Post by soot on Oct 7, 2021 5:49:04 GMT -6
Monarchmask
Lichenclan
a lanky tortoiseshell tom with yellow eyes.
warrior
cisgender male
(he/him)
(he/him)
twenty-two moons
Appearance Rare Trait Used: Male tortie
Monarchmask is a rather lanky cat. He carried an awkwardness to him that showed he had not yet grown into it well into his apprentice moons. Despite his mother and sister being petite and wiry, Monarchpaw is less scrawny and shows potential to be a slender or athletic build as he grows. As a young warrior, the tom has filled out into the build he was promised. Tall, long-legged and wearing well-earned muscles. Still, he bears the same comely features that he is very aware of, so much so that he detests the idea of ruining his good looks with future scars or deformities.
By now, he has remained careful with his new taste for violence and still bears little scarrage or ruin. The only sign of such is the dappling of scar tissue on his paws, from when he went out into the blizzard with Wildclaw.
By his very nature, Monarchmask is a pretty boy. His pelt is a mix of deep red whorls with striping cut with inky splotches and a mostly white underside. Wearing a dappled, tortoiseshell pelt, lanky build and delicate features, he is used to getting mistaken for a she-cat. It's something that has been happening since his birth, though he has never truly minded. He is an already effeminate tom apart from his pelt’s coloring.. It does not help that he spends very long amounts of time grooming his fur and admiring it nor does his tendency to avoid dirtying his paws.
His face is mostly black in color, with a sharp almost triangular-shaped patch of orange that comes up just around his right eye. His eyes, in fact, are a deep ochre yellow coloring. Much darker in color than his mother’s pair, but close enough to deter cats from talking. He is a very handsome tom, or at least he will be. Monarchmask has a haughty tilt to his chin, a way of looking almost regal at all times. His features, however odd they might be, suit him well.
Monarchmask has a high-pitched voice and tends to speak with a lofty attitude. Only his mother is spared his less pleasant manner of speaking. With her, he is as sweet as can be. Monarchmask is a mama’s boy through and through and it shows. He has a floral, fruity kind of scent.
388
By now, he has remained careful with his new taste for violence and still bears little scarrage or ruin. The only sign of such is the dappling of scar tissue on his paws, from when he went out into the blizzard with Wildclaw.
By his very nature, Monarchmask is a pretty boy. His pelt is a mix of deep red whorls with striping cut with inky splotches and a mostly white underside. Wearing a dappled, tortoiseshell pelt, lanky build and delicate features, he is used to getting mistaken for a she-cat. It's something that has been happening since his birth, though he has never truly minded. He is an already effeminate tom apart from his pelt’s coloring.. It does not help that he spends very long amounts of time grooming his fur and admiring it nor does his tendency to avoid dirtying his paws.
His face is mostly black in color, with a sharp almost triangular-shaped patch of orange that comes up just around his right eye. His eyes, in fact, are a deep ochre yellow coloring. Much darker in color than his mother’s pair, but close enough to deter cats from talking. He is a very handsome tom, or at least he will be. Monarchmask has a haughty tilt to his chin, a way of looking almost regal at all times. His features, however odd they might be, suit him well.
Monarchmask has a high-pitched voice and tends to speak with a lofty attitude. Only his mother is spared his less pleasant manner of speaking. With her, he is as sweet as can be. Monarchmask is a mama’s boy through and through and it shows. He has a floral, fruity kind of scent.
388
Personality
+ Romantic, whimsical, neat, persuasive
- Obsessive, pompous, hostile, manipulative
Monarchpaw had always been a lover first and foremost and probably a fighter second to lastly. (last of course being something unsightly, like a rogue) He speaks in a flowery way, all soothing tones and the like. He brings his mother and sisters pretty shells or flowers. Vervainthroat is certain that if her son did not bear such an odd-colored pelt, she’d surely have other queens looking to set him up with their kits. He looks perfectly polite, good-natured, a gentleman! You know some of these young cats need to remember how to respect their elders, but thankfully, Vervainthroat has raised two incredibly well-mannered kits, mostly on her lonesome.
