Post by soot on Mar 27, 2022 2:15:48 GMT -6
Laurel From Where Raven Perches
Tribe of Floating Stones
Long-furred black tom with pale eyes and long, hooked claws.
prey hunter
cisgender male
(he/him)
(he/him)
forty-seven moons
Appearance
Sleek, feathery coat, average height and angular features. Bit of a wimpy build to him, though his paws are deft and never fail when he fishes. Wind-tousled fur that gives a rugged appeal if not for it having to contest with his gloomy face and unapproachable aura. Laurel is neither the most attractive or unattractive cat in his ranks. For lack of better phrasing, he is rather plain. Toned and lean from moons of working as a lithe hunter, Laurel finds no problem chasing down the rogue squirrel or nimbly clawing up a tree after birds, but to ask him to attempt anything with more fight than a rabbit would be a fool’s ask. Laurel thanks the Tribe of Endless Hunting for giving him the secret to his success. His claws are long and hooked and he bears them proudly.
Laurel boasts a jet black pelt with a singular smattering of white on his chest. Even his nose is dark in color. His fur frames his face and body in such a way that may suggest he shares a bulkier build like his cousin, Burrow, but rather, it is merely the way it sits. He shares the unusual traits that few of his other tribemates do. Ear tufts, a plumed tail, strong face. Compared to the orientals in the tribe, who naturally come in sharp, jutting shapes, he almost appears soft-looking.
After being part of Fog’s patrols to drive out the coyotes and bearing the brunt of that loss, Laurel finds his hindleg still presents some issues on occurrence, under thick wefts of fur finds scarrage from where the beast sank its teeth into him.
Laurel boasts a jet black pelt with a singular smattering of white on his chest. Even his nose is dark in color. His fur frames his face and body in such a way that may suggest he shares a bulkier build like his cousin, Burrow, but rather, it is merely the way it sits. He shares the unusual traits that few of his other tribemates do. Ear tufts, a plumed tail, strong face. Compared to the orientals in the tribe, who naturally come in sharp, jutting shapes, he almost appears soft-looking.
Laurel’s resting face is something of a disinterested glower thanks to his harsh features. With sweeping whiskers and a seemingly permanent frown, it’s not hard to see why. His eyes are pale in color, almost gray, and round in shape.
His voice is flat and monotonous. He smells of cloying balsam as he frequently hunts in the boreal forest to make use of his pelt’s darkness and he keeps leaves of the same in his den
351
Laurel boasts a jet black pelt with a singular smattering of white on his chest. Even his nose is dark in color. His fur frames his face and body in such a way that may suggest he shares a bulkier build like his cousin, Burrow, but rather, it is merely the way it sits. He shares the unusual traits that few of his other tribemates do. Ear tufts, a plumed tail, strong face. Compared to the orientals in the tribe, who naturally come in sharp, jutting shapes, he almost appears soft-looking.
After being part of Fog’s patrols to drive out the coyotes and bearing the brunt of that loss, Laurel finds his hindleg still presents some issues on occurrence, under thick wefts of fur finds scarrage from where the beast sank its teeth into him.
Laurel boasts a jet black pelt with a singular smattering of white on his chest. Even his nose is dark in color. His fur frames his face and body in such a way that may suggest he shares a bulkier build like his cousin, Burrow, but rather, it is merely the way it sits. He shares the unusual traits that few of his other tribemates do. Ear tufts, a plumed tail, strong face. Compared to the orientals in the tribe, who naturally come in sharp, jutting shapes, he almost appears soft-looking.
Laurel’s resting face is something of a disinterested glower thanks to his harsh features. With sweeping whiskers and a seemingly permanent frown, it’s not hard to see why. His eyes are pale in color, almost gray, and round in shape.
