Post by Egotistic on Nov 24, 2021 7:09:36 GMT -6
Bluebell
Loner
a charcoal lynx point w/ blue eyes.
n/a
female | she-cat
54 moons
Appearance
Though little is known of Bluebell’s origin, the blood she bears, or from whom she inherited such traits, there is no denying the anomaly that is her features. Short of coat and lean of build, though there is a softness to her, beneath even that is a sturdiness. A rigidness and firmness of body attesting to her prowess as a hunter and her abilities as a provider. In the extension of each limb is the feather-light grace of nobility, the punctuated and panther-like cadence of step that suggests royalty and athleticism that astounds, while in color, she is an anomaly—a rare vision unparalleled. For her colors are truly unique: seal charcoal points accentuated by the presence of rosettes along the body give her the appearance of the ancient leopard, while her eyes, a soft yet striking blue, bear color reminiscence to the flower after which was named.
Of the rest of her, beyond the lissome features and the feline graces, she is not without blemish, for a cruel and bald streak of skin mars the top of her head, and her shoulders are badly bruised and rent of fur. There no hairs have sprung, and when she looks upon herself, she looks upon herself with wonder, for she cannot recall when such scars were ever received.
Of the rest of her, beyond the lissome features and the feline graces, she is not without blemish, for a cruel and bald streak of skin mars the top of her head, and her shoulders are badly bruised and rent of fur. There no hairs have sprung, and when she looks upon herself, she looks upon herself with wonder, for she cannot recall when such scars were ever received.
Personality
opportunistic, nurturing, resilient, intuitive, selfless.
realist, dutiful, prudent, repressed, cautious, disingenuous.
realist, dutiful, prudent, repressed, cautious, disingenuous.
A mother first before aught else, despite appearances, Bluebell’s perseverance has allowed her to remain grounded amidst the hardships she’s faced during rampant floods and long and harsh winters. And with young to raise, she has only been forced to grow further resilient with the passage of each die, scouring the fields for prey in times where few can find enough to pad their own bellies. But all this she does—does for her kits whom she would and has gone hungry for many an unlucky night, and by leaps and bounds, she learns so that they might be spared from a life of hardship, that they might leave easy lives without the troubles she felt she surely experienced in her own youth.
With this growing necessity, Bluebelly has developed a craftiness—not the cruel and cunning sort, but a knowingness of the world and how best to take advantage of all that it provides. And so she has learned the habits of those around her, the nature of rogues and how best to make one sweet on her so she might hunt a while longer in their scrap of land, how to woo a tom so he might let her sons and daughters bed in his nest for a moments respite. These things she’s learned and used to ensure they might never bed down with the rain upon their backs or the elements to whip and rouse sickness in their lungs.
Such living has also hardened her, giving up her childish naivete to a hardened caution and opportunism that preys on the good intentions of others so that she and he brood might live another day. And so she is not above telling small and pretty lies, nor is she above letting a chance for comfort pass her by. For her life is one of fleeting opportunity, and she has the mind only to grasp at all events as they might pass her.
History
Mother: unknown (npc)
Father: deceased, killed in battle.
Littermate(s): unknown, deceased – killed in battle. unknown (npc)
Mate(s): Gorge, ex-mate, sire (npc)
Kit(s): Honeybun (captain ), Sugarplum (Kazuko )
There had been three of them—three little bodies, three tiny hearts, all beating, limbs kicking, paws spreading in that great sea of warmth and closeness. And she had known all of them in that comfort, felt the press of them and felt secure there, for the thrum-drum of their hearts lulled her and the louder one, the one that belonged to her milk-giver thrummed loudest of all. And there was peace in that—in that place where she could neither see nor hear nor smell.
And when the surge happened, and she was borne from that place, when the cold pricked her coat and racked shivers down her spine, she felt nothing if not fearful as she was lifted and settled and come upon by the rasp of many tongues. And her pitiful mewls roused off the den walls, louder even than her brothers, larger and stronger than her, and the queens all laughed at that, commented on the tremor of her voice and they drew closer to look upon her with a fondness, for the litter was a fine one.
