Post by Egotistic on Nov 28, 2020 2:26:14 GMT -6
Velvetpaw
ThistleClan
A lithe, solid chocolate tom with green eyes.
Apprentice
Male | Tom
9 moons
Appearance
Though Velvetpaw shares the same dame and sire as his meeker brother, it is there that the similarities end. Even in gait, they are not equals, for he carries himself with the unbridled confidence that exceeds his moons, each lofty stride overrun with a cocksureness that reflects his domineering nature. And with reason, for physically he is not something to scoff at, young though he may be.
Indeed, for though Velvetpaw lacks the broad proportions and unyielding strength of his larger counterparts, he more than makes up for it in speed. His body is oddly long, coated in lean muscle and deceptively heavy, bearing wiry shoulders that end in dainty paws. His tail is oddly long, whip-thin, leading into the peculiar rise of hind limbs that are longer than the fore, holding the rest of him at a characteristic slant. It is these powerful back legs that give him such a significant advantage. Allowing for mighty leaps and rending kicks, they pack a significant bit of power and aid him in incredible feats of speed and endurance, making him a prolific climber, digger, and sprinter.
In coloration, Velvetpaw is quite beautiful to look upon. His coat is one of lustrous chocolate strands, completely untouched, as soft as the velvet after which he was named and providing a striking contrast with vibrant green eyes. It has not seen many battles as of yet, but he intends to decorate it nicely in time.
Indeed, for though Velvetpaw lacks the broad proportions and unyielding strength of his larger counterparts, he more than makes up for it in speed. His body is oddly long, coated in lean muscle and deceptively heavy, bearing wiry shoulders that end in dainty paws. His tail is oddly long, whip-thin, leading into the peculiar rise of hind limbs that are longer than the fore, holding the rest of him at a characteristic slant. It is these powerful back legs that give him such a significant advantage. Allowing for mighty leaps and rending kicks, they pack a significant bit of power and aid him in incredible feats of speed and endurance, making him a prolific climber, digger, and sprinter.
In coloration, Velvetpaw is quite beautiful to look upon. His coat is one of lustrous chocolate strands, completely untouched, as soft as the velvet after which he was named and providing a striking contrast with vibrant green eyes. It has not seen many battles as of yet, but he intends to decorate it nicely in time.
Personality
PERSONALITY TRAITS
Pragmatic, Opportunistic, Cunning, Hubristic, Flippant, Coquettish
Misanthropic, Cynical, Intolerant, Manipulative, Undiplomatic
Pragmatic, Opportunistic, Cunning, Hubristic, Flippant, Coquettish
Misanthropic, Cynical, Intolerant, Manipulative, Undiplomatic
prag·mat·ic | /praɡˈmadik/ | dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical considerations. || Compassion is a trait Velvetpaw knows with little familiarity. He would much rather speak frankly—whether at the expense of another’s feelings, it is no matter to him—for he believes only in striving for the best possible outcome. Neither do theoretics interest him; instead, it that which offers him the least setbacks that draws his eye, even if at the expense of others.
op·por·tun·is·tic | /ˌäpərt(y)o͞oˈnistik/ | exploiting chances offered by immediate circumstances without reference to a general plan or moral principle. || A go-getter at heart, there is no opportunity Velvetpaw will pass on; whether a chance to skip out on patrol or rise above his peers in the eyes of his clanmates, there are few chances he misses willingly. In this way, he has no qualms with using every situation—and person, for that matter, to his benefit. After all, in his eyes, that is what they’re there for and it would be a disservice not to use them as StarClan intended.
cun·ning | /ˈkəniNG/ | having or showing skill in achieving one's ends by deceit or evasion. || Silver-tongued and unapologetically manipulative, he learned at a young age how best to get his way. There are few he cannot bend to his will, and so he has harbored and nurtures such skills, earning for himself all that he could possibly want for.
hu·bris·tic | /(h)yo͞oˈbristik/ | excessively proud or self-confident. || To say he thinks highly of himself may, perhaps, be an understatement. Velvetpaw was raised under the impression that he was destined for greatness, and while he very rarely agrees with the sentiments of his old man, it is there that the two are in accordance. As such, he carries himself with the poise of a king and acts accordingly.
flip·pant | /ˈflipənt/ |not showing a serious or respectful attitude. || Respect is a value he has yet to learn, it would seem. And why should he? Surrounded by those who would put their lives on the line to guard something as insignificant as a cluster of trees, he views the Clan’s antics as something more deserving of amusement than the veneration and respect of his betters. After all, it is hard to be anything but when those around you support a craft you find nothing short of idiotic.
