Firepelt

RedwoodClan

a disheveled red mackerel tabby she-cat w/ green eyes.

Where her brother’s inherited their father’s gargantuan proportions and herculean strength, the same cannot be said for Firepelt, who instead took after her mother’s leaner physique. She is the smallest of her kin and the fairest of them all, with soft features lost behind a roguish façade of purposefully and erratically disheveled fur.

In color, she bears the flagrant red that is commonplace in RedwoodClan. Her coat is of the tabby variety and as such is barred by thing stripes that band and bind her body every which way, while her eyes are of the softest shade of green—one of the few traits of hers spared by the deliberate severity of her gaze, letting pass through a certain feminine grace.

a·bra·sive | /əˈbrāsiv,əˈbrāziv/ | showing little concern for the feelings of others; harsh. || Tact is a skill of which she is most unlearned. She sees no cause to be anything other than upfront, considering feeling last when approaching any subject as they are nothing short of a burdensome and foreign thing to her. And if a few feelings are hurt in the process what matter is that to her? At the very least no one could say she was dishonest.

ne·glect·ful | /nəˈɡlek(t)fəl/ | not giving proper care or attention to someone or something. || A queen mated to her work, Firepelt’s attention to the interpersonal aspects of her life has always been a fleeting thing. She lacks the ability to truly comprehend the needs of others, and having grown up mainly taking care of herself, presumes all people are capable of that which she has done in her earlier moons.

ear·nest | /ˈərnəst/ | resulting from or showing sincere and intense conviction. || Perhaps the result of being raised in a litter of boisterous toms, Firepelt has always strived to cut her own path and make a name for herself. As such, she acts with dangerous haste, one that takes little consideration for the consequences and oft leaves her worse off than when she started. Still, she could not imagine it being any other way, and as such, attacks every task given to her with a fiery passion like to burn anyone who gets in her way.

im·pa·tient | /imˈpāSHənt/ | having or showing a tendency to be quickly irritated or provoked. || Instant gratification—that’s the sort of thing she cares for. Dawdling about, twiddling one’s paws and waiting for good things to come, it was never a manner of living she cared for with any great capacity, and as such, she lacks the patience to stomach such endeavors. Be it hunting or idling by waiting for others, she is simply unable to linger long in idleness without growing restless and irritable.

mul·ish | /ˈmyo͞oliSH/ | resembling or likened to a mule in being stubborn. || Not one who takes kindly to being told what she can and cannot do, when her mind has been set on a task or goal, she is sure to see it through, even at the detriment to herself. As such she is honest to a fault and unflinching in her beliefs, much to the appreciation (and chagrin) of all those who steep faith in her.

straight·for·ward | /ˌstrātˈfôrwərd/ | honest and frank. || Despite having been reared in a Clan steeped in sentimentalities, Firepelt has never had much a mind for such things. Tact is a skill better left on the battlefield and as such, is not one she knows with any true familiarity when engaging with her fellow clanmates, herself finding comfort in saying that which is on her mind as opposed to withholding such things for later.

com·pla·cent | /kəmˈplās(ə)nt/ | showing smug or uncritical satisfaction with oneself or one's achievements. || To take pride in one’s work—what could possibly be so wrong about that? There is no such thing as being too proud in her eyes, so she proudly totes her achievements in life boldly and without reserve. For why shouldn’t one be able to gloat if they have earned the right to it?

con·fi·dent | /ˈkänfədənt/ | feeling or showing confidence in oneself; self-assured. || Few could muster the confidence she has in herself and her own abilities. Firepelt knows what she is capable of and what she does well and, as such, carries herself as such—self-assured in her achievements and unapologetically so.

de·ter·min·is·tic | /dəˌtərməˈnistik/ | all events, including human action, are ultimately determined by causes regarded as external to the will. || There is nothing in the world she abhors more than those who sit idly by and let others decide their fate. It is best to grasp every opportunity as it comes then let it pass you by, and she has similarly instilled such beliefs into her offspring. Life is full of opportunity, but one must take them up as they come if they ever hope for success and fulfillment in their own lives.

de·ci·sive | /dəˈsīsiv/ | having or showing the ability to make decisions quickly and effectively. || Firepelt functions best at a breakneck pace, and as such her thoughts are similarly erratic. She is capable of analyzing a situation in the blink of an eye—almost dizzyingly so—and can come to a conclusion in such little time one would find them breathless. She is very much guided by instincts, and she finds more often than not that her gut has been more right than it has been wrong.

Look, but you can’t see it,
Listen, but you can’t hear it,
Reach out, but you can’t touch it,
Invisible, inaudible, intangible,
Elusive.

Father: Coppernose (adoptable)
Mother: Lilyspring (adoptable)
Littermates: Cinderleap (adoptable), Cardinalwing (adoptable), Sapstrike (adoptable), Birchstorm (adoptable)

Mate(s): Jaggedclaw (adoptable)
Offspring: Bouncepaw (bombora |son)



If it were to be believed, her family were descendants of a long and ancient line—one steeped in the trepidations of war, one that had birthed a great many warriors of old. Of such cats, her grandfather spoke most fondly, and it went it came to pass that the blood of his blood, a tom by the name of Coppernose took on a mate of his own, he grew riled by the prospect of a new age in which the quality of their lineage could be gleaned once more.

And he could not have chosen anyone better to court than a she-cat of equally long-lived—albeit less impressive—stock, who bore herself as tall as any tom and had the immense strength of one too. Their litter was expected to be larger—larger than any before—and the kits, too, were expected to be of a good and honest quality.

They could never have imagined that their litter of five would bear one runt, and that that runt would be a she-cat who only shared in the likeness of her mother in coat and color. How she paled to the writhing bundles of her kin, how her cries dulled in competition to their milk-wanting squalls. Though she did not know then as she wrestled in that shifting sea of pelts to give suck, she had already been beaten.