It plays well to the fact that he is a rather combat-avoidant cat. He lurks elsewhere whenever patrols come back with scratches and stormy expressions. He knows well and good that he cannot avoid that fate forever, not with the threat of RedwoodClan waging war being so close to home. StarClan forbids him to look like a coward, but he can’t help it if he doesn’t think he’d look dreadful with a single patch of missing fur, or worse, a hideous scar. No. He’d much prefer to keep his stunning and unusual looks in perfect condition. Besides, blood is so gross and what if you tore a claw ? Utter yikes. No thanks, he’ll pass on that.
He speaks fantastically, like a poet. Somewhere along the moons someone told him that all the pretty she-cats liked a tom who was good with words and that has since stayed with him. And with some time he’s beginning to wonder if any handsome toms like prose too, though Vervainthroat hasn’t been very helpful with that kind of advice, he finds she has plenty of other good tips and anecdotes.
Though he is not in the picture, it would be wrong not to mention Monarchmask’s traits that remind his mother of his father. Hidden beneath, Monarchmask hides some less pleasant traits. It was cute, at first, when he was a kit and would spend days hung up on the same thing. Vervainthroat would laugh and watch as he would spend all his time figuring out how to make it come to fruition. As he got older, it didn’t take long for him to begin resorting to more underhanded methods to accomplish his goals. Little white lies to his mentor, a few fake rumors to his denmates. If it resulted in a postponed training session or one of the more preferred nests, what did it really matter ?
As an adult, Monarchmask has changed. Perhaps due to the pressure of war or merely because they were traits he was always meant to embody, he has lost the candid, clumsy boyishness he once charmed his peers and queens with, along with the abhorrence of combat. So Monarchpaw was a lover, most definitely not a fighter, but Monarchmask was taught that through brute force, much can be accomplished. He thought well of Minnowstar, of the loyalists, of StarClan, but time has hardened him. The guidance of rogues and barbarians has shaped him into a foxhearted kind of cat. A rude awakening to his own nature and to the culture of his clan has whittled down the whimsical charisma he once oozed. Quick is he to lose patience and crumble to circumstance and even faster is he to find something to strike his claws unto. It is possible that with more time spent in a transitioning LichenClan he will return to these ways, but at the moment he continues to be a livewire with a short fuse.
685
History
Vervainthroat fell pregnant some time just before another molly’s kits had been made apprentices.
They did not know each other well, but they were connected through a red tabby tom.
Viceroybite.
He was eloquent, headstrong, but cruel when he wanted to be. A well-respected warrior in the clan. From a good family. Mantisflame bore him a litter of strong,
healthy kits. They were a picturesque LichenClan family. Mantisflame’s brood were well into their apprentice moons when the three kits were born one night. Under a winking half moon, Vervainthroat gave birth to two tortoiseshells and one black tabby.
“Two daughters and a son,” Vervainthroat had panted wearily, eyes glimmering with tears as she admired the three kits suckling at her stomach. Her mind was whirling with the fantasy she had dreamt up the moons leading up to their birth. She didn’t need Viceroybite anymore. She had an entire new world right in front of her. Nobody needed to know who their father was, and if she could help it, they’d never know unless she chose to tell them. It was the reason why she nearly missed Briarfall’s quiet correction. “Two sons,” Vervainthroat caught the tabby’s gaze curiously. “And a daughter.”
Briarfall pointed to one of the red and black kits. The second kit that had been born. “A son. StarClan blessed perhaps.” And at this, the new mother peered down at the squirming kit for a moment before murmuring back. “Yes, all of them. Blessed.”
