Post by nyx on Oct 19, 2019 18:33:08 GMT -6
DARKPAW
THISTLECLAN
A BLACK AND WHITE SMOKE TOM WITH YELLOW EYES
APPRENTICE
MALE
NINE MOONS
Appearance
Darkpaw’s pelt is greyscale with a white underside and stockings, and smoky swirls of black and grey down his spine and towards the tip of his tail. The outlining of his ears, around his jaw, as well as a couple sparse splotches on his shoulders, back, and tail are deep black in colour, although it mixes into the dark and pale greys in faint tabby stripes. His bright white underside is disadvantageous in Thistleclan’s dimly lit forest, but he counteracts this by maneuvering in a semi-crouch, as if always stalking prey. His eyes glow a deep, handsome gold, but they are dwarfed by his square facial features and large jaw.
He has a lean body built for agile movements and quick tricks, but his uncharacteristically heavy coat of fur, particularly around his shoulders, gives the illusion of larger size and muscle mass. Darkpaw has the typical Thistleclan strength in his front legs and shoulders so, paired with this illusion, his battle style tends toward the appearance of forceful, bulldozing attacks before opting for something more unexpected and less engaging.
He has a lean body built for agile movements and quick tricks, but his uncharacteristically heavy coat of fur, particularly around his shoulders, gives the illusion of larger size and muscle mass. Darkpaw has the typical Thistleclan strength in his front legs and shoulders so, paired with this illusion, his battle style tends toward the appearance of forceful, bulldozing attacks before opting for something more unexpected and less engaging.
Personality
Eerily quiet, Darkpaw does not have the taste for socialization. He has a tendency to isolate himself from his peers, preferring the convenience and ease of silence; however, to the likely surprise of many, he is a fluent if not sensuous wordsmith, being a skill that he saves for times of dire necessity. The blink of an eye can mean that he is amused just as easily as it can mean that he is irritated and, with that in mind, those around him should be conscious that his age hardly reflects an undeveloped mind; quite on the contrary, his observational skills are on par with that of a clever hawk (although he wields it like more of a sophisticated owl) and he is constantly, wordlessly, assessing his surroundings for a point of weakness or fault, craving it like it is dinner. Darkpaw does not strive to be unsurpassed in every aspect, to be powerful or in control, but he entertains the callous ability to devalue those around him. He keeps his findings, however useful or mundane they may be, close to his ice cold heart in case they will ever come in handy for exploitation. While he does not actively seek to harm anybody mentally or physically, he likes to keep his options open. As of now, Darkpaw is attempting to construct an image, a reputation, for himself within Thistleclan that conveys level-headedness, sharpness of wit, and buckets of potential, if not with a touch of unsettling, calculative, and asocial mannerisms to boot. It is (hopefully) within popular faith that he will grow into a competent warrior, but Darkpaw does not seek to impress. His mind is undoubtedly his greatest weapon, but it remains his most formidable opponent, as well.
Formidable enough, in fact, that it must not be exposed for what it is capable of. Darkpaw’s desire to remain isolated is directly correlated with an inability to fathom the concepts of friendship and romance. It is immutably difficult for him to “unwind”, to “have fun”, let alone enjoy or place his trust in something as tedious and tiresome as companionship. He is inflexibly selfish, and this prevents him from wanting or seeing the worth of a reliable ally unless it in some way, shape, or form opportunistic or advantageous for him. He grasps that simply being a Thistleclan cat requires him to trust Thistleclan, and to be trustworthy to Thisteclan, so he abides stringently to the rules and regulations, the expectations, of Thistleclan life for no greater purpose than maintaining his position within it. To the naked eye, Darkpaw is blindingly obedient, appearing to be a well-trained, unconquerable soldier that can be molded into whatever shape will serve Thistleclan best; however, this is because he lusts after the thrill of deception. Darkpaw unquestionably knows who and what he is, but to be something entirely other than who and what he is in a separate being’s eyes quenches an otherwise unquenchable thirst in the back of his throat. It is a game. He makes the rules, and everyone around him – Thistleclan, even Redwoodclan or Lichenclan, authority figures, StarClan – become pawns. Rather, test subjects.
Darkpaw values knowledge so immensely that it is stationed above life itself. The power of his memory alone suits him to the lifestyle of a medicine cat, but his disinterest in health is almost alarming – and it would be an outright shame for Thistleclan to lose such a lethal, manipulative snake for a cat on the battlefield. While he does not like to think of himself as a particularly sadistic or violent cat, he nonetheless acknowledges the ways in which he is a danger to society; morality, after all, is a point of interest for the otherwise painfully disinterested tom. Darkpaw will fight voraciously to preserve a threatened Thistleclan life, but only for as long as he has an audience to witness his act of heroism and bravery. His own life is far too important to him to be needlessly risked, so if he ever finds himself in a grim situation in which it comes down to him or another cat, it is in high favour that he will turn his back on them without batting an eye – the only thought he might spare is how unfortunate it is to miss out on evaluating an untimely demise, for such is his fascination with death. Darkpaw does not necessarily strive to be the cause of death, but he likes to analyze it, witness it, and break the process into steps.