“…a right handful. Look at them all—don’t they look like their father? And their mother, too? Oh, they’re just precious!”
And a great thundering of purrs roused in agreement at the mother as she looked down upon her brood and whisked them close, feeling a great surge of pride for them all, for the litter she’d birthed.
“And that one there—he’ll be a fighter. See the way he nurses. And that one, see how his paws knead? A hunter, quick with his paws…”
And another great rousing of purrs and thundering approval came at that.
Then eyes fell on the she-kit, small but no runt, mewling its tiny lungs raw in hunger. And they watched her for a time as she lurched about until the mother, noticing the suspension of praise, hefted her bodily by the scruff and set her upon a teat. And the purrs ebbed.
“…a handful if ever I’ve seen one. Oh, she’ll be a bit of work. Keep your eyes on that one.”
And the purrs did not rouse then, and the mother looked more firmly on the little she-kit as she nursed, thinking distant thoughts.
“It isn’t up for discussion, dearest,” though she can never recall her mother’s face, she always remembered how she called her such things—always when she was disregarding some matter or other that irked her. “The stars know we were lucky enough to find anyone who would take you in. And that’s forgetting all the work I’ll have to put into finding good mollies for your brother. You should be thanking me for all I’ve done for you…”
“But he’s so… old…”
“Only by a few moons, darling. Only a few moons. And what are a few moons for a comfortable life? Good, respectable kits, good standing. You’ll be treated like a queen long before you’re as fat as one, and when your kits come, they’ll be strong and able. What more could you want?” Her mother worked restlessly. Always she remembered the scruples she took with her coat, how often she fussed and fretted and smoothed it out. Always meticulous, always watchful for the slightest thing out of line, for the tiniest blemish or sign of aging. It was the small things of that sort, the trim and forgettable things, that bothered her most and threw her moods into somber throes. She remembered how she’d fussed over a rumple in her flank when she spoke despite the tears. Her mother rarely looked her in the eye. “Come now, stop pouting. You’ll give yourself wrinkles. Straighten yourself and thank me. Have I not done so much for you?”
“…but I do not love him.” I do not want him.
“It is not about want. Do you think I wanted your father?” She’d scoffed at that. Even now, Bluebell remembered the cruelness in the words. “Much like you, I’d filled my insipid little head with imaginings on what my mate would be like. And like you, I thought I had a choice, that he’d be a gallant tom like in the stories… but it’s not about that—and the sooner you realize it, the better off you’ll be... the stars know my mother could have prepared me better. I’m only doing you a favor, you know.”
“But my training—”
“Forget that. You won’t need it. You’ve got a pretty face. You hunt well enough, you fight… well enough. Forget it. You needn’t be like your brothers. They’ve done enough for us. Now you must do your part. Now come here—and smile. Nobody wants their betrothed pouting and blubbering. Wipe your tears. Yes. Head back, breathe… don’t sniffle, girl; you’ll embarrass me. Good. Now come… chin up…”
She remembered how slick the stones had felt, how they’d cut her paw pads as she crossed them. Treacherous things—one wrong move, and they were sure to toss her into the water.
But it was necessary. Looking over her shoulder at her father, drenched in rainwater, she knew it was necessary.
I will not go back to them. They cannot make me. I do not love him—I never will.
It was not the life she had wanted. It never had been. Not since she’d been born, not even since her head had been so stuffed and filled with stories. She did not want to be a queen, she didn’t want to spend her days withering away with kits to nurse and a tom she did not love to dote on. She’d wanted to be a warrior, like her brothers. She had not wanted to earn her warrior name, only to have it stripped from her.
She could not bear the thought. She would not. She would run. Flee and find a better place away from it all. And maybe then she could come back… and it would be forgotten, and she could have those things she wanted.
She desperately wanted it to be true, grew heady on the promise in the hopes as she sprang from rain-dashed stone to stone.
Each time more clumsily than the last. Each time more wearily… and when she lept a final time, her paws were not sure, damp as they were, and they slid on the stones, and her body lurched and fell, and a sharp pain roused in her skull. And the waves caught and snatched her, they forced into her gaping maw and choked her straining lungs, and she was borne away with the yowls of her father to carry her off.
