Post by Egotistic on Nov 10, 2019 11:21:52 GMT -6
Thunderheart
ThistleClan
a massive, longhaired tom with a fiery red tabby pelt and pale green eyes.
warrior
Tom
17 moons
Appearance
Large. If ever there were a word best suited to describe Thunderpaw, large would be the most appropriate. Already at eight moons, he towers over most of his peers—even those older than him—and with the promise to only continue growing, in the moons to come, it is expected that once he does stop, he will have developed into a veritable warrior—or at least insofar as size is concerned. He is as well-muscled as a bear and subsequently heavier than most, his thickset limbs and large, swelling paws a testament to the proportions he hopes to gain in the future, while his broad shoulders suggest a cat who is more than capable of packing a great deal of power behind their blows. In every way, it would seem he was built for the battlefield, and with his own affinity for fighting, it would seem suiting he was gifted with a body such as his.
But it is not only in size that Thunderpaw distinguishes himself from the bunch, for cloaking his great size is an equally magnificent coat of red classic tabby fur. Red as a kindling flame, it is impressively thick, growing thicker still at the nape and between the digits of each paw. It is this pelt of fiery red fur that he is equally known, though its luster is lost by the littering of leaf debris that always seems tangled within its strands. Not that he much minds. A cat of action, he has very little time for sitting around, grooming himself—a fact that is blatantly shown by the conditions of his fur.
In countenance, Thunderpaw is not an unattractive cat. His head is large and broad, sat upon by two large, tufted ears, while below glower eyes of a pale green tinge. But it is in expression that there seems to be a disconnect from the bawdy individual he is. A thick shelf of brow and glowering eyes have done him few favors in being approachable despite his amicable nature, and while he is prone to fits of laughter and joviality, when he is not taking part, his face is as hard as stone despite himself being anything but. To many, it’s off-putting, but to those who muster up the courage to approach him, they will soon find he is as warm in nature as the color of his fur.
But it is not only in size that Thunderpaw distinguishes himself from the bunch, for cloaking his great size is an equally magnificent coat of red classic tabby fur. Red as a kindling flame, it is impressively thick, growing thicker still at the nape and between the digits of each paw. It is this pelt of fiery red fur that he is equally known, though its luster is lost by the littering of leaf debris that always seems tangled within its strands. Not that he much minds. A cat of action, he has very little time for sitting around, grooming himself—a fact that is blatantly shown by the conditions of his fur.
In countenance, Thunderpaw is not an unattractive cat. His head is large and broad, sat upon by two large, tufted ears, while below glower eyes of a pale green tinge. But it is in expression that there seems to be a disconnect from the bawdy individual he is. A thick shelf of brow and glowering eyes have done him few favors in being approachable despite his amicable nature, and while he is prone to fits of laughter and joviality, when he is not taking part, his face is as hard as stone despite himself being anything but. To many, it’s off-putting, but to those who muster up the courage to approach him, they will soon find he is as warm in nature as the color of his fur.
Personality
An individual of action rather than idleness, from the second he was old enough to venture beyond the nursery, it would seem Thunderpaw never sat still. Always on his paws—and surprisingly swift on them, too, for one of his size—his insatiable curiosity has been a trait that has stuck with him even into his apprenticeship and further allowed him to develop into the active young cat he is today, one who does not balk under the pressure of new knowledge, no matter the magnitude.
Consequently, to feed his voracious appetite, Thunderpaw is incredibly hardworking, especially in pursuit of something he desperately wishes to obtain; be it battle moves or hunting techniques, should it interest him, he will surely pursue it with the avariciousness of a hound on the trail. As a result, despite one of his age, Thunderpaw, beneath his bawdy displays and jovial nature, is a cat with a considerable arsenal of knowledge that only continues to grow. He knows many things, though some would argue they’re of no pertinence to a warrior, and possesses said knowledge with humble pride, especially should he have the opportunity of using it to the benefit of his comrades.
But it would seem knowledge is not the only thing Thunderpaw is partial to; elder tales are also something of great importance to him. Practically nursed on them as a kit, even now Thunderpaw has grown up steeping a great deal of faith in stories of old. Valiant tales of noble warriors and the ancient clans, deeds lost to time but still whispered in the hush of night—it is these stories that Thunderpaw has built the foundation for his character.
