Cherrybite

Thistleclan

stocky and shorthaired tortoiseshell mink molly with mid white and narrow blue eyes

    The smallest of her siblings, and one of the smallest of her clan, Cherrybite stands 8 inches (20 cm) tall. However, she is built solid as a rock. The molly would insist that she's pure muscle, but in reality, she has a fair amount of extra fat too. It is a testament to how good of a hunter she is, and it aids her to have the extra heft for battle. She is around 9 lbs (4 kg), notably weighty for her shorter stature.

    Cherrybite has a short, dense coat. She gets some protection from the loose skin around her neck and draping over her back. Her what would be traditional tortoiseshell coat is transformed by the mink gene to cream and deep chocolatey brown. The white creeping up her undersides forms a sharp, signature blaze upon her face. A dark seal triangle cuts a shape within that blaze, just off center from her nose.

    The molly's wedge-shaped head is a contrast to her rounder body. The smallest of tufts bring her ears to sharp points. Set in her face are a pair of narrowed eyes, the pale blue irises like robin's eggs. Her eyes are round, but appear angular due to her squinting them. Her tail is short and otter-like, and her paws are petite. Her usual expression is most accurately described as resting bitch face.

   Cherrybite's coat is ruffled in many places due to numerous scars. The most notable include a pair nicking her forehead, one wrapping around her neck, and another near her left wrist. She has two thin, deep nicks in her right ear and a wider notch missing from the left. The only one impeding her movement is a slight limp in her hind right paw. She speaks in a sharp, clear tone and smells of tart elderberries.

+ aspiring, staunch, fervent
    An ambitious cat, Cherrybite knows exactly what she wants to be. Her ambition is more that she wishes to embody a model Thistleclan warrior, believing that that is how she can best help her clan. Though she may appear to have low expectations for her clanmates, when she isn't being snarky towards them, she encourages them to be their best selves. In a… snarky way. It's also hard to sneak around around Cherrybite, she's perceptive and has a good idea of what's going on in the clan.
    A kinder cat could call her stalwart, everything she does is to help the workings of Thistleclan run smoothly. She wouldn't dream of betraying her clan nor clanmates, and can be trusted to the umpteenth degree to do whatever she can to aid them. Even if it means sacrificing herself. Cherrybite has a fervid spirit, as only does she believe her clan is the best and will do anything to prove that, she is a passionate cat at baseline. She feels everything intensely and always gives one thousand percent.

- brusque, sanctimonious, brittle
    Cherrybite is curt at best, and rude at worst. Even when she respects you, she's abrasive. The molly doesn't have time to waste, and speaks like she could always be doing something better than talking to you. There is an almost holier-than-thou air about her. She knows she won't fool anybody saying she's the best, but thinks few warriors are as dedicated to their clan and cause as she. And she's not afraid to tell you that, even when by doing that she uproots her claims.
    Though she may seem bad and bold, Cherrybite can be described as being constantly on edge. Her cool facade breaks easily and her aggression is set as a defense mechanism. She grew up wanting nothing more than to prove herself, and when her effort was hardly rewarded, she internalized the fear that she'll never be good enough. Though it doesn't excuse her snappish demeanor, it explains it in part.

loves: Cool mornings, the sun, scratching things.
likes: Mossball, training apprentices, cats who don't talk back, birdsong.
dislikes: Thievingstar, Stagflight, name pretty much any one of her siblings or clanmates. She also really doesn't like frogs.
hates: Foxes, rogues, and mint.
secrets: Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?
fears: Foxes, drowning or suffocating, and working towards something meaningless.
dreams: I dunno, become an actually respected warrior? Nothing special, she doesn't need to be remembered, she just wants respect.

    Born in a mighty litter of six as the smallest kitten, Cherrykit had her work cut out for her if she wanted to get ahead. She was not firstborn nor last, taking her unceremonious place in the middle. Named for her cherry blossom-like white coat, as her birth was a true sign of coming newleaf. But of course, it would soon darken, like all her sibling's coats did. But none as dark as Cherrykit's.