But she was not afraid through it all. She felt nothing if not freed.
“You’ll need to learn to hunt for yourself. I can’t always be responsible for feeding them.”
Bluebell’s eyes crept from her brood, those mewling bundles, fat on her milk and filling the den with their squalor.
Such a pitiful den. The ends of old roots jutted from it, and the heads of worms broke from the walls. But it was warm, and it kept the rain out, and the moss, though old and riddled with the stench of mildew, was warm enough and the feathers, in as poor a condition as they were, kept the warmth in well enough. And though the air stunk of fox, it was receding, and the smell of milk and newborns rose in its place. Even though it was not much now, it would soon become a home she would proudly raise them in. She knew it to be true, even if her mate grew weary of being still and fidgeted to be away.
That, too, he will grow used to. He learned to tolerate a great deal more than fox dens.
But today was different.
“I cannot hunt for them…”
“Someone will have to.”
“You will.” And she looked at him insistently. There was pleading there. Not here. Not in front of them.
“You will.” And his shoulders rolled under his coat as he watched her. “I did my part. You have your nest; you’ve got shelter. It’s all you’ll need to take care of them.”
“You would leave us?”
“I cannot provide for you. All she-cats raise their broods alone. I won’t feed four mouths. It’s too much. I have to think about myself.”
Her eyes fell. “Oh…”
And she did not see him. She did not see him when he left or hear the last words he spoke to her; she did not grieve him, only stared blankly at her precious bundles and felt a great and treacherous ringing in her temples. And she wept, but she knew not why.
Father: deceased, killed in battle.
Littermate(s): unknown, deceased – killed in battle. unknown (npc)
Mate(s): Gorge, ex-mate, sire (npc)
Kit(s): Honeybun (captain ), Sugarplum (Kazuko )
There had been three of them—three little bodies, three tiny hearts, all beating, limbs kicking, paws spreading in that great sea of warmth and closeness. And she had known all of them in that comfort, felt the press of them and felt secure there, for the thrum-drum of their hearts lulled her and the louder one, the one that belonged to her milk-giver thrummed loudest of all. And there was peace in that—in that place where she could neither see nor hear nor smell.
And when the surge happened, and she was borne from that place, when the cold pricked her coat and racked shivers down her spine, she felt nothing if not fearful as she was lifted and settled and come upon by the rasp of many tongues. And her pitiful mewls roused off the den walls, louder even than her brothers, larger and stronger than her, and the queens all laughed at that, commented on the tremor of her voice and they drew closer to look upon her with a fondness, for the litter was a fine one.
“…a right handful. Look at them all—don’t they look like their father? And their mother, too? Oh, they’re just precious!”
And a great thundering of purrs roused in agreement at the mother as she looked down upon her brood and whisked them close, feeling a great surge of pride for them all, for the litter she’d birthed.
“And that one there—he’ll be a fighter. See the way he nurses. And that one, see how his paws knead? A hunter, quick with his paws…”
And another great rousing of purrs and thundering approval came at that.
Then eyes fell on the she-kit, small but no runt, mewling its tiny lungs raw in hunger. And they watched her for a time as she lurched about until the mother, noticing the suspension of praise, hefted her bodily by the scruff and set her upon a teat. And the purrs ebbed.
“…a handful if ever I’ve seen one. Oh, she’ll be a bit of work. Keep your eyes on that one.”
And the purrs did not rouse then, and the mother looked more firmly on the little she-kit as she nursed, thinking distant thoughts.
Remembered Events of Kithood
Bluebell’s memories of her kithood are faint and riddled with discontent. She remembered her two brothers who were exceptional from birth, how they turned covetous heads the moment their eyes and ears had unsealed and how much their mother doted on them. Of such loving tendencies, she cannot ever recall being geared towards herself. Her mother was close but did not smother her with praise as she did the others.
Bluebell remembers her mother was always by her side, training her. While her brothers took off with her father, her mother tormented her with lectures on ladyhood. Though she cannot remember with any great detail, Bluebell recalls that she was betrothed at a young age to a tom older than her in moons. She did not care for the arrangement, but her mother, so eager to be rid of her hapless daughter, did not seem to give the matter much thought.
