swiftfoot

lichenclan

black and white she-cat with yellow eyes

Swiftfoot it a small, lithe cat, but unlike her other, more traditional looking Lichenclan clan-mates, she does not boast lanky limbs or a gangling stature. Instead, she's short with tightly woven muscles, demonstrating her moons of careful training. While her legs are not long, they are strong, providing her with the ability and stamina to run for great distances at a time. However, due to small stature, Swiftfoot appears rather unassuming and weak, a perception that is only worsened by her body-language. The she-cat walks with her head and tail low, careful to never draw attention to herself.

Her coat is primarily a consuming, all-encompassing black, a rich darkness that spreads across her pelt like an abyss. If it wasn't for the white that claimed her chest, stomach, legs, and face, Swiftfoot would have existed as a shadow, merely lost in the expanses of Lichenclan's ominous caves. The white travels each of her limbs in different stretches. Her front left paw is completely white, while the rest of the leg is black. Her other limbs are mostly white, the black creeping in around the hock.

While her face isn't as angular as some of her clan-mates, it is still striking in nature, her muzzle distinctively chiseled among her face. Small in size, Swiftfoot's facial features are noticeably compact as well. Her ears sit neatly atop her head, while her eyes, a bit large on her face, betray her sullen demeanor. They are a bright, luminous yellow, while her whiskers stretch from her face in tendrils of white. The most compelling aspect of the she-cat's face is her asymmetrical blaze, the white color falling more heavily on the left side of her black nose.

secretive - Swiftfoot is shrouded in mystery, choosing to keep the details of her life a secret. While she is not purposefully trying to hide dark, unforgiving information about herself from her clan-mates, she's also not willingly trying to plead her case either. Its much easier for to remain quiet and unassuming, allowing her clan-mates to make their own opinions about her, whether unsavory or not.

standoffish - Since she walks with her head low, tail tucked, and her body rather close to the earth, the she-cat appears standoffish in nature, nothing about her body language in the slight bit welcoming. She rarely engages in conversation, let alone smiles, which only adds to her cold and distant demeanor.

reclusive - Swiftfoot usually keeps to herself. She can often be found curled in the corner of the warrior's den, a distant cavern, or running laps across the shore. She does not do well in the company of others, solitude far more appealing to her silent nature. It is hard for her to open up to others due to the trauma she experienced as a kit.

detached - Not only is she detached from her clan-mates, appearing rather emotionless and cold, but she is detached from herself. Swiftfoot is so wracked with guilt and paranoia that she hardly knows her own likes or dislikes. It's as if the loss of her siblings was also the loss of herself, stranding the she-cat in a desert of self-isolation and identity regression.

destructive - Without a proper outlet, such as running, Swiftfoot can become destructive to her environment and herself. She's torn nests into pieces, clawed deep, cavernous marks into the sandstone, and dug holes into the sand as if possessed by someone else, her mind long-elsewhere in a sea of self-deprecation and shame. She has never processed the death of her siblings in a healthy manner, so it manifests in harmful tendencies, often triggered in moments of great stress or when she remembers how she was never able to become the perfect, responsible daughter her father wanted. Images of perfection, such as shells laid neatly in a straight line or a smiling, happy family, often send her into a destructive spiral as well.

devout - While reclusive in nature, Swiftfoot does not shy away from habitual prayer. The she-cat can often be found, pressed to the stone, tongue moving as she asks for forgiveness from their ancestors. She believes that with atonement, her sins can be absolved, and perhaps only then can she be freed from the horrors of her youth.

submissive - Not one to ruffle any feathers, Swiftfoot is an obedient warrior who listens to orders without pause. This makes her the perfect Lichenclan subordinate, ready to conform to the word of her leaders or senior warriors, even if  the duties assigned to her, such as harvesting mouse bile or hunting at the crack of dawn, are less than ideal. She does not complain. Instead, she keeps her head low and completes the task, a true servant to the shore.