His voice is flat and monotonous. He smells of cloying balsam as he frequently hunts in the boreal forest to make use of his pelt’s darkness and he keeps leaves of the same in his den
351
Personality
+ perfectionist, gentle, melancholic, clever
- mysterious, self-serving, unsociable, competitive
Laurel From Where Raven Perches, upon first inspection, is an oddity by tribe standards. Not physically, as there are a handful of other dark-furred toms in the tribe, but that he has an othering aura about him. He lives far from the common spaces, he’s quiet on patrols, and has definitely been seen talking to plants and rocks on at least three separate occasions.
As a prey-hunter, he puts much of himself into his work, having been raised to never do anything sloppily or messily. Wind, the bolder of his mothers, lived by the idea of measure twice, cut once and so the refusal to do anything half-heartedly has been ingrained in him. He applies this to all that he does, making him someone who does not make decisions lightly. He mulls over things, pores over them. Laurel, by his own hand, created his isolatedness. With the perceived and literal distance from the others that he’s crafted, his mind would be idle if not for how he broods and ponders in his lonesome. This has resulted in something of a minor superiority complex.
So much time alone has made him something of an awkward conversationalist and someone who flounders in large social settings. Laurel can handle solo conversations fine and not struggle too badly, but poorly developed emotional and social intelligence leave him lost when it comes to anything more. Lack of these skills leave him to appear self-serving and apathetic, for he stumbles through any conversation that goes beyond his wheelhouse. Feeling out of his element makes him feel uncomfortable and therefore, he avoids the issue altogether.
Despite his quietness and near reclusiveness, Laurel is not of a grisly nor grim nature. Elusive, maybe, but under his melancholy lies someone who really was cut out for hunting work. Gentle with his words and touch, Laurel has a fondness for the tribe’s youth and wishes to see more kits born to the tribe. When to-bes look for cats to shadow, he pretends as though they are such a burden, but in reality he takes great pride in teaching, enjoys it even. He shows his love for the tribe in other such similar ways: chases pests from clusters of herbs, pays nature a great deal of respect and fosters a strong belief in the Tribe of Endless Hunting.
Laurel, like any of his fellow hunters, enjoys the challenge and thrill of the occasional big game hunt, though he finds the task of having to approach Sunrise to request he be part of them something of an arduous one. Despite being so withdrawn, within him lies a good-natured competitive streak. Though it takes a bit of prodding for him to give in, Laurel loves a good challenge, like any of his tribemates and secretly, he thinks it is a fun test of skill and cooperation. There is no greater feeling of success than that of assisting in bringing down a bigger catch, in his mind.
493
History
It was a terrible Leaf-Bare night when Moon Who Shimmers Upon Serene Sea turned to her mate, Chilling Wind Which Blows From Cloud, and told her it was happening. Moon was well-liked by the tribe, optimistic, openly loving. Wind was someone who was always willing to lend a hand, always had a joke ready to be told. Wind was a stone guard and Moon a prey hunter who had longed for children. They found a willing surrogate and Moon’s dreams were brought to fruition in the form of a single kit. Alone by birth, but otherwise strong and healthy.
When Laurel was born, in the dead of that terrible night, his vision caused the teller a great fright, enough so that his mothers were worried it was a sign their only son may not even survive the night, despite his outwardly healthy appearance. The teller arrived shortly after Moon began kitting.
‘And ?’ came the ever impatient meow of Wind, beckoning the teller closer so to better peer down at the small, wiggling kit. ‘What do you see ?’ Her tail curling around him, adoringly and eager to bestow upon him a name, only hushed back to fidgeting silence by Moon, who looks as though she is barely any more patient.
‘I see a bush, a laurel…’ And the teller shook and with a sudden jerk, spoke of what had been given for the child. ‘A great, mighty bird crouching in its empty branches.’ And the teller’s voice rose, leaving Wind and Moon with suddenly stricken, pallored faces. ‘With terrible, knowing eyes, it is watching.’ And that was that. A bush with no leaves, a large haunting bird and the hope that the two newly-made mothers might piece together a name out of that.