Morality is one thing, but pain is certainly another. Darkpaw, although a particularly unfeeling tom, feels an insatiable admiration for combat. There is next to nothing to be gauged from his expression in everyday life, but when he is fighting he becomes coherently expressive through his claws and teeth. It is a skill he will master easily and effectively, but if it is not honed properly then it can quickly become problematic. While Darkpaw prides himself on self-control and careful attention to detail, his self-awareness above all else, it will be difficult for him to understand when enough is enough, when too far is too far. He is not a cold-blooded killer, but combat knows the secret to crawling under his skin, overriding his sensibility, and making him do regrettable things – though whether or not he will regret them remains to be seen.
Formidable enough, in fact, that it must not be exposed for what it is capable of. Darkpaw’s desire to remain isolated is directly correlated with an inability to fathom the concepts of friendship and romance. It is immutably difficult for him to “unwind”, to “have fun”, let alone enjoy or place his trust in something as tedious and tiresome as companionship. He is inflexibly selfish, and this prevents him from wanting or seeing the worth of a reliable ally unless it in some way, shape, or form opportunistic or advantageous for him. He grasps that simply being a Thistleclan cat requires him to trust Thistleclan, and to be trustworthy to Thisteclan, so he abides stringently to the rules and regulations, the expectations, of Thistleclan life for no greater purpose than maintaining his position within it. To the naked eye, Darkpaw is blindingly obedient, appearing to be a well-trained, unconquerable soldier that can be molded into whatever shape will serve Thistleclan best; however, this is because he lusts after the thrill of deception. Darkpaw unquestionably knows who and what he is, but to be something entirely other than who and what he is in a separate being’s eyes quenches an otherwise unquenchable thirst in the back of his throat. It is a game. He makes the rules, and everyone around him – Thistleclan, even Redwoodclan or Lichenclan, authority figures, StarClan – become pawns. Rather, test subjects.
Darkpaw values knowledge so immensely that it is stationed above life itself. The power of his memory alone suits him to the lifestyle of a medicine cat, but his disinterest in health is almost alarming – and it would be an outright shame for Thistleclan to lose such a lethal, manipulative snake for a cat on the battlefield. While he does not like to think of himself as a particularly sadistic or violent cat, he nonetheless acknowledges the ways in which he is a danger to society; morality, after all, is a point of interest for the otherwise painfully disinterested tom. Darkpaw will fight voraciously to preserve a threatened Thistleclan life, but only for as long as he has an audience to witness his act of heroism and bravery. His own life is far too important to him to be needlessly risked, so if he ever finds himself in a grim situation in which it comes down to him or another cat, it is in high favour that he will turn his back on them without batting an eye – the only thought he might spare is how unfortunate it is to miss out on evaluating an untimely demise, for such is his fascination with death. Darkpaw does not necessarily strive to be the cause of death, but he likes to analyze it, witness it, and break the process into steps.
Morality is one thing, but pain is certainly another. Darkpaw, although a particularly unfeeling tom, feels an insatiable admiration for combat. There is next to nothing to be gauged from his expression in everyday life, but when he is fighting he becomes coherently expressive through his claws and teeth. It is a skill he will master easily and effectively, but if it is not honed properly then it can quickly become problematic. While Darkpaw prides himself on self-control and careful attention to detail, his self-awareness above all else, it will be difficult for him to understand when enough is enough, when too far is too far. He is not a cold-blooded killer, but combat knows the secret to crawling under his skin, overriding his sensibility, and making him do regrettable things – though whether or not he will regret them remains to be seen.
History
Dark-kit and his sister, Icekit, were the firstborn litter of a senior warrior couple, Snowstorm and Blackthorn. Snowstorm had daydreamed about the day her kits would be born since she was an apprentice, but the tom she set her sights on was gruff and serious in nature, not particularly interested in the upbringing of mischievous, dependent young. It took many moons for Snowstorm to soften his opinion on the matter but, eventually, Blackthorn relented, if not only to appease his mate. She had never been happier than she was throughout the moons of her pregnancy – and then she died.
It happened during childbirth. Snowstorm was no longer in her prime, and she and Blackthorn both knew the risks. She clung to life long enough to deliver two healthy kits, a tom firstborn who was a mix of both their hues, and then a second she-cat who was the spitting image of her mother with fur as white as snow save for the smudge of black on the bridge of her nose. Snowstorm licked them both behind the ears before she passed, her eyes filled with affection until the moment they finally fluttered shut; they were blindly crawling towards her stomach for milk before, with ear-splitting shrieks, they were grabbed by the scruffs and promptly delivered to the nest of another nursing queen.
Blackthorn stayed with them the first night, naming them Dark-kit and Icekit for their colours. It had never been his idea to have kits, so it was to the pleasant surprise of many queens and friends dear to Snowstorm to see him stepping up in spite of the loss of his mate; however, it seemed that everyone spoke too soon, because after the first night he did not come again.
