ISLA

ROGUE

small black and red tortoiseshell with green eyes

Due to seasons of malnutrition and much-too-early pregnancies, Isla remained as small as a six moon old cat, her stature short and lithe. Her frame carries little substance, a ragged coat merely hanging from petite bones. She carries some muscles along her limbs and flank, built over seasons of defense and short, territorial spats, but it does little to make the she-cat formidable in battle. Her wins, if any, have been born out of her own resourcefulness and wit, rather than her brute strength or sharpened claws. Perhaps if she had been cared for and had access to dependable resources, she would have became a cat of normal size and build.

Isla's coat is rather lackluster and dull. Over the seasons, it has dwindled down to chunks, leaving behind sparse patches across her petite frame. Some areas were torn out in scuffles and now bear wicked scars, fields where hair refuses to return, while other stretches have bloomed abundantly in comparison, making her coat rather uneven. Despite its matte sheen, the she-cat carries an attractive air of various hues, her base coat a multitude of reds and blacks. A tortoiseshell in color, her charcoal fur is speckled in varying tones of red, some blotches darker, others brighter, while few chunks of white litter her coat on her chest, stomach, and toes.

Her face is predominantly black, like the base of her coat, creating a distinctive contrast between her dark fur and bright, new-leaf green eyes. While her coat is lackluster, her gaze, perhaps is the most appealing aspect of her appearance, sharp with intellect and wit. The left side of her face is dotted with colors of red and cream, the rest of her face mottled with fainter traces of her tortoiseshell hues. She has a small, round face, fitting her for short stature, her maws often bared in a snarl. Her nose is the name charcoal black as her coat, and atop her head, sits two modest ears, neither remarkable in their size. Like the rest of her demeanor, her whiskers blend well into her fur, almost unnoticeable in the shadows of her coat.

Opportunistic -  Isla is selfish. Her decision and motives are based on opportunities that can only benefit herself. If they benefit another cat, like her kits, or whatever tom is in her nest that week, it was merely a coincidence. She does not care about the consequences, as long they do not negatively affect her or her livelihood. She knows a boon when she sees one and will not shy away from screwing someone over to better herself.

Perceptive - The tortoiseshell quickly learned to read others after she was forced to live on her own. Isla possesses a quick wit and nimble mind. She can discern who will or will not serve her with ease. While she is rather observant and can read a situation without fault, this does not mean she cares or will act to assist another.

Resourceful - The northern lands are harsh, almost inhabitable. Due to this, the she-cat learned to be rather inventive with her endeavors in order to survive. She knows who to talk to, who to avoid, where to nest, and how to prepare, so she can make it through each leaf-bare. To her core, she is a survivalist, and will not waste any expense to ensure she lives to see the next sunrise and sunset.

Inhospitable - Isla is not a nice cat. Seasons of emotionless attachments and loss have hardened her heart and created an aura of mistrust that hovers around her like a cloud. She is unfriendly towards those who do not immediately benefit her. While she does not like to be alone, because she has entrusted her survival on the backs of others, Isla is not an easy cat to live with it and often drives others away due to her neglect and inability to care.

Manipulative - The she-cat is not a mastermind of manipulation nor is she gifted with a silver tongue. However, she does know who can benefit her and how to win them over, so like a leach, she will attach herself to them until they no longer serve their purpose. She mostly uses her wit and resourcefulness to trick toms into hunting for her, protecting her, and providing her shelter. This trait of hers has also been used on some of her kits.

Unreliable - While most cats often leave her, Isla is no stranger to leaving in the middle of the night herself. She will lie without batting an eye, either to get what she wants or to make another cat stay. The she-cat does not care who she hurts or the consequences of her follies. She has learned that she cannot trust someone else. So in turn, no one should trust her as well.

Born at the start of leaf-fall, Isla's mother, an older, weathered she-cat named Ara, knew her kits wouldn't last the first snow-fall. The season was harsh, threatening wicked winds and heavy snow, much earlier than usual. Leaf-fall was swallowed quickly, harrowed out by snow storms and ice. Her litter started with three, small sickly kits, their bodies already weak and malnourished. Ara nursed with a skeptical eye, their father already miles away, settled with some other she-cat. She was used to it, the loss. Her heart was closed, scarred over by old wounds. So when her first kit perished, the land unkind and resources limited, the old she-cat didn't even bat an eye, much less when the second one died a few weeks later.

Only Isla remained.

She didn't receive a name until new-leaf arrived, moons later after her birth. Ara expected her to die, continuously surprised the small kit survived another night. Her name was a second-hand thought, a last minute question the small kit asked one morn, curious about her own existence. The old molly responded with Isla and nothing more, so Isla she became. Her relationship with her mother was distant. There was no affection, no touch, and sparse communication. If there was love, Isla never felt it. Instead, her mother filled her with chaste warnings, hoarse meows about the demons in the world, cats she shouldn't trust.

The first on her list were toms, cats who would either break hearts or use a cat for their own, selfish reasons. This included her father, a name Isla never learned or cared to know. The second on her list was the clan cats. Never trust a clan cat. Her mother drilled this to her over and over, relentless with her hate. Knowing little else, Isla merely nodded her head, drinking in every word. Clan cats would kill her if the chance ever arose, so she stayed away, only straying into the pine forest under the protective shadow of her mother. She never went alone. Not until her mother kicked her out.