perceptive - A silent observer in the clan and no stranger to suffering, Swiftfoot is rather sensitive to those around her, strangely empathetic to the quiet woes of her clan-mates. She is surprisingly good at reading others, often knowing when someone is hurting behind closed walls, because she too, knows what its like to hurt alone.

considerate - While she looks unwelcoming or unkind, Swiftfoot would never purposefully harm another cat in her clan, and quite frankly, she does not want to harm others, even those who don't believe in Starclan across the border either. She does not ever want to cause an inconvenience or hurt someone else, carefully choosing her words and actions with great thought.

hopeful - Optimistic may not be the right word, but Swiftfoot is hopeful that one day her life will be different, that the shame and pain she carries regarding the death of her brother and sister will lift like a late autumn fog after the arrival of the sun. It is this hope that carries her tirelessly across the shore in great lopes, and it is this hope that encourages her to keep searching the stars for salvation.

Born to Runningstrike and Whitefrost, Swfitkit entered the world alongside her two siblings, Ravenkit and Wavekit, their tiny mewls muzzled far within the Lichenclan caves. Her parents were respectable warriors, but completely nondescript in terms of service. They were docile Heron supporters, their lineage always in the shadows. Meek and submissive in nature, they were mere followers down to the very sinew in their bones, never daring to question the current regime. Lichenclan moved in the name of Starclan, so therefore it must be just.

As the oldest of the trio, Swiftkit found herself corralling her unruly siblings, often taking on the role of the leader within their small, unassuming posse. Wavekit was perpetually curious, her chatter strung between question after question, proposal after proposal, while Ravenpaw was the instigator. He liked to turn their sister’s ideas into reality, often getting them into trouble with his bone-headed antics. Without even realizing it, Swiftkit started to blame herself for their wrong-doings, feeling responsible as the oldest kit.

If they got sent to the elder’s den to pick ticks and harvest bile, then it was her fault because she couldn’t stop Ravenkit fast enough, or she couldn’t explain to Wavekit why it was a bad idea before it was too late. This troubling shame followed her like a shadow, which was only exacerbated by her father’s scathing comments.

“You should have been watching them closer, Swiftkit. How will you ever become a queen if you can’t even watch over your own brother and sister?”

Her mother never intervened, wanting to become a queen herself from the moment of her own birth, many moons ago. Discipline was not in her wheelhouse, so she let her mate dictate what was and was not allowed. Quite simply, she didn’t know any better. She was merely playing the part of the devout, Lichenclan mother. Wavekit, of course, received the same lectures, but the content varied, often reprimanding her for her chattering tongue and absent-mindedness. Unlike Swiftkit, she could not be held responsible for their tomfoolery because she was perceived too daft to do so.

That responsibility fell on Swiftkit alone.

Regardless, Swiftkit loved her brother and sister, even if their antics caused her anxiety to rear its ugly head into her lungs like a thick smoke, even if she could never match the favoritism her brother received. They were her midnight confidants when their mother was asleep, stories of great Lichenclan warriors whispered in the shadows, games of moss-ball in the dark.

They were her best friends.

At six moons, they were all made apprentices, and a new type of freedom descended upon Swiftpaw. No longer was she held responsible for her sibling’s antics. Instead, they had mentors to curb their boundless energy and den-mates to amuse their every whim, fancy, or idea. Ravenpaw quickly rose in popularity with his charismatic charm and mischievous spark, while Wavepaw quickly became the object of affection of one of their older den-mates.

Even Swiftpaw made a couple friends, having found solace in a few, like-minded she-cats. But as the stars eroded each night, the three siblings still settled together, nestled in the apprentices den, their noses pressed into each other’s fur, dreaming about their future lives as warriors side by side.

They were never given that chance.

Only after a few weeks into their training did tragedy strike. Due to some juvenile argument between the other apprentices, Ravenpaw’s tour of the shoreline was cut short, and they were sent home and punished. Frustrated, the tom devised his own plan to explore the territory after dark, recruiting both Wavepaw and Swiftpaw in the process.