As a result, Thunderpaw does everything in his power to present himself as the warriors of legend. He is honorable to a fault, compassionate, and dedicated to his family and their wellbeing—especially now with their mother’s passing. He is of quiet religious adherence, though he speaks little of his beliefs, and as a result, does everything in his power to follow the code his ancestors left behind.
Thunderpaw also harbors an unusual amount of maturity for one of his few moons. With no father figure to learn from, Thunderpaw took it upon himself to fill the role his father had left vacant throughout the entirety of his kithood. He learned how to be independent early—how to entertain and fend for himself—and when his siblings needed him, whether they asked for his help or not, he did his best to be there shoulder to lean on and their protector. Of course, this protectiveness is not always met with gratefulness—especially when it came to his brother Blazingpaw, he more often than not is met with harsh words than those of gratitude—but he hardly seems to mind. He tries his best to live by the example of the cats in his stories, and as such, insists that he doesn’t need their thanks to know he is doing the right thing.
Yet, for all his admirable traits—for all his good-humor and well-intentioned appeal—Thunderpaw is not without his faults, and it is his beliefs in particular that result in more than a fair share of dilemmas in his life.
Abiding strictly to his own personal moral compass, Thunderpaw’s indomitable spirit—while favorable in the face of hardship—can often lead him stubbornly down the wrong path, one that has the potential to harm not only himself but other’s as well, even if it is, in his own mind, the most honorable route. Likewise, in his youth, he is as naïve as they come. Believing in a world that can only exist in stories, he has not been met with the harsh reality of the wilderness beyond ThistleClan’s own borders, and it shows. He holds no grudges or suspicions against any cats who bear clan names and follows the code, and as such, does not view those beyond the border with any wariness. Instead, he chooses to stubbornly view them as his equals and carries a certain, unrealistic optimism and idealism that does not consider past misdeeds. In this way, he is one who is susceptible to manipulation, and it will be a hard road to travel until he realizes that not all cats abide by the same code as he does.
It is not only in his idealism that he leaves himself undefended, however. Thunderpaw is also a cat prone to impulsive tendencies. Racing into the face of danger without thought, there is an almost suicidal energy to Thunderpaw’s tenacity and courage. He does not seem to consider his own wellbeing when he acts—a plethora of nicks and cuts to his person boldly attest of this—and often acts rashly, without consideration for the consequences. This has landed him more than a few times in water too hot for himself to handle, but he seems not to learn from it each time, highlighting a bullheadedness that, some whisper, will lead him to the same sudden death as his father.
Consequently, to feed his voracious appetite, Thunderpaw is incredibly hardworking, especially in pursuit of something he desperately wishes to obtain; be it battle moves or hunting techniques, should it interest him, he will surely pursue it with the avariciousness of a hound on the trail. As a result, despite one of his age, Thunderpaw, beneath his bawdy displays and jovial nature, is a cat with a considerable arsenal of knowledge that only continues to grow. He knows many things, though some would argue they’re of no pertinence to a warrior, and possesses said knowledge with humble pride, especially should he have the opportunity of using it to the benefit of his comrades.
But it would seem knowledge is not the only thing Thunderpaw is partial to; elder tales are also something of great importance to him. Practically nursed on them as a kit, even now Thunderpaw has grown up steeping a great deal of faith in stories of old. Valiant tales of noble warriors and the ancient clans, deeds lost to time but still whispered in the hush of night—it is these stories that Thunderpaw has built the foundation for his character.
As a result, Thunderpaw does everything in his power to present himself as the warriors of legend. He is honorable to a fault, compassionate, and dedicated to his family and their wellbeing—especially now with their mother’s passing. He is of quiet religious adherence, though he speaks little of his beliefs, and as a result, does everything in his power to follow the code his ancestors left behind.
Thunderpaw also harbors an unusual amount of maturity for one of his few moons. With no father figure to learn from, Thunderpaw took it upon himself to fill the role his father had left vacant throughout the entirety of his kithood. He learned how to be independent early—how to entertain and fend for himself—and when his siblings needed him, whether they asked for his help or not, he did his best to be there shoulder to lean on and their protector. Of course, this protectiveness is not always met with gratefulness—especially when it came to his brother Blazingpaw, he more often than not is met with harsh words than those of gratitude—but he hardly seems to mind. He tries his best to live by the example of the cats in his stories, and as such, insists that he doesn’t need their thanks to know he is doing the right thing.