co·quet·tish | /kōˈkediSH/ | behaving in such a way as to suggest a playful sexual attraction; flirtatious. || Velvetpaw exercises a compelling charm that inspires the utmost devotion of any foolish enough to stumble into his web. He is a flatterer, flagrant and heavy-handed in his cajoling if there is cause enough for it, and considers himself well enough at his craft.
mis·an·throp·ic | /ˌmis(ə)nˈTHräpik/ | disliking humankind and avoiding human society. || Perhaps the result of being raised by one whose ways he considered equal parts needlessly cruel and insipid, Velvetpaw is no stranger to most cats' self-centered ways, and as such regards most with little in the form of confidence or naïve adoration. He is no lover of the individual, nor does he give in to blinding sentimentalities, and so views all people with raw consideration. In this way, he sees others for who they truly are, not how they wish to be perceived, and does not offer the veiled fawning of most youths to even the Clans most renowned warriors and legends.
cyn·i·cal | /ˈsinək(ə)l/ | believing that people are motivated by self-interest; distrustful of human sincerity or integrity. || Velvetpaw considers himself to be a knower of cats. He understands most are fueled by their own ambitions, with the needs of the Clan second in their list of priorities, and so upholds nobody by a golden standard; to do so, he claims, would be to set oneself up for nothing but disappointment. All cats are flawed, after all, and he is no different, and so views every noble deed and gracious act with a jaded skepticism.
dis·crim·i·na·to·ry | /dəˈskrimənəˌtôrē/ | making or showing an unfair or prejudicial distinction between different categories of people. || Outspoken to a fault, he is not one to endure the presence of those he does not care for and sees little reason not to voice his opinions when it comes to those he considers unsavory and unworthy of suffering. Be it a Clanmate, a rogue—it is no matter to him. If he has no need of you, he is not too cowardly to voice it.
ma·nip·u·la·tive | /məˈnipyəˌlādiv / | serving or intended to control or influence others in an artful and often unfair or selfish way. || He’s never had a friend he wouldn’t use, and so use them he does. Velvetpaw takes every opportunity he can to benefit himself in some way—big or small. As such, he surrounds himself only with those that can be of some use to him, even if that does mean to fill their heads with petty gossip or lies. It’s no matter how they take or use the information he feeds them so long as they serve him and his needs accordingly.
un·dip·lo·mat·ic | /ˌənˌdipləˈmadik/ | being or appearing insensitive and tactless. || Tact is of no great necessity to him. Speak plainly, he says, and suffer the consequences later, for in his eyes, there is no one deserving of being kind to for the sake of nurturing their fragile egos.
History
Mother: Shadowfrost (npc)
Father: Swallowtooth (npc)
Winter had only just released its hold on the island. Leaf-bare snows melted into muddy puddles, leaving the earth soft and squelching underfoot and the air filled with an earthy scent of petrichor. The sun had risen by then, idle and feeble in its warmth. Soon it would grow, and in its growing heat, would herald a new season of life and prosper; new stirrings had already made their presence known as they field the air with their hungry squalls for food.
Yet Shadowfrost did not rejoice in their coming. Even as their hungry cries for food urged her ears, and she sensed the insistent kneading of their little paws, there was naught to be felt for those small stirrings that tugged and sucked at her so greedily. Nothing at all. Even as she looked upon them and saw her likeness in the darkness of their pelt, she felt none of the pride or warmth she had expected, only a brooding emptiness, a fatigue that weighed at her bones and blackened her temper. She did not want these kits. She had never wanted them, so then why—
“…names.”
Weary eyes blinked beneath weighted lids. She stared, dumb in her silence, at the lanky tom whose youth and inexperience had been a fact that taxed their Clan with each passing season. It was a wonder at all they had survived even this one as seamlessly as they had. Perhaps miracles really do exist. “What was that?”
“I-I was o-only saying th-they’ll need n-names. Two t-t-toms born on the c-cusp of winter… few q-queens are so fortunate to bear a healthy b-brood—and without any st-stillborns at that.”
Words as somber as they were uplifting, yet she felt little in the way of relief… only that same tired heaviness. She hated the way it taxed her. It ate away at her. What is wrong with me? “Yes. I suppose it is fortunate they all lived.” Flat. Not even Ratwhisker, in all his naivete, missed the emptiness in their implications. Huffing, she pressed on. “…her name—”
“H-his na—”
Irritation. “Yes, yes. This one… this one will be Shadepaw,” she said slowly as if the effort alone taxed her.