    Her parents, Daisythorn and Minkfoot, did their best. But with a brood of half a dozen, it was hard to give all the kits the attention they wanted. It meant Cherrykit had to fight her brothers for the spotlight, and unfortunately, the toms often won out. Especially Yewkit. He was a shining star, charismatic, and very hard not to like. Cherrykit didn't like him.

    She was neutral towards the rest of her siblings, sisters Birchkit and Juniperkit and other brothers, Sprucekit and Firkit. She liked Firkit the most, with Juniperkit a close second. Her brother would play with her, but he wasn't pompous like Yewkit. Juniperkit was quiet, but not mousey like Sprucekit and Birchkit. Cherrykit knew she could've kept up with them if she wanted to, she just didn't want to.

    The siblings were all apprenticed that leaffall, having grown big and strong—except for Cherrypaw, who was still the littlest. She was apprenticed to a dark-coated senior warrior named Rushbriar, who was as sharp as a thorn but unwelcoming as the bush they came from. She wasn't going to go soft on her apprentice. Good. That was what her apprentice wanted.

    They really were a good match, the pair of them, and it surprised even Rushbriar how well she got along with her apprentice. Cherrypaw granted her a respect she gave few other cats, learning early on that her mentor was both bark and bite—she ruled with a discipline that her parents could never dream of. It was that which allowed Cherrypaw to flourish. And flourish she did.

    Cherrypaw wasn't there when the foxes attacked the camp. She was drilling with her mentor. When the pair returned to camp, they found the nursery in ruin and many of their clanmates battered. Rushbriar demanded to know what had happened, and a nearby warrior explained. Pointing to Cherrypaw's brothers as the saviors of the nursery, though they weren't able to save one of the kits. The apprentice seethed. She knew that if she had been there, the kit wouldn't have died. She had a feeling she knew which of her brothers was to blame.

    She only grew more bitter as the moons went on. Isolated from her siblings, and most her age found her caustic—even by Thistleclan standards. Nobody wanted to hang out with Cherrypaw, but she didn't care. It meant she had more time to train. Rushbriar was the only cat she needed to impress. Not softie Froststar, not the deputy, not even her parents. As long as she was good enough for her mentor, she was good enough for her clan, and that was good enough for her.

    Try as she might, she wasn't the first to earn her warrior name. Juniperfang was. As Hawktail's apprentice, it was a clear form of favoritism to Cherrypaw— but the deputy didn't care to name her siblings with her. So she was named alone, served her right. Not but a moon later she was granted her own name alongside her brothers. Cherrybite, obviously, for her bite and her bark.

    Firfoot, Yewthorn, Juniperfang, Spruceshade, and not long after, Birchsong, all found their niches after they became warriors. None seemed to include Cherrybite. Though she spoke with Firfoot fairly frequently, and he remained her favorite sibling, they weren't besties. The others were troubling themselves with trivial things like love and whatnot. She didn't have time for that, she had an apprentice to train. The first out of all of them. His name was Thunderpaw.

    It had probably been requested a warrior who she patrolled with, so she had someone else to direct her snark at. To their chagrin, she was practically sweet around Thunderpaw. Still strict, but she held a fondness for the young tom. This was also the point when she made her first friend. A tom named Pheasantclaw had been given an apprentice too, Lightningpaw, and their apprentices were close. It was only natural that the mentors became friends too.

    She liked Pheasantclaw, he wasn't scared off at all by her harshness. Most of the time he saw right through her—and she got to know him well too. Cats began to talk, suspecting the two would get together together, and joked about Cherrybite becoming a mother. Over her dead body. Pheasantclaw never mentioned romantic interest in her, and she wasn't at all interested in him. It was part of why she liked him so—they were friends. Maybe she loved him, but if she did, it was like a friend. And that was all.