Yet, for all his admirable traits—for all his good-humor and well-intentioned appeal—Thunderpaw is not without his faults, and it is his beliefs in particular that result in more than a fair share of dilemmas in his life.
Abiding strictly to his own personal moral compass, Thunderpaw’s indomitable spirit—while favorable in the face of hardship—can often lead him stubbornly down the wrong path, one that has the potential to harm not only himself but other’s as well, even if it is, in his own mind, the most honorable route. Likewise, in his youth, he is as naïve as they come. Believing in a world that can only exist in stories, he has not been met with the harsh reality of the wilderness beyond ThistleClan’s own borders, and it shows. He holds no grudges or suspicions against any cats who bear clan names and follows the code, and as such, does not view those beyond the border with any wariness. Instead, he chooses to stubbornly view them as his equals and carries a certain, unrealistic optimism and idealism that does not consider past misdeeds. In this way, he is one who is susceptible to manipulation, and it will be a hard road to travel until he realizes that not all cats abide by the same code as he does.
It is not only in his idealism that he leaves himself undefended, however. Thunderpaw is also a cat prone to impulsive tendencies. Racing into the face of danger without thought, there is an almost suicidal energy to Thunderpaw’s tenacity and courage. He does not seem to consider his own wellbeing when he acts—a plethora of nicks and cuts to his person boldly attest of this—and often acts rashly, without consideration for the consequences. This has landed him more than a few times in water too hot for himself to handle, but he seems not to learn from it each time, highlighting a bullheadedness that, some whisper, will lead him to the same sudden death as his father.
History
In truth, they should never have been born when they were; three weeks too soon, they should have stayed in their mother’s womb. And yet, by some will of StarClan, they were born on the cusp of leaf-bare, amidst the biting winds that howled in the canopy and the blankets of harrowing snow. Three of them in all—three kits which, on the dawn following their birth, were dubbed Thunderkit, Sleetkit, and Blazingkit to a she-cat who bore the name Tawnysong and a father long since dead.
Thunderkit never knew his father except in stories. He knew of his valiant acts, of the untimely death and of the rogue that had made a cold and vengeful butchery of him. He knew of his father’s name—the same name that had been entrusted to his runt of a brother Blazingkit, the smallest of the litter. But aside from that, he knew, admittedly less than he would’ve liked. Still, it did little in making him love him less; if anything, it only further enraptured him. Always fond of hearing tales of his father, Thunderpaw quickly developed an insatiable appetite for such stories. He loved to hear of brave warriors, of ancestors lost to time who set the foundation all clans now followed, and as he grew older, he made it his calling to fall into the role of protector, to be the valiant warrior his father had supposedly been—for the sake of his family and the sake of his clan.
And so he did—or at least he did in the best way he could as a kit so young.
Always he was venturing into the heart of camp, rallying his denmates into games of epic proportions. He acted out old battles, he wrestled and ravished every enemy. During that time—that simple time of idle play—he felt invincible, a feeling that he could never quite shake until he became an addiction.
Always he was plotting out some brave feat or organizing some grand battle, and without the support of his mother—herself too busy tending to their feebler brother, she had little time—he grew ever more independent. He learned his battle moves and hunter’s crouch from warriors willing enough to teach him, and once he learned that, he moved on to learn more. Hunting techniques, defensive tactics—with so much to learn he hardly minded during that time the looming absence of his mother. In those days, his mind was focused solely on getting stronger, so strong that he could equal his father and protect his brother and sister like his father, buried deep underground, was no longer able.
By the time he was six moons, just old enough to begin his apprenticeship, Thunderpaw had made a name for himself. He was popular with his denmates for his good humor and fun-loving personality and looked upon with favor by his fellow warriors for his work ethic. And so, when he received his apprentice name, he beamed under the cheers of his clan, his heart light with the possibilities unfolding before him as he took his first steps into warriorhood.