“And th-the other?”
“I hadn’t forgotten, thank you. He will be… Velvetpaw. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Ratwhisker. I would like some time alone with my sons.” Even as she uttered the word, it felt hollow.
His father had always been gluttonous for power. Perhaps in part due to that which he lacked within his own person; whatever the reason, it mattered little to Velvetkit, whose muscles trembled with the sweet ache of physical toil. It was a good ache. It meant progress—progress towards a goal he and Swallowtooth both lusted for greedily… he only wished he could achieve it without wasting his talents on one so useless as this.
“Drive him harder. Aim high—now low! Break him, son!”
Barked orders rang in his ears, ones he carried out with no particular optimism. Yet still, his opponent did not break, nor did he deflect his blows, only cowered and shrunk into himself, yellow eyes pleading in a face so much like his own.
“Low, I said!”
Velvetkit ground his teeth. He drove him harder, rousing the air between them with the buffet of lashing paws, dogging him into a corner where the press of earth denied the wants of his fleeing limbs. Then he fell upon him. He bowled him over, sunk his teeth through the soft kitten-down to the flesh beneath until they pricked and yielded blood. The taste sang on his tongue, metallic, warm. He tightened his grip. It wouldn’t be long now before the game was over. It always ended like this. Always—
The flash of claws, a stinging pain, and he was reeling back, hissing in shock, eyes glaring, seething, staring at the cat he grudgingly called brother—he whose claws still remained upraised, frozen in their shock before round yellow eyes.
He struck me. Astonished silence possessed him. For once, he found himself too dumbfounded to move. Was this how Shadekit felt when they played their games? Too meek and startled to move? How could he stand it?
He hated it.
Steadily his tongue untangled itself. Anger seethed from him then, his jaws opened, preparing to lash at him with the brunt of his wrath—but his father was quicker. A blur of fur and his brother was shifted, toppled over and pinned against the earth. He saw the prick of his father’s claws as they gouged into him then, how they cut as his teeth had once done in that plush shoulder.
Spittle snapped from his jaws. “How many times must I tell you, Shadekit—how many times—that you are not to use your claws?”
A silence fell. Shadekit had gone still; for once, he had even managed to quiet his pitiful squealing. “I… I didn't mean—”
“I didn’t ask what you meant. Make sure that it doesn’t happen again. Do you understand me?”
Again, quiet, then the feeble nodding of a head, and it was over.
Velvetkit could not decide then who disgusted him more—his feeble brother or the tom who had made him that way.
It had taken six moons—six moons for his merits to be recognized. But at last—at long last, they had been. Today would mark the beginning when everything changed for the better. He could finally be rid of them, his vapid mother, his cowardly father… soon he would be rid of them all. Once the sun had fully risen, that is.
“Father says it won’t be long before I’m a warrior, too,” he boasted, ducking under the listless tug of his mother’s tongue. “And then—then it’ll be my turn to lead the Clan.” His eyes glittered. He liked the sound of that. Velvetstar. Nobody would dare challenge them so long as he was leader. The Clan would change for the better. If I were leader, there'd be no more curfews. I’d shred every rogue that so much as laid eyes on our border, not lie in hiding like some mouse-heart! A hunger possessed then; he found there was nothing he wanted so desperately as that.
“Oh? Will it, dear?” As usual, his mother did not entertain his theatrics. She never had. From the moment he was born, she had always possessed an aloofness that had never warmed itself, not even to her most promising son. Even now, as she smoothed the fur against his sides, lapped it until it shone beneath the warm beat of the sun, there was no love in the gesture. There never had been; she did only as much as she needed to and no more. But he was used to that. Soon even she would sing his praises as everyone else did. She would finally see him—she would stop disregarding him and give to him what he craved so desperately. Soon.
“Once I’m a warrior,” he assured her. “And then no one will ever mess with ThistleClan again.”
“I’m sure they won’t.” The lap of her tongue stilled. He turned, ears pricking, watched as that small black shape crept from its hollow and roused the Clan with a booming caterwaul. It was time. His time was coming. His mother regarded him, looking almost bored. “Well, you had better get going, then. Thievingstar won’t like it if you’re late.”
As if I’d ever be! Yet when he strode forward to shove his way through the crowd and rose up to brush his nose against the cool leather of his leader’s nose and turned to listen as the crowd heaved with the chanting of his name, he did not see her amongst the crowd. He didn't see her at all.