For a while, Icekit cried for him, wanting to understand why she did not have a relationship with her father; Dark-kit, on the other hand, remained quiet on the matter, coddling his younger sister through the night and shushing her until she fell asleep. He did not know it yet, what the unfamiliar feeling of irritation was when it stirred in his belly, but every time he looked at his sister he felt it. Eventually, Icekit did not cry for Blackthorn any longer, although her wistful looks outside of the nursery persisted.
At six moons, Dark-kit and Icekit were renamed to represent their ranks as apprentices. Along with his newfound freedom came a newfound desire for independence and space, which he promptly secured by choosing a nest far away from his sister’s. At first, Icepaw shadowed him everywhere he went, desperate for the familiarity of his presence; it was absolutely intolerable, but even though an angry fire burned like molten lava beneath his pelt he held his tongue, and he maintained his smile. His escape came in the form of an older apprentice with a sharp tongue and an eye for weakness. She cornered Icepaw late at night in the apprentices’ den, when all of the apprentices were there to watch, calling her names – weak, needy, annoying – pressing her into a corner and then tauntingly poking at her face with unsheathed claws, glinting dangerously in the dark. Icepaw tried to catch Darkpaw’s eye in a silent plea for help, and she did, but no help came to her. Instead, he simply watched from his nest, a quiet bystander to the bullying with an unreadable expression on his face.
The older apprentice picked on Icepaw for another moon before it suddenly halted without a word of explanation. Icepaw’s tormentor found herself in the medicine cat’s den with a twisted leg, swearing that she had stumbled; she spent a moon recovering and then, when she was in shape to return to her duties and continue training, she marched past Icepaw’s nest without a glance. She caught the hint of a smile on the corner of Darkpaw’s lip before he turned his back. After that day, Icepaw did not try as hard to catch his eye. She feared her brother’s involvement in her tormentor’s injury almost as much as she feared the ease with which she accused him of it.
Now, at nine moons of age, Darkpaw is halfway through his apprenticeship and making steady progress towards his warrior name.
It happened during childbirth. Snowstorm was no longer in her prime, and she and Blackthorn both knew the risks. She clung to life long enough to deliver two healthy kits, a tom firstborn who was a mix of both their hues, and then a second she-cat who was the spitting image of her mother with fur as white as snow save for the smudge of black on the bridge of her nose. Snowstorm licked them both behind the ears before she passed, her eyes filled with affection until the moment they finally fluttered shut; they were blindly crawling towards her stomach for milk before, with ear-splitting shrieks, they were grabbed by the scruffs and promptly delivered to the nest of another nursing queen.
Blackthorn stayed with them the first night, naming them Dark-kit and Icekit for their colours. It had never been his idea to have kits, so it was to the pleasant surprise of many queens and friends dear to Snowstorm to see him stepping up in spite of the loss of his mate; however, it seemed that everyone spoke too soon, because after the first night he did not come again.
For a while, Icekit cried for him, wanting to understand why she did not have a relationship with her father; Dark-kit, on the other hand, remained quiet on the matter, coddling his younger sister through the night and shushing her until she fell asleep. He did not know it yet, what the unfamiliar feeling of irritation was when it stirred in his belly, but every time he looked at his sister he felt it. Eventually, Icekit did not cry for Blackthorn any longer, although her wistful looks outside of the nursery persisted.
At six moons, Dark-kit and Icekit were renamed to represent their ranks as apprentices. Along with his newfound freedom came a newfound desire for independence and space, which he promptly secured by choosing a nest far away from his sister’s. At first, Icepaw shadowed him everywhere he went, desperate for the familiarity of his presence; it was absolutely intolerable, but even though an angry fire burned like molten lava beneath his pelt he held his tongue, and he maintained his smile. His escape came in the form of an older apprentice with a sharp tongue and an eye for weakness. She cornered Icepaw late at night in the apprentices’ den, when all of the apprentices were there to watch, calling her names – weak, needy, annoying – pressing her into a corner and then tauntingly poking at her face with unsheathed claws, glinting dangerously in the dark. Icepaw tried to catch Darkpaw’s eye in a silent plea for help, and she did, but no help came to her. Instead, he simply watched from his nest, a quiet bystander to the bullying with an unreadable expression on his face.
The older apprentice picked on Icepaw for another moon before it suddenly halted without a word of explanation. Icepaw’s tormentor found herself in the medicine cat’s den with a twisted leg, swearing that she had stumbled; she spent a moon recovering and then, when she was in shape to return to her duties and continue training, she marched past Icepaw’s nest without a glance. She caught the hint of a smile on the corner of Darkpaw’s lip before he turned his back. After that day, Icepaw did not try as hard to catch his eye. She feared her brother’s involvement in her tormentor’s injury almost as much as she feared the ease with which she accused him of it.
Now, at nine moons of age, Darkpaw is halfway through his apprenticeship and making steady progress towards his warrior name.