And when it was all said and done, Moon calmly thanked the teller and the pair was left with their son, marked so ominously by such a foreboding vision. By the time the sun began to rise, the two she-cats were exhausted and had finally decided to name their son. Laurel From Where Raven Perches. They did not know yet that he’d grow into a lanky build like that of a tree rather than the squat stature of a bush, but ‘Laurel’ came from the white locket as Moon suggested it looked like that of the petals of laurel flowers, like perhaps he had been born adorned with them. Wind was the one who suggested the rest of the wording.
‘Darling, I love you, but we are not naming our son Raven Who Watches All.’
‘It’s a name of power dear! Imagine him as a stone guard-’
‘Absolutely not.’
So they spun the name together, choosing to pretend as though the singular smattering was something akin to a sign from above. Moon, ever the optimist, said perhaps it was a sign from her own late mother, named Blossom, that she was still with her.
The two of them had been supporters of Rain, sympathetical to the illness that plagued her, and when she’d passed, they grew to see Creek skeptically. Laurel did not spend much of his time as a child with his peers, instead he watched, as had been foretold, from the mouth of his mothers’ den as the other kits played. He could never be convinced to go out and join them, much to the dismay of Moon. Eventually, his mothers accepted he preferred this distance.
As a to-be, Laurel was no different. He stuck firmly to the sides of a few select prey hunters and when assigned to stone guard duty, his early few fumblings made it clear quickly that he was better suited to the latter. It was no shock when he became a fledgling prey hunter and even less when he graduates right on time and settles into his duties quickly and quietly.
But there has not been a moment of rest for the Tribe of Floating Stones in many, many moons and Laurel watches as coyotes descend, the second wave of sickness claims his mothers, a patrol heads out one day and when they finally return, speak of clans and strange herbs. Truthfully, there is a lot one cat can excuse, but after so much following Creek’s passing and Fog taking up his role….Laurel is beginning to wonder if perhaps these events are not entirely simple misfortune but rather clear and direct signs that their way of life is in jeopardy under such miserable leadership.
Once his mothers passed, he went north, with no fear for the omens and ill-spoken lands. His den lays on the outskirts of the shoreline, nestled between the ominous rocky outcroppings and plunging cliffs. Between these especially large rocks, lies an old, weather-and-sea-worn log. Laurel’s den. He takes great care in his den, as he does most things, and those who dare to seek him out will find his den is gloomy at best, with feathers of his namesake for his nest and the cloying scent of balsam. His peers regard him as strange, but so long as he pulls his weight, he is never given more than a second glance.
In his time, Laurel engages in a handful of flings, but they go nowhere and he remains a loner, pondering the faraway island where they say other cats lurk with the most backwards of ways. He watches disease sweep the island and grows skeptical of Fog’s rule.
After the disastrous patrol led by the former-Teller, Laurel becomes more involved in tribe politics, finding footholds in conversations as famine and fires continue to befall the tribe. He watches as Sumac rises to power and begins to set things “right” by ordering stone-guards to eat last, casting out dissenters. Eventually, he works his way into the new Teller’s inner circle and finds power in being among those who are tasked with providing punishments and warnings and order in the tribe as more and more cats begin to rebel and speak out against Sumac.
Laurel grows close to the tom, forming a bond beyond political loyalty and support, finding rapport and solace in an understanding, like-minded cat…at the expense of growing wary of his fellow prey-hunter Fire. Prior to this, Laurel and her had been allies and on good terms, but perhaps a growing feeling of jealousy may tarnish that.
1,052
When Laurel was born, in the dead of that terrible night, his vision caused the teller a great fright, enough so that his mothers were worried it was a sign their only son may not even survive the night, despite his outwardly healthy appearance. The teller arrived shortly after Moon began kitting.
‘And ?’ came the ever impatient meow of Wind, beckoning the teller closer so to better peer down at the small, wiggling kit. ‘What do you see ?’ Her tail curling around him, adoringly and eager to bestow upon him a name, only hushed back to fidgeting silence by Moon, who looks as though she is barely any more patient.
