Post by Egotistic on May 12, 2021 13:22:28 GMT -6
Loon that
Floats on Water
Tribe of Floating Stones
An oriental black tabby tom with green eyes.
To-Be
Male | Tom
6 moons
Appearance
Unimposing—upon first inspection, there is nothing particularly jarring or impressive about Loon beyond the sheer athleticism of his build. Not in the sense of brute strength, no—but an almost inherent inclination towards agile movements and quick maneuvering. He is shallow chested, long limbed and perpetually thing with sharp, angular features and comically large ears nestled atop a small head. Yet, despite his bird-thin proportions and deceptively dainty exterior, Loon possesses an impressive array of lean muscle over his lithesome figures and a considerable amount of weight to boot, all well-formed and patiently honed through hours of idle play. Already, though he lacks the technique to use his physical attributes to the full of their potential, they are well-accustomed to the bursts of speed his ancestors before him were renowned for possessing.
Of his coat very little can be said for its plainness. His black tabby fur is thin, lacking in the luxurious padding that shields one from the worst of winters bit and leaves little of the physical up to the imagination. As such, his muscles show plainly through it, each step punctuated by the satisfying compliance of rippling sinew, and while it could hardly buffer the assault of claws, it blends pleasantly with his surroundings for all its simplicity.
Of his coat very little can be said for its plainness. His black tabby fur is thin, lacking in the luxurious padding that shields one from the worst of winters bit and leaves little of the physical up to the imagination. As such, his muscles show plainly through it, each step punctuated by the satisfying compliance of rippling sinew, and while it could hardly buffer the assault of claws, it blends pleasantly with his surroundings for all its simplicity.
Personality
traditionalist, carefree, optimistic
ignorant, conflicted, restless
tra·di·tion·al·ist | /trəˈdiSH(ə)n(ə)list/ | advocating the upholding or maintenance of tradition. || A product of his upbringing, Loon possesses a deep respect for Tribe customs and holds a lofty reverence for his ancestors and the trials and tribulations those before him faced and overcame. With this comes a profound understanding of the importance of tradition and customs in maintain stability within the Clan, and as such, Loon seeks to do nothing but respect and conserve them to the best of his ability.
care·free | /ˈkerˌfrē/ | free from anxiety or responsibility. || Not one to linger long in the negative, Loon is free from the troublesome thoughts that seem to cloud the minds of all those around him and tackles everything in life with an almost noxious positivity. Indeed, even the most mediocre of tasks are no grand obstacle for him, for he will always find something positive to justify its happening, whether he genuinely believes it or otherwise.
op·ti·mis·tic | /ˌäptəˈmistik/ | hopeful and confident about the future. || Despite the hardships the Tribe has faced in recent moons—the unrelenting drag of sickness and its effects not only on his family but those around him, Loon is nothing if not hopeful for the future. After all what else could he be? To accept anything less would mean his father’s death was for nothing, and that all they’ve done thus far was for nothing too. For that to be a reality… it’s not one he’s willing to face.
ig·no·rant | /ˈiɡnərənt/ | lacking knowledge or awareness in general; uneducated or unsophisticated. || A sheltered life has led Loon to expect only the best in others. He has no reason to believe in double-meanings or insinuations for he has never had to deal with them firsthand, and likewise has no cause to believe in any evil for the Tribe has rarely been faced by such things.
con·flict·ed | /kənˈfliktid/ | having or showing confused and mutually inconsistent feelings. || One need only speak to Loon for a little while to see that indecision in him. His thoughts seem always to be restless, flitting from one point to the other, mulling things over, turning them over, searching, seeking desperately for something—anything to make them right again. But beneath that is a certain pessimism, the sort borne from indecision, that denies him such thoughts, that prods and jabs at any softness and gives sway to great outbursts of anger and pettiness.
rest·less | /ˈres(t)ləs/ | unable to rest or relax as a result of anxiety or boredom. || Idleness allows time to think, and Loon, being uncomfortable within the confines of his own mind, is not oft still. One who thrives on an overflowing schedule—where some may enjoy time to themselves to be alone with their thoughts, Loon fills those silent moments with laughter and noise. It is this inability to be still and alone with himself that allows for the subsequent accumulation of emotions he would rather not address.