When she neared eleven moons old, Isla could sense her mother becoming more and more restless, her eyes always wandering, never here. They moved nests several times that moon. There was no reason. Only that her mother felt unsafe, as if the land could no longer soothe her restless heart. It was then that a tom materialized from the shadows like the moon over the island, comforting and bearing light. He was new, a tongue laced with silver, and her mother was smitten, uncharacteristically soft. Isla was startled, never seeing this side of her mother before. Toms were the enemy, so why did she look at him so? Touch him so? Ara evicted her from the nest soon after, a hiss in her mouth and sheathed claws, poised to strike if Isla said no.


Hurt and confused, the tortoiseshell scrambled from her home, choosing to loiter on the outskirts, her eyes always hopeful for her mother's mind to change, to welcome her back in their home. But, she never did. Instead, Isla learned to live alone, slowly slipping into the life her mother lived before her, blood thicker than water. If she couldn't be useful to her mother, she could at least try to be useful for herself.

It started first with a tom, a thick black-coated tom with a voice like honey. He met Isla near the northern cliffs, his smile kind and warm. She wasn't used to such attention, the touch of a flank, a whisker brushed over her maw. It made her feel intoxicated, to be admired by another. In less than a moon, she surrendered to him, desperate for a provider, a body to fill the hole her mother had left, and he moved into her nest. Their difference in moons was staggering. He was much older than her, firmer, stricter. His words soon became harsh, no longer sweet like sap. The smile started to fade, his eyes grew distant, but Isla persevered. She would much rather be unhappy than alone -- and she wasn't unhappy?

Soon, she was pregnant with his kits, barely even a season old. With the news, he only grew more distant, and soon, much like her mother, he left and never returned. She birthed his kits a few moons later, in the dead of leaf-bare, alone. Isla tried to care for her children, but she did not know how. Resources had dwindled and the earth was cold. Much like the litter she was born into, her own children were taken from the island before their first moon. She was alone, absolutely alone. Her heart soon hardened, her chest barricaded and closed.

The seasons turned, new-leaf to leaf-fall, and like Ara, Isla learned the truth of her words. Never trust toms. This was true. A tom would only woo a she-cat to use her, and then he would leave, bored and listless. But much like a tom, she could use cats too. She could become as mistrustful as them in return. Isla quickly learned to use others for her own benefit, to fill her nest with nameless faces until they no longer proved useful. Soon, she was the one kicking toms from her nest, a snarl on her face and a hiss in her throat until the loneliness returned and cycle continued.  She learned that survival mattered more than any touch, any emotion that felt like silly love or fatal attraction. Some toms stayed longer than others. Some she actually grew to like, but even those toms, those who fathered her kits, would leave, eventually growing sick of her. No one ever returned.

As the seasons shifted, Isla became a mother to many nameless, lifeless kits. The northern land was inhospitable, completely devoid of consistent food and resources. She never had a reliable nest, a reliable meal. Only the campground proved fruitful, but other rogues, cats like Curiosity and his lackeys governed those parts, and Isla wanted nothing to do with them, mistrustful and wary. So she kept to herself, doing what she could to care for the faces she birthed into this world, a tickle of strange affection in her heart. But it would never last. Some of her children survived, and like her mother, Isla kept them around for a little while, learning that some toms would linger nearby, knowing she had birthed their kits. They would hunt for her, offer her more substantial shelter and protection. So she cared for them until they were weened, and then she used her kits in return. Kits were only worth keeping around if they carried their own weight -- right?

Most of her children left before she could kick them out, but some lingered, those too soft to learn the cruelty of the island on their own. For those who were too weak, too soft to serve their use, Isla abandoned them, often without a word. At first it felt like an odd betrayal, a hurt she couldn't understand, let alone explain. But what was the point of keeping them around? They would all leave in the end anyways. They always did, just like their fathers. But one in particular, a small she-cat named Fayre persisted, proving useful in ways Isla never considered.

Time after time, Isla would kick Fayre from her nest, even going as far as to claw the she-cat in a particular fit of ire. But Fayre would always return. Unlike the others, she came back, strangely optimistic and kind. Isla tolerated it with bared teeth, a strange fluttering in her chest, realizing this was the longest she hadn't been alone. How did she bear a kit so naive? So soft? It must have been her father, a face she had long forgotten, a name she never learned. Fayre's blood must have been tainted by his, whoever he was. But even with her softness, the she-cat proved useful, resourceful in ways Isla was not.

So it was when Isla was attacked by clan cats, caught on the wrong side of the border with a bird in her mouth, did Fayre prove her resourcefulness most. Bloodied and limping, Isla returned to their nest on the brink of collapse. She didn't say to a word to her daughter. She only suffered in silence, her body wracked with pain. Without a second thought, Fayre left, worry in her gaze. At first, Isla thought she was gone, a weird sense of absence in their home. Finally, Fayre had abandoned her, just like everyone else. But she returned, strange herbs in her mouth and a warm tongue. She nursed Isla back to health under the foreign guidance of a loner named Aster, a cat Isla had never heard of before. It was then that she realized her daughter's kindness had been her treasured resource, the reason Isla was still alive. It was kindness that earned her herbs. It was kindness that won over the old she-cat's heart. For the first time in moons, Isla didn't try to kick Fayre out. Instead, she wondered how else this kindness could be abused?

So she decided to keep Fayre around, at least for now. But much like her mother before her, Isla filled her daughter's head with the same two threats: Never trust a tom. Never trust a clan cat. She made sure to keep her daughter fearful. It meant she would continue to stick around, never under the influence of a tom with a silver tongue, or in the claws of clan cats who wanted her dead. But at the same time, Isla knew that as soon as Fayre's usefulness faded, as soon as her kindness proved itself a threat, Isla would leave. She would return to the life she had lived before, the life she had fostered before she birthed this naive, curious she-cat into the world.