‘I see a bush, a laurel…’ And the teller shook and with a sudden jerk, spoke of what had been given for the child. ‘A great, mighty bird crouching in its empty branches.’ And the teller’s voice rose, leaving Wind and Moon with suddenly stricken, pallored faces. ‘With terrible, knowing eyes, it is watching.’ And that was that. A bush with no leaves, a large haunting bird and the hope that the two newly-made mothers might piece together a name out of that.
And when it was all said and done, Moon calmly thanked the teller and the pair was left with their son, marked so ominously by such a foreboding vision. By the time the sun began to rise, the two she-cats were exhausted and had finally decided to name their son. Laurel From Where Raven Perches. They did not know yet that he’d grow into a lanky build like that of a tree rather than the squat stature of a bush, but ‘Laurel’ came from the white locket as Moon suggested it looked like that of the petals of laurel flowers, like perhaps he had been born adorned with them. Wind was the one who suggested the rest of the wording.
‘Darling, I love you, but we are not naming our son Raven Who Watches All.’
‘It’s a name of power dear! Imagine him as a stone guard-’
‘Absolutely not.’
So they spun the name together, choosing to pretend as though the singular smattering was something akin to a sign from above. Moon, ever the optimist, said perhaps it was a sign from her own late mother, named Blossom, that she was still with her.
The two of them had been supporters of Rain, sympathetical to the illness that plagued her, and when she’d passed, they grew to see Creek skeptically. Laurel did not spend much of his time as a child with his peers, instead he watched, as had been foretold, from the mouth of his mothers’ den as the other kits played. He could never be convinced to go out and join them, much to the dismay of Moon. Eventually, his mothers accepted he preferred this distance.
As a to-be, Laurel was no different. He stuck firmly to the sides of a few select prey hunters and when assigned to stone guard duty, his early few fumblings made it clear quickly that he was better suited to the latter. It was no shock when he became a fledgling prey hunter and even less when he graduates right on time and settles into his duties quickly and quietly.
But there has not been a moment of rest for the Tribe of Floating Stones in many, many moons and Laurel watches as coyotes descend, the second wave of sickness claims his mothers, a patrol heads out one day and when they finally return, speak of clans and strange herbs. Truthfully, there is a lot one cat can excuse, but after so much following Creek’s passing and Fog taking up his role….Laurel is beginning to wonder if perhaps these events are not entirely simple misfortune but rather clear and direct signs that their way of life is in jeopardy under such miserable leadership.
Once his mothers passed, he went north, with no fear for the omens and ill-spoken lands. His den lays on the outskirts of the shoreline, nestled between the ominous rocky outcroppings and plunging cliffs. Between these especially large rocks, lies an old, weather-and-sea-worn log. Laurel’s den. He takes great care in his den, as he does most things, and those who dare to seek him out will find his den is gloomy at best, with feathers of his namesake for his nest and the cloying scent of balsam. His peers regard him as strange, but so long as he pulls his weight, he is never given more than a second glance.
In his time, Laurel engages in a handful of flings, but they go nowhere and he remains a loner, pondering the faraway island where they say other cats lurk with the most backwards of ways. He watches disease sweep the island and grows skeptical of Fog’s rule.
After the disastrous patrol led by the former-Teller, Laurel becomes more involved in tribe politics, finding footholds in conversations as famine and fires continue to befall the tribe. He watches as Sumac rises to power and begins to set things “right” by ordering stone-guards to eat last, casting out dissenters. Eventually, he works his way into the new Teller’s inner circle and finds power in being among those who are tasked with providing punishments and warnings and order in the tribe as more and more cats begin to rebel and speak out against Sumac.
Laurel grows close to the tom, forming a bond beyond political loyalty and support, finding rapport and solace in an understanding, like-minded cat…at the expense of growing wary of his fellow prey-hunter Fire. Prior to this, Laurel and her had been allies and on good terms, but perhaps a growing feeling of jealousy may tarnish that.
1,052
total wc: 1,896