History
Father: Heron that Flies through Rain (npc|deceased)
Mother: Fire that Shimmers at Night (npc | adoptable)
Littermates: Leaf that Drifts on the Wind (npc | adoptable)
Mate(s): n/a
Offspring: n/a
“But what if he comes back?”
“In the middle of the night?” he felt his mother’s breath puff warm at his side, heard the crunch of her paws beside him in the late leaf-bare snow as she looked out. “I doubt it, now come here, lay down where it’s nice and warm. You don’t want Leaf to have all that soft moss to herself, do you?” A purred breath, the titillating brush of a tail tip to tickle his flanks; usually, such gestures would have roused giddy laughter from him—now they only left him uneasy.
“But when will he come back? He’s been gone for…” he paused, counted the days, and found he could not. “…he’s been gone for... forever.”
He saw a shadow fall over her features then, the unspoken words she dared not speak though he knew them all the same—knew that Heron was sick, very sick, sicker than either of them had thought, and that he would perhaps never get better, that he would only keep on getting sicker until… He shoved the thought aside, buried it where it couldn’t be dug up again.
No good came of thoughts like that—thoughts like that made bad things happen.
“Your father is very sick. He needs time so that he can get better; you know that, Loon,” Fire breathed, and he felt the pain in her voice.
“But he should be better by now. He promised he would be, and he still has to show me the move Sky used when she came face to face with that coyote and… and he promised he’d help me with my scent work so I could help Creek find rare herbs. If I don’t learn that, I’ll never become a to-be, and then…” he gritted his teeth, but there was more to it than that.
“Enough of that. He’ll get better. Creek says it’s only a matter of time, so come now, come and rest. You’ll go grey as a dormouse fretting over things you can’t change.”
“But what if..." he started only to stop, defeated. "Yes, mama.” His eyes flitted over the snow-swept plains, lingered on that distant point where the Teller looked after the sick before surrendering themselves to the den’s muted interior. Then, with tail dragging in his wake, he crept in alongside her to rest and cast such thoughts of sickness and death from his mind.
- - -
- - -
- - -
It was difficult for a child to notice that the world as they knew it was changing—that the familiarity of a passing day was no longer as it had been before but was filled with inevitable differences.
But it was, and Loon had been aware of such things from the moment Heron had passed on that frosty night, his body gone rigged, the stink of sickness clinging to his fur. Still, Loon remembered the look of him, how small he’d seemed—so different from the father he’d known—so frail and feeble as if naught else but a breeze would be enough to whisk him away.
He had died alone, and perhaps that above all else had hurt the most and made the thought of such things such a distant and unlikable thing, better shoved aside than noted, better swamped with toil than addressed. So he kept on like that. He roused mischief where it could be roused, learned to new ways to occupy his mind even when there was no one to heed him. He became restless, and with the passing of each moon, his small family den became cramped and filled with constant reminders of things he didn’t care to address.
Without knowing it, he began to hate being there.
He wanted freedom, room to stretch his legs. He wanted purpose, a new way of living to distract from the old. He wanted to pave a path for himself, to leave a legacy behind. He wanted something, anything that would steer him far from home and the memories that clouded every corner.
But even now, though he is six moons, old enough to begin on such ventures, he cannot seem to escape the emotions that plague his heels. And though he wishes desperately to be rid of them, to outpace them with the sheer zeal of his passion, he cannot, and so remains in constant flight, in continual fear of a reality he does not care to face.
Mother: Fire that Shimmers at Night (npc | adoptable)
Littermates: Leaf that Drifts on the Wind (npc | adoptable)
Mate(s): n/a
Offspring: n/a
What Runs Thicker Than Blood
“Loon, dear. Come inside before you catch a cold; your father won’t be back for some time now. He’s sick, remember?”
“But what if he comes back?”
“In the middle of the night?” he felt his mother’s breath puff warm at his side, heard the crunch of her paws beside him in the late leaf-bare snow as she looked out. “I doubt it, now come here, lay down where it’s nice and warm. You don’t want Leaf to have all that soft moss to herself, do you?” A purred breath, the titillating brush of a tail tip to tickle his flanks; usually, such gestures would have roused giddy laughter from him—now they only left him uneasy.