To grow in the midst of boisterous young toms was no easy task—especially those such as her brothers, whose ever action turned the doting eye of grandfather and father alike. They were, all of them, to be great warriors, more able bodies for the Clan by which to serve as their ancestors had before them. It was their birthright, and so it was instilled into them—all, that is except her, who rarely turned their gaze.

Feelings of inferiority festered with the approach of each new moon as her kin, showered in praise and lessons beyond her comprehension excelled where she, ignorant to the ways of warriorhood, could not. Instead, she remained in the presence of her mother—an equally doting but unwanted presence, whose sympathetic glances and encouraging words were oft met with resentment than fondness.

She did not wish to be as her mother was—a queen whose only duty was to bear and nurse kits. She wanted to become greater than that—bigger than that—a warrior of such renown the prospect of leadership seemed only an appropriate next step in their lives. But without the approval of Coppernose or Pinebelly, such wishful thinking felt more a kitten's foolish musings than a reality in which she could exist.


By the time her six moons approached, she had less and little in the way of achievements. Where her brothers could perform skilled pounces and battle moves, she was but a poor copy in their midst. She lacked form, she lacked discipline, and with each error and failure, her temper grew steadily more irascible and unsatisfied.

Nothing seemed to abate it, not even the approving murmurings of her mentor or the small victories of her apprenticeship, for with each one, her brothers accomplished things far more remarkable.

Always they seemed a step ahead of her—always taunting her with the gifts she had never been deemed worthy enough to receive. Without knowing it or meaning to, she grew to resent them all—without knowing or meaning to, she grew desperate for any opportunity to earn her family's appeal.

And so she took every daring route she knew—she hared after prey times her size, launched herself at foes with moons more experience. And when neither seemed to aid her or satisfy her desires, she turned to another means entirely—one they could not refuse or ignore.


It was not out of love that the two found themselves bound to one another. He was a warrior of high standing, highly praised within the Clan for his infallible service and kindly nature. He was everything she needed but nothing she wanted, he was a way to draw attention to herself at the prospect of the kits they could bear together.

Still, she despised him.

He was, after all, nothing more than a means to an end, and while he loved her at first—of that she could not deny—their differences steadily began to eat away at their coupling.

He had high hopes of leadership of which she resented him for—not because they were illogical dreams or musings (in every way she knew him to be capable)—but because deep down she knew it a feat he was better suited to accomplish than she herself ever would be. And in that a poison claimed her so venomous that she unleashed an unfettered wrath upon him so that with each day even he in his good nature came to resent her.

And when Redfox passed and it was Icesong who rose where he fell, it was but more salt into his wounds. A constant thing of which she reminded him in her cold and hostile way.


In truth, she had never intended to have kits. She was too young, too inexperienced, and when she felt them laden in her belly, a panic fell over her of which she could not describe. But they were hers to bear, and when the swelling of her abdomen grew too much to hide, she finally earned the approval she had sought, though by then, it was a bittersweet thing.

Even Coppernose could not deny the quality of her litter. They had a fine sire and an equally fine mother to bear them from his own loins. They would be but another generation of fighters, and when they came into the world, they were sure to have his eyes trained stolidly on them. But of her, there was nothing said. It was only the kits.

Even to Jaggedclaw it was only the kits he had eyes for—herself having lost appeal in his eyes. And it was for them that he stayed at her side, patiently waiting until her tongue drove him off and left her lonesome and bitter and tired.

And so, too, did she come to hold her litter with contempt as well, and so much did she bear them ill that she did fill herself with tainted leaves by which to evict them entirely but could not do so well enough to be anything but sick. And so it was that she bore them, and that their throaty squalls reverberated off the den walls and echoed in her ears—triumphant for the life they had denied her.

And though she hated it, those creatures who drank greedily and cried without pause, she felt stir within her a particular pride and duty that would not deny them. And so she came ot raise them all—though always with one paw stolidly fixed outside of the nursery. Still, she was never far, though her emotions remained stubbornly barred from all.

And so for a time she idled away, wearing her rear thin curled around her brood, and so she watched them grow and saw the promise within them blossom so that for a time she felt that pride come upon her again and a want for them to succeed to rouse her love for them. And she did love them, though it was a fleeting feeling that quickly waned with time for they were taken from her quickly and cruelly.

It started with the fighting. As word of omens and tribes became commonplace, so too did the presence of danger at their borders, so that their brief interlude of peace was abruptly and soundly tarnished by the assault of their LichenClan adversaries. And so it was that fighting became common, and so it came to pass that her brood grew strong enough to take on their titles and so fought and so died.

Steadily they withered from existence—like the flickering flames of candles, snubbed by the hands of their unrelenting foes. And of those who were spared from such fates, other were taken by the sickness that ravaged their Clan at the onset of leaf-bare. And so she watched and felt her love wane as those who remained grew sick and so died, leaving only one behind—her only heir.

But where he lived and so grew more formidable and confident as she and his father alike filled his head with lofty ambitions, he paled in comparison with her own expectations.

He was not the warrior she had intended him to be. He lacked a warrior’s natural talents despite her own efforts—the gifts one needed to earn a name for themselves. He could not hunt, and nor could he fight, and with the passing of each day became a mockery to her and a shame to her family so great she could not stomach him. But where her interest waned, his ambitions could not be so quelled, and when his abilities as a warrior could no longer be combated, he grasped at one last opportunity—a position as a medicine cat; a mere sifter of leaves.

It was not the future she had destined for him; in every way, it was maddening—another trick inflicted upon her by the stars above—but one she would have to bear, for there was no getting rid of this one though he shamed her so.