But, only a moon into their training, hardship beset them. Their mother was growing weaker; her body consumed by an unknown illness, when Thunderpaw wasn’t training, he watched helplessly as her strength waned with each passing day until, after a long and hard-fought battle, she passed. It was a sudden and jarring development, one that Thunderpaw had not been prepared for nor considered, but a reality he had to face, and as he and his siblings laid her to rest in the ground, he vowed silently that he would do everything in his power to protect his siblings as she was no longer able to.
Since, Thunderpaw has been haunted by his own mortality. Both of his parents long lost to time, and both gone so young, his training took on a feverish energy. The stories he had once listened to avidly as a kit took on a new purpose: they became his way of coping. He steeped his beliefs in them, in sacrifice and loyalty and bravery, and did everything in his power to replicate the unrealistic image they presented.
To some, it seems foolish—the lingering hopes of a kit who has yet to grow up. To Thunderpaw, it is a necessity. For, should he die, he wishes to do so in such a way that his name becomes one whispered for ages, and so he faces every battle—big and small alike—as if it were his last.
Some say he is on the path of suicide, but even so, he doesn’t mind. He simply wishes to live up to his father’s image and those of those passed, and if doing so means dying, then so be it. Better to blaze through life and leave a path for others to follow than smolder in mediocrity, or so he claims.
Thunderkit never knew his father except in stories. He knew of his valiant acts, of the untimely death and of the rogue that had made a cold and vengeful butchery of him. He knew of his father’s name—the same name that had been entrusted to his runt of a brother Blazingkit, the smallest of the litter. But aside from that, he knew, admittedly less than he would’ve liked. Still, it did little in making him love him less; if anything, it only further enraptured him. Always fond of hearing tales of his father, Thunderpaw quickly developed an insatiable appetite for such stories. He loved to hear of brave warriors, of ancestors lost to time who set the foundation all clans now followed, and as he grew older, he made it his calling to fall into the role of protector, to be the valiant warrior his father had supposedly been—for the sake of his family and the sake of his clan.
And so he did—or at least he did in the best way he could as a kit so young.
Always he was venturing into the heart of camp, rallying his denmates into games of epic proportions. He acted out old battles, he wrestled and ravished every enemy. During that time—that simple time of idle play—he felt invincible, a feeling that he could never quite shake until he became an addiction.
Always he was plotting out some brave feat or organizing some grand battle, and without the support of his mother—herself too busy tending to their feebler brother, she had little time—he grew ever more independent. He learned his battle moves and hunter’s crouch from warriors willing enough to teach him, and once he learned that, he moved on to learn more. Hunting techniques, defensive tactics—with so much to learn he hardly minded during that time the looming absence of his mother. In those days, his mind was focused solely on getting stronger, so strong that he could equal his father and protect his brother and sister like his father, buried deep underground, was no longer able.
By the time he was six moons, just old enough to begin his apprenticeship, Thunderpaw had made a name for himself. He was popular with his denmates for his good humor and fun-loving personality and looked upon with favor by his fellow warriors for his work ethic. And so, when he received his apprentice name, he beamed under the cheers of his clan, his heart light with the possibilities unfolding before him as he took his first steps into warriorhood.
But, only a moon into their training, hardship beset them. Their mother was growing weaker; her body consumed by an unknown illness, when Thunderpaw wasn’t training, he watched helplessly as her strength waned with each passing day until, after a long and hard-fought battle, she passed. It was a sudden and jarring development, one that Thunderpaw had not been prepared for nor considered, but a reality he had to face, and as he and his siblings laid her to rest in the ground, he vowed silently that he would do everything in his power to protect his siblings as she was no longer able to.
Since, Thunderpaw has been haunted by his own mortality. Both of his parents long lost to time, and both gone so young, his training took on a feverish energy. The stories he had once listened to avidly as a kit took on a new purpose: they became his way of coping. He steeped his beliefs in them, in sacrifice and loyalty and bravery, and did everything in his power to replicate the unrealistic image they presented.
To some, it seems foolish—the lingering hopes of a kit who has yet to grow up. To Thunderpaw, it is a necessity. For, should he die, he wishes to do so in such a way that his name becomes one whispered for ages, and so he faces every battle—big and small alike—as if it were his last.
Some say he is on the path of suicide, but even so, he doesn’t mind. He simply wishes to live up to his father’s image and those of those passed, and if doing so means dying, then so be it. Better to blaze through life and leave a path for others to follow than smolder in mediocrity, or so he claims.