The eve continued on, as time always does, with no father in sight. The other queens shot Vervainthroat questioning looks. It was untraditional, this single mother intending to raise her litter alone. She had named them alone, shooing her denmates away when they pestered her. She peered down at her firstborn, her only daughter. “Crescentkit.” Christened for her pelt, a pale shadow of her brothers’. Like the milky quiet of the moths that flickered about at twilight. The mostly black tom was another easy choice. “Skipperkit.” Once more, Vervainthroat’s gaze fell to her second born kit. His name needed to suit him in all his whimsy. “Monarchkit.” A name absolutely befitting for a regal little tom that Monarchkit would soon prove more than suitable. After a short while, their clanmates no longer cared. There were new things to gossip about and Vervainthroat’s odd, unclaimed brood became begrudgingly accepted among LichenClan.
Skipperkit passed, quietly and unexpectedly, to the shock of Vervainthroat. And after the fanfare of losing her only ‘normal’ kit ended, the other queens waspish gossip carried on. Vervainthroat became strict with Monarchkit and Crescentkit, ensuring they were never far from her sights.
Though she was not the only one keeping them on a tight leash. Her former mentor, a tom she had a kindled a close relationship with, stepped into the kits’ lives in the same manner. Flashfang. He took on the role of whatever they needed him to be. He spoke of the war, once they were of age of course, and glory. He was all the fairytales brought to life in the opinion of Monarchkit. And so he considered the large, imposing tom his idol, wanting to be just like him. A valiant knight, radiating machismo and duh, being fabulously enjoyed by pretty admirers.
Monarchpaw loves his mother and his sister. He is their biggest cheerleader, if a little overbearing towards his older sister. Likewise to her, he believes greatly in StarClan and even more so in LichenClan's greatness. He's still young, but he'll likely grow into the typical ideals of the clan, only spurred on by his sister's vulnerability. While he is avoidant of fighting himself, he fully believes in the war and with the right guiding paw, could be convinced a scar or two won't kill him.
Despite their oddities, Monarchpaw and Crescentpaw have a tendency of endearing themselves, in a way that has won them some favor in the clan. And with more pressing matters, their reputation has dwindled down and they are no longer known as 'Vervainthroat's odd, perhaps StarClan-blessed, perhaps StarClan-cursed" litter.
Freshly into his apprenticeship, Monarchpaw attempts to find comradery with Cricketcall’s sons while Crescentpaw forms fast friendships with the likes of other esteemed apprentices. One of which being Littlepaw. A rivalry is formed almost instantly from their conflicting personalities and relation to Crescentpaw. Additionally, during his early moons, his mentor Rootclaw is sent to the catacombs for her sins, Monarchpaw trains with Flashfang. Around this time, Monarchpaw realizes his feelings for Wildpaw, his best friend. On an unassuming night, Monarchpaw stumbles upon Perchpaw and they pray together. A fleeting memory for him until he comes upon her again, as a newly-named warrior, under the blood red moon.
As a warrior, Monarchmask finds guidance in the likes of brutal loyalists such as Darkwave, Saltwhisker, Wispfang and even the likes of rogue Hawthorn. Tensions begin to rise as Monarchmask is engaged to Perchwhisker and his dreams of Wildclaw are crushed. He trains with his peers, gets over his disdain for rogues in order to learn from them and eventually, he brawls against former LichenClanners in the great war. Monarchmask claims his first life in the form of Burrsprout.
After Minnowstar’s fall, Monarchmask bides his time. He seeks a way out of his arrangement while he avoids his mate and duty best he can.
886
They did not know each other well, but they were connected through a red tabby tom.
Viceroybite.
He was eloquent, headstrong, but cruel when he wanted to be. A well-respected warrior in the clan. From a good family. Mantisflame bore him a litter of strong,
healthy kits. They were a picturesque LichenClan family. Mantisflame’s brood were well into their apprentice moons when the three kits were born one night. Under a winking half moon, Vervainthroat gave birth to two tortoiseshells and one black tabby.
“Two daughters and a son,” Vervainthroat had panted wearily, eyes glimmering with tears as she admired the three kits suckling at her stomach. Her mind was whirling with the fantasy she had dreamt up the moons leading up to their birth. She didn’t need Viceroybite anymore. She had an entire new world right in front of her. Nobody needed to know who their father was, and if she could help it, they’d never know unless she chose to tell them. It was the reason why she nearly missed Briarfall’s quiet correction. “Two sons,” Vervainthroat caught the tabby’s gaze curiously. “And a daughter.”