    That coming leafbare, the family lost Daisythorn to sickness. Cherrybite considered talking to her siblings again in that time, to support them, because they needed it—she didn't, of course. She spoke with Birchsong, the sibling most willing to lend her an ear, but found her airheaded and softhearted. She tried to be gentle, but eventually stopped caring as the snows melted. Their mother was dead. Her siblings would just have to get over it.

    She was there when the foxes came the second time. But she wasn't fast enough to save her father. Spruceshade and Thunderpaw had been there too, on the patrol Minkfoot died on. She would have been there, in a heartbeat, if she hadn't been defending her apprentice. She would have given her life for them both. She knows her siblings hate her for it, but what could she have done? They hated her already. Did they think that if they had been there, that he wouldn't have died? Fools—if she couldn't have saved him, nobody could.

    Their apprentices became warriors. Thunderpaw, now Thunderfoot, was honored for fighting well against the foxes. She and Pheasantclaw remained close, but without apprentices to train, they talked more about the rogues lurking at their borders. Cherrybite already disliked them, but became much more polarized during this time. Pheasantclaw was the main cause of this, but it would have developed with or without him. The molly turned her wrath on anything that threatened her clan, and the rogues most certainly did.

    When her friend needed her most, Cherrybite wasn't there. The foxes were not finished with causing pain for her. They killed him. Pheasantclaw died, protecting his clan, drew his last breath on the battlefield. She knew that of any way to go, this was the way he would want. But it didn't ease the pain of it any more. He was so full of life, he had so much more ahead of him. All gone. His sacrifice seemed to chase the foxes away for a while longer, but it was little consolation for another life lost.

    Cherrybite got used to being alone again. She was still close with Thunderfoot, but he wasn't the same as Pheasantclaw. Firfoot was made deputy in Hawktail's place when she stepped down. She didn't envy him, he'd have to get used to kitsitting all the other warriors. She'd almost expected Juniperfang to be promoted, but perhaps that was too much favoritism in Thievingstar's eyes. Either of them would have done a fine job, but she's glad it was him.

    The floods came not long after. Cherrybite knew she had to make sure every last one of her clanmates got out. And she did—every cat she saw, she helped, and then went back for another. She was assisting a cat who was trapped underwater by a fallen tree when her own paw got stuck. The cat got away, but nobody came back for her. The last thing she remembers before her vision went black is the dull snap of a branch breaking, and drifting upwards.

    Cherrybite woke, covered whisker to tail in mud, to a deserted and demolished camp. They had left her behind. She found their scent and followed it, bruised and limping, until she found them. Her family greeted her, some with more heart than others, saying that they had thought she was dead. Firfoot had gone to look for her, and the others lost, but he hadn't returned yet either. She doubts any of them thought that if they had been there, she wouldn't have died. Except for Firfoot, it seemed.

    She was told of Firfoot's demotion, as well, and Stagflight's ascension to deputy. That was the nail in the coffin for Cherrybite's waning opinion on leadership. Thievingstar had, what, banished her brother for doing his job and thinking for himself? Stagflight was weak-willed, she knew him well enough to know that. Thistleclan really was going to the rogues. Perhaps it was fate that their territory was taken over by them, after Thistleclan up and abandoned it.

    That doesn't mean she doesn't want to see the rogues pay. She's been training ever since, waiting for the day that they would return. In that time, an unlikely cat rejoined the clan. Firfoot. Having never returned from his search, Cherrybite had resigned herself to his death moons ago. He slipped back into clan life like he had never left, though in the place of a warrior, not the deputy. She confronted him on his absence, but instead of answering he told her off.

    Her brother had changed. She didn't know him anymore. She had been relieved that he was alive, and thought that he might be happy to find that she was too. She had thought he'd been looking for her. Obviously not. The last leaf needed to break the badger's back is the rogues attacking the nursery. Thistleclan battles to retake their camp two moons later, and win.

    Cherrybite's glad that they're home. She's ready to get shit done.