“But when will he come back? He’s been gone for…” he paused, counted the days, and found he could not. “…he’s been gone for... forever.”
He saw a shadow fall over her features then, the unspoken words she dared not speak though he knew them all the same—knew that Heron was sick, very sick, sicker than either of them had thought, and that he would perhaps never get better, that he would only keep on getting sicker until… He shoved the thought aside, buried it where it couldn’t be dug up again.
No good came of thoughts like that—thoughts like that made bad things happen.
“Your father is very sick. He needs time so that he can get better; you know that, Loon,” Fire breathed, and he felt the pain in her voice.
“But he should be better by now. He promised he would be, and he still has to show me the move Sky used when she came face to face with that coyote and… and he promised he’d help me with my scent work so I could help Creek find rare herbs. If I don’t learn that, I’ll never become a to-be, and then…” he gritted his teeth, but there was more to it than that.
“Enough of that. He’ll get better. Creek says it’s only a matter of time, so come now, come and rest. You’ll go grey as a dormouse fretting over things you can’t change.”
“But what if..." he started only to stop, defeated. "Yes, mama.” His eyes flitted over the snow-swept plains, lingered on that distant point where the Teller looked after the sick before surrendering themselves to the den’s muted interior. Then, with tail dragging in his wake, he crept in alongside her to rest and cast such thoughts of sickness and death from his mind.
Important Events of Kithood
Born to Fire that Shimmers at Night and Heron that Flies through Rain, Loon is the first-born and only son in a litter of two alongside his sister Leaf that Drifts on the Wind. They are the last known descendants of the ancient Teller Sky that Beckons Dawn and Cloud that Carries Rain, tasked with the responsibility of bringing honor to their lineage and continuing their line.
- - -
Infatuated with tales of his ancestors, Loon desperately strives to replicate the accomplishments of his ancestors; he becomes besotted with the idea of uncovering rare, life-saving herbs and saving the Tribe from grave danger, and maybe someday becoming a Teller himself.
- - -
As time passes, whispers about the lost connection with the Clan takes on a new fervency. Without access to the herbs they supplied to ward off the worst of the sickness, cats once again fall ill during the winter moons—one of them being his own father, who succumbs to a deadly cough and is taken into Creek’s care. Though his mother does not voice such misgivings, she is not optimistic of him surviving, and though Loon is too young to understand such things, he feels it too and desperately and futilely awaits his father’s return.
- - -
On the cusp of new-leaf, Heron loses his battle with red-cough. Delirious and weak, his last moments with his family are jumbled and confused. When they return to visit him the next day, he is cold and unmoving. To honor his death, Loon, alongside his sister and mother, stand a long and silent vigil that they all walk away from changed in some way.
A Path Well-Trodden
But it was, and Loon had been aware of such things from the moment Heron had passed on that frosty night, his body gone rigged, the stink of sickness clinging to his fur. Still, Loon remembered the look of him, how small he’d seemed—so different from the father he’d known—so frail and feeble as if naught else but a breeze would be enough to whisk him away.
He had died alone, and perhaps that above all else had hurt the most and made the thought of such things such a distant and unlikable thing, better shoved aside than noted, better swamped with toil than addressed. So he kept on like that. He roused mischief where it could be roused, learned to new ways to occupy his mind even when there was no one to heed him. He became restless, and with the passing of each moon, his small family den became cramped and filled with constant reminders of things he didn’t care to address.
Without knowing it, he began to hate being there.
He wanted freedom, room to stretch his legs. He wanted purpose, a new way of living to distract from the old. He wanted to pave a path for himself, to leave a legacy behind. He wanted something, anything that would steer him far from home and the memories that clouded every corner.
But even now, though he is six moons, old enough to begin on such ventures, he cannot seem to escape the emotions that plague his heels. And though he wishes desperately to be rid of them, to outpace them with the sheer zeal of his passion, he cannot, and so remains in constant flight, in continual fear of a reality he does not care to face.
Important Events of Adolescence
Present time…