Immediately, Swiftpaw’s anxiety resurfaced as she remembered their outings as kits. She could almost hear her father’s voice in her ear, condemning her for being so irresponsible, so useless. She tried to refuse, as it was against the code to leave the main cave without a warrior, but both Ravenpaw and Wavepaw thought otherwise.


With some coaxing, her siblings were able to draw her out of the apprentice’s den and onto the shore, but even as her paws met the sand, the she-cat knew something wasn’t right. The air was rife with electricity, the heavens barren and bleak. Storm clouds rested like dark, ominous shadows over the lake. But her siblings didn’t seem to notice. Only the sheer high of adventure filled their lungs, the night air pregnant with shrieks of laughter.

“We need to go back! A storm’s going to break any minute. Ravenpaw, please!”

Her brother leapt into the waves first, daring Wavepaw to follow.

It was the last she ever saw of him. Before she could even move, lightning shattered the sky, sending a cataclysmic boom of thunder across the island in its wake. The dark forest descended upon them in the form of water, a sure sign of Starclan’s displeasure. A gigantic wave engulfed the shore, pulling her siblings back with it. Ravenpaw was lost to the murky depths, his dark coat hard to spot beneath the violent waves. But she could see her sister’s snow-colored pelt bobbing helplessly in the current, too far to reach.

Swiftpaw tried, but she was too scared, and the waves were far too much. Instead, she collapsed, sobbing in the sand until she woke the next morning, curled in the medicine cat’s den, alone.

Her siblings were dead.

The remainder of her apprenticeship was spent in fervent prayer and an all encompassing shame. Her parents never blamed her for their deaths, but they didn't need to. Swiftpaw blamed herself enough, the night of the storm a constant memory that never left her side. While Swiftpaw had believed in Starclan before and practiced prayer with her mother as a kit, her devotion to Starclan doubled tenfold. A nagging thought inside of her believed that if she prayed enough, her soul could be cleansed, the guilt washed away like salt on the shore.

It never did.

But she continued, nonetheless, never deterred from the promise of absolution, her only chance at escape. However, this desire for salvation came at a cost, wracking the she-cat with extreme episodes of paranoia and self-induced destruction. The immense stress of her trauma consistently interfered with her relationships and training. She struggled with the pressure of who her father wanted her to be, the perfect Lichenclan queen. Sometimes, she'd awake in the middle of the night, shredding her nest in her sleep, while most of her relationships with her den-mates were strained due to her inability to make any sort of meaningful connection.

She did not earn her warrior name until she was sixteen moons old, having wrestled to attain any sort of progress with her mentor. It was not until the older tom introduced her to another outlet, long runs on the shore to ease her mind, did she start to excel at one skill: hunting. She then earned her warrior name, Swiftfoot for her fast, agile movements, proving her speed in her final assessment. Her confession during her warrior ceremony echoed the constant prayers of her youth.


Few congratulated the she-cat, her relationship with her parents scarred beyond mend. At the death of her children, Whitefrost became a recluse within their own clan, only to succumb to green-cough moons later, while her father chose to ignore her completely. Not only was she a she-cat, but a mistrustful, irresponsible one at that. Runningstrike soon met his demise later in her adulthood, slayed in battle at the Redwoodclan border.

Alone, Swiftfoot delved further into her devotion to Starclan, but it never brought her any peace. The shame continued to follow her like an insurmountable thunderhead, heavy on her shoulders. Unable to come into her own, the she-cat developed into a silent, reclusive warrior, wracked with paranoia and remorse. She has few connections in the clan, choosing to now believe that her clan-mates have ostracized her for her inexcusable sins. Sometimes, she swears she can hear voices in the caves, whispers between her den-mates.


So she continues to pray, hopeful that one day her shame will lift and her soul will be saved. Sometimes, she wonders why her brother and sister haven't visited her in her dreams, offering some sort of solace from this pain. But they have remained silent, unable to soothe her grief, a sure sign that it was her fault all in the end. Her days are often spent between habitual prayer and long lopes across the shoreline, as if one day her siblings will return, washed upon the shore like the shells in the sand.