of night.

But it was never enough. It could never surpass the training of he who had once been inferior to him, a fact that left him equal parts bitter and determined to continue in his unrealistic pursuits for perfection. Yet still, when the time came when they tested their skills and locked their body in the whirling dance of warriors, Maplepaw found himself bested—bested by he who had once been soft, who had squealed and wailed when he pinned him beneath him.

Now it was he who squirmed under him. Nothing cut so deep.

Still, he pressed on, desperately wanting for an opportunity to prove himself, though it didn’t come. When the fighting began again, and LichenClan extended their reach to their border, he pulled a muscle in his efforts and could not join the fighting. A shame, for that very battle awarded his rival with an early ascension into warriorhood—a second slight—a cut that went deep.


His wounds kept him pinioned in place for some time, but he returned to the field with the same restless abandon upon recovering. He grew stronger, trained his limbs to their former propensity, and pushed his body as far as it could feasibly go, all in hopes of earning his warrior title in similar fashion as the now dubbed Beavergaze.

His opportunity came in the form of a new battle strategy incited by three ambitious mentors. It was meant to bolster the strength of apprentices, to form them into fleets whose bond and training together would make them an indomitable force on the battlefield. His own consisted of two others—a she-cat named Leopard paw and another, a tom named Quillpaw.

They were inseparable. Every waking moment they spent together—first by the demands of their tutors, and later by the demands of the bond they developed—and so grew in solidarity and strength.

Their success was widely known and coveted, and their application in border skirmishes garnered RedwoodClan more than their fair share of victories amongst the fighting. But their merits were truly tested when they were tasked with braving a fierce fight against their LichenClan rivals, one they were not wholly prepared to face.

Still, Maplepaw goaded them on. He urged them, and so they bided his words, pushed the offense, and when the fighting ended, when the dust settled, and the breathing ebbed, he was the last to remain among the living. The others had died, stripped of life.

He would earn his name for his efforts, but the victory would always be bittersweet.


The fleet dispersed and himself alone, Mapleroot’s ascension into warriorhood was marked by momentous fighting as the war raged on at their borders. He never slackened in his efforts, still desperate to prove himself as a worthy fighter—one worthy of his great grandsires affection and time—and so began to build for himself a reputation, one of unorthodox methods and renown belligerence that made him no favorite among his clanmates.

It neither dampened nor hindered his resolve. He continued to fight, and so triumphed. Already he was laying down the brickwork of his legacy. They would murmur about him in the elder’s tales, he knew.


Nobody knew whose claws it had been that had done Gorseheart in, only that when the fighting ebbed, it was his body they found among the collateral, limp, bloody, face still drawn taut in the beginning of a snarl that had never had the chance to be set free. A gruesome sight, one deeply mourned as they carried his body back to be received by the clan, mourned and given vigil.

Without a deputy, the matter of a new one was extensively discussed, but in the end, the choice was an unexpected one. A young tom named Finchtail was chosen to rise in Gorseheart’s position—seemingly to the chagrin of his grandfather, whose own disciple had only grown in his achievements and renown.

Mapleroot thought nothing of it, held his vigil, and when that had passed, when his stomach burbled for respite, he did rouse himself, and in so doing, overheard the heated exchange between his great-grandsire and the then leader Heatherstar. They spoke of deputies, they spoke of a spoiled moment… they spoke of Beavergaze.

He need not linger long enough to hear the conclusion of such trifling words. Solidified in him was a determination to prove to him that he had chosen unwisely.

It fueled him for many moons, brewing in his belly and bearing witness to his deeds. It goaded him to fight unrepentantly, with newfound belligerence and purpose that cost him the grace of gait he once possessed.

Amid talk of yet another war unfolding at the start of leaf-bare, he again finds himself roused and wanting to prove his merits once more.