When she was five moons, Bluebell can recall having gotten badly ill. Her apprenticeship was managed alone; by then, both brothers had become apprentices, well off in their training.
Bluebell remembers her mother was always by her side, training her. While her brothers took off with her father, her mother tormented her with lectures on ladyhood. Though she cannot remember with any great detail, Bluebell recalls that she was betrothed at a young age to a tom older than her in moons. She did not care for the arrangement, but her mother, so eager to be rid of her hapless daughter, did not seem to give the matter much thought.
When she was five moons, Bluebell can recall having gotten badly ill. Her apprenticeship was managed alone; by then, both brothers had become apprentices, well off in their training.
“It isn’t up for discussion, dearest,” though she can never recall her mother’s face, she always remembered how she called her such things—always when she was disregarding some matter or other that irked her. “The stars know we were lucky enough to find anyone who would take you in. And that’s forgetting all the work I’ll have to put into finding good mollies for your brother. You should be thanking me for all I’ve done for you…”
“But he’s so… old…”
“Only by a few moons, darling. Only a few moons. And what are a few moons for a comfortable life? Good, respectable kits, good standing. You’ll be treated like a queen long before you’re as fat as one, and when your kits come, they’ll be strong and able. What more could you want?” Her mother worked restlessly. Always she remembered the scruples she took with her coat, how often she fussed and fretted and smoothed it out. Always meticulous, always watchful for the slightest thing out of line, for the tiniest blemish or sign of aging. It was the small things of that sort, the trim and forgettable things, that bothered her most and threw her moods into somber throes. She remembered how she’d fussed over a rumple in her flank when she spoke despite the tears. Her mother rarely looked her in the eye. “Come now, stop pouting. You’ll give yourself wrinkles. Straighten yourself and thank me. Have I not done so much for you?”
“…but I do not love him.” I do not want him.
“It is not about want. Do you think I wanted your father?” She’d scoffed at that. Even now, Bluebell remembered the cruelness in the words. “Much like you, I’d filled my insipid little head with imaginings on what my mate would be like. And like you, I thought I had a choice, that he’d be a gallant tom like in the stories… but it’s not about that—and the sooner you realize it, the better off you’ll be... the stars know my mother could have prepared me better. I’m only doing you a favor, you know.”
“But my training—”
“Forget that. You won’t need it. You’ve got a pretty face. You hunt well enough, you fight… well enough. Forget it. You needn’t be like your brothers. They’ve done enough for us. Now you must do your part. Now come here—and smile. Nobody wants their betrothed pouting and blubbering. Wipe your tears. Yes. Head back, breathe… don’t sniffle, girl; you’ll embarrass me. Good. Now come… chin up…”
Remembered Events of Apprenticeship
Of this time, Bluebell recalls very little but remembers her ceremony quite vividly. She remembers climbing the stones and brushing noses with her mentor, though their names and faces are strange and warped in her remembering, and the sounds of many cats chanting her name, though that too is uncertain.
Bluebell recalls enjoying her training and having loft aspirations of leadership; however these were squandered by her mother. Stricken with news that she was to be pawned off to another family's son, she remembers the days after were riddled with sadness and grief for the chapter so abruptly closed in her life.
Bluebell recalls enjoying her training and having loft aspirations of leadership; however these were squandered by her mother. Stricken with news that she was to be pawned off to another family's son, she remembers the days after were riddled with sadness and grief for the chapter so abruptly closed in her life.
She remembered how slick the stones had felt, how they’d cut her paw pads as she crossed them. Treacherous things—one wrong move, and they were sure to toss her into the water.
But it was necessary. Looking over her shoulder at her father, drenched in rainwater, she knew it was necessary.
I will not go back to them. They cannot make me. I do not love him—I never will.
It was not the life she had wanted. It never had been. Not since she’d been born, not even since her head had been so stuffed and filled with stories. She did not want to be a queen, she didn’t want to spend her days withering away with kits to nurse and a tom she did not love to dote on. She’d wanted to be a warrior, like her brothers. She had not wanted to earn her warrior name, only to have it stripped from her.