Briarfall pointed to one of the red and black kits. The second kit that had been born. “A son. StarClan blessed perhaps.” And at this, the new mother peered down at the squirming kit for a moment before murmuring back. “Yes, all of them. Blessed.”
The eve continued on, as time always does, with no father in sight. The other queens shot Vervainthroat questioning looks. It was untraditional, this single mother intending to raise her litter alone. She had named them alone, shooing her denmates away when they pestered her. She peered down at her firstborn, her only daughter. “Crescentkit.” Christened for her pelt, a pale shadow of her brothers’. Like the milky quiet of the moths that flickered about at twilight. The mostly black tom was another easy choice. “Skipperkit.” Once more, Vervainthroat’s gaze fell to her second born kit. His name needed to suit him in all his whimsy. “Monarchkit.” A name absolutely befitting for a regal little tom that Monarchkit would soon prove more than suitable. After a short while, their clanmates no longer cared. There were new things to gossip about and Vervainthroat’s odd, unclaimed brood became begrudgingly accepted among LichenClan.
Skipperkit passed, quietly and unexpectedly, to the shock of Vervainthroat. And after the fanfare of losing her only ‘normal’ kit ended, the other queens waspish gossip carried on. Vervainthroat became strict with Monarchkit and Crescentkit, ensuring they were never far from her sights.
Though she was not the only one keeping them on a tight leash. Her former mentor, a tom she had a kindled a close relationship with, stepped into the kits’ lives in the same manner. Flashfang. He took on the role of whatever they needed him to be. He spoke of the war, once they were of age of course, and glory. He was all the fairytales brought to life in the opinion of Monarchkit. And so he considered the large, imposing tom his idol, wanting to be just like him. A valiant knight, radiating machismo and duh, being fabulously enjoyed by pretty admirers.
Monarchpaw loves his mother and his sister. He is their biggest cheerleader, if a little overbearing towards his older sister. Likewise to her, he believes greatly in StarClan and even more so in LichenClan's greatness. He's still young, but he'll likely grow into the typical ideals of the clan, only spurred on by his sister's vulnerability. While he is avoidant of fighting himself, he fully believes in the war and with the right guiding paw, could be convinced a scar or two won't kill him.
Despite their oddities, Monarchpaw and Crescentpaw have a tendency of endearing themselves, in a way that has won them some favor in the clan. And with more pressing matters, their reputation has dwindled down and they are no longer known as 'Vervainthroat's odd, perhaps StarClan-blessed, perhaps StarClan-cursed" litter.
Freshly into his apprenticeship, Monarchpaw attempts to find comradery with Cricketcall’s sons while Crescentpaw forms fast friendships with the likes of other esteemed apprentices. One of which being Littlepaw. A rivalry is formed almost instantly from their conflicting personalities and relation to Crescentpaw. Additionally, during his early moons, his mentor Rootclaw is sent to the catacombs for her sins, Monarchpaw trains with Flashfang. Around this time, Monarchpaw realizes his feelings for Wildpaw, his best friend. On an unassuming night, Monarchpaw stumbles upon Perchpaw and they pray together. A fleeting memory for him until he comes upon her again, as a newly-named warrior, under the blood red moon.
As a warrior, Monarchmask finds guidance in the likes of brutal loyalists such as Darkwave, Saltwhisker, Wispfang and even the likes of rogue Hawthorn. Tensions begin to rise as Monarchmask is engaged to Perchwhisker and his dreams of Wildclaw are crushed. He trains with his peers, gets over his disdain for rogues in order to learn from them and eventually, he brawls against former LichenClanners in the great war. Monarchmask claims his first life in the form of Burrsprout.
After Minnowstar’s fall, Monarchmask bides his time. He seeks a way out of his arrangement while he avoids his mate and duty best he can.
886
total wc; 1,959