She could not bear the thought. She would not. She would run. Flee and find a better place away from it all. And maybe then she could come back… and it would be forgotten, and she could have those things she wanted.
She desperately wanted it to be true, grew heady on the promise in the hopes as she sprang from rain-dashed stone to stone.
Each time more clumsily than the last. Each time more wearily… and when she lept a final time, her paws were not sure, damp as they were, and they slid on the stones, and her body lurched and fell, and a sharp pain roused in her skull. And the waves caught and snatched her, they forced into her gaping maw and choked her straining lungs, and she was borne away with the yowls of her father to carry her off.
But she was not afraid through it all. She felt nothing if not freed.
Remembered Events of Warriorhood
Bluebell recalls little of this time other than that she was betrothed—and that she was not fond of the arrangement.
On the night their courting was was to be consummated, Bluebell remembers fleeing, leaving the very caves to the stones of the shore to flee, though, to this day, she does not know where to. During her flight, her paws slip on the rocks, and she falls, striking her head against the ground to be carried off by the waves.
A cat nursed her back to health upon washing up on a distant shore. She doesn't recall their name or face, only that they were kind and had a pelt that always smelled of earthy simples.
On the night their courting was was to be consummated, Bluebell remembers fleeing, leaving the very caves to the stones of the shore to flee, though, to this day, she does not know where to. During her flight, her paws slip on the rocks, and she falls, striking her head against the ground to be carried off by the waves.
A cat nursed her back to health upon washing up on a distant shore. She doesn't recall their name or face, only that they were kind and had a pelt that always smelled of earthy simples.
“You’ll need to learn to hunt for yourself. I can’t always be responsible for feeding them.”
Bluebell’s eyes crept from her brood, those mewling bundles, fat on her milk and filling the den with their squalor.
Such a pitiful den. The ends of old roots jutted from it, and the heads of worms broke from the walls. But it was warm, and it kept the rain out, and the moss, though old and riddled with the stench of mildew, was warm enough and the feathers, in as poor a condition as they were, kept the warmth in well enough. And though the air stunk of fox, it was receding, and the smell of milk and newborns rose in its place. Even though it was not much now, it would soon become a home she would proudly raise them in. She knew it to be true, even if her mate grew weary of being still and fidgeted to be away.
That, too, he will grow used to. He learned to tolerate a great deal more than fox dens.
But today was different.
“I cannot hunt for them…”
“Someone will have to.”
“You will.” And she looked at him insistently. There was pleading there. Not here. Not in front of them.
“You will.” And his shoulders rolled under his coat as he watched her. “I did my part. You have your nest; you’ve got shelter. It’s all you’ll need to take care of them.”
“You would leave us?”
“I cannot provide for you. All she-cats raise their broods alone. I won’t feed four mouths. It’s too much. I have to think about myself.”
Her eyes fell. “Oh…”
And she did not see him. She did not see him when he left or hear the last words he spoke to her; she did not grieve him, only stared blankly at her precious bundles and felt a great and treacherous ringing in her temples. And she wept, but she knew not why.
Important Events Following Birth of Litter
Bluebell fetches up on a rogue who fancies her. Finding shelter in his den, she courts him, and, for a time, the two remain together, him providing her meals and she warming his nest during his outings. The arrangements were built on mutual understanding; however, he leaves her to raise the litter alone once the kits are born.
Word of rogues impeding on the forest spread on the lips of many. Though Bluebell wants no part of the conflict, she is not blind to how such words arouse the interest of her brood. Though she does her best to keep her brood busy, it is not long before her son goes missing for days at a time, and her daughter, too, voices interest in leaving to join the cause.
Present time…
Word of rogues impeding on the forest spread on the lips of many. Though Bluebell wants no part of the conflict, she is not blind to how such words arouse the interest of her brood. Though she does her best to keep her brood busy, it is not long before her son goes missing for days at a time, and her daughter, too, voices interest in leaving to join the cause.
Present time…
