Post by Storm on May 18, 2022 8:27:18 GMT -6
RushBRIAR
Thistleclan
Stout black classic tabby with sage green eyes
warrior
molly
92 moons
Appearance
Short and stout, Rushbriar was born small and stayed that way her entire life. She walks on petite paws that ground short legs. On any other cat they would look silly, but on this molly those wee limbs fit well and carry her wherever she needs to go at a brisk pace. She is a naturally slight, lean cat with a compact frame from head to tail.
She inherited her mother’s black tabby markings and fur – so long as to be absurd, and bushy. As a kit, her father would affectionately call her his little bear cub. The length is not aided by her shortness, and the long fur of her belly and sides often brushes against her surroundings. When sitting or lying she seems to become a single clump of fur, her limbs disappearing and leaving only her heavily furred dark tail to stick out. Her tabby markings grew darker and darker as she became an adult, and now sit heavily on her coat in large blotches. A pretty patch of white sits as decoration upon her throat, reaching up to just below her chin and down onto her chest. Her belly fur is also touched with a white stripe. Her front feet have white toes, which emphasize her dainty paws, and her back legs bear white reaching up past her ankles.
Like all the rest of her, Rushbriar’s head and face are not large. Her tabby markings are strong here, and more thin than the rest of her coat. Long stripes trail backwards from her brows and appear in the exaggerated fur of her cheeks. Her eyes are large, a cheerful shade of green inherited from her father. From the outside corners a single stripe trails from each as though drawn there, accentuating the weight of this experienced molly’s gaze. The shape of her head is triangular and comes to a point in her small tan nose, which sits upon a thin muzzle of white whiskers. Even her ears are petite, with tufts of delicate hair sticking out of them.
Now that she is older and less active, she has developed a bit of a belly, though just how much is hard to say underneath all that fur. Fur that, despite any grooming, is always getting mussed and dirty from brushing against her surroundings. Spend time with this molly, and you’ll find pine needles stuck in your pelt regardless of what you do about it.
She inherited her mother’s black tabby markings and fur – so long as to be absurd, and bushy. As a kit, her father would affectionately call her his little bear cub. The length is not aided by her shortness, and the long fur of her belly and sides often brushes against her surroundings. When sitting or lying she seems to become a single clump of fur, her limbs disappearing and leaving only her heavily furred dark tail to stick out. Her tabby markings grew darker and darker as she became an adult, and now sit heavily on her coat in large blotches. A pretty patch of white sits as decoration upon her throat, reaching up to just below her chin and down onto her chest. Her belly fur is also touched with a white stripe. Her front feet have white toes, which emphasize her dainty paws, and her back legs bear white reaching up past her ankles.
Like all the rest of her, Rushbriar’s head and face are not large. Her tabby markings are strong here, and more thin than the rest of her coat. Long stripes trail backwards from her brows and appear in the exaggerated fur of her cheeks. Her eyes are large, a cheerful shade of green inherited from her father. From the outside corners a single stripe trails from each as though drawn there, accentuating the weight of this experienced molly’s gaze. The shape of her head is triangular and comes to a point in her small tan nose, which sits upon a thin muzzle of white whiskers. Even her ears are petite, with tufts of delicate hair sticking out of them.
Now that she is older and less active, she has developed a bit of a belly, though just how much is hard to say underneath all that fur. Fur that, despite any grooming, is always getting mussed and dirty from brushing against her surroundings. Spend time with this molly, and you’ll find pine needles stuck in your pelt regardless of what you do about it.
Personality
FEISTY – CLEVER – WITTY – KIND – GRUMPY – INSECURE
This molly is a spit-fire. She is determined once her mind is made up, and will put all her wit and will to the test to accomplish her goals and get what she wants. She isn’t afraid to stand up for herself, a lifetime of hardships have reinforced her confidence in herself.
Rushbriar is a good problem solver. Her mind moves quickly to overcome any obstacle she might face, whether it be with action or words.
From her days as a kit to now being a senior warrior, Rushbriar has only honed her ability to have amusingly funny comebacks and jokes. Now in her older moons, she has incorporated this gift into telling stories. Which she does happily, adoring – even if she’d never admit it – seeing kits enjoy the stories of her life and beyond.
She doesn’t care for being confronted with her own benevolent acts. In the past, that would have been a courageous act during battle to protect another. These days, it’s making sure the nests in camp are comfortable and the queens and kits are safe.
Rushbriar is grouchy in her old age. Starclan protect any cat that wakes her from a nap, or interrupts one of her stories. She is irritable at the best of times, and quick to lash out with an ill word at the cat that displeases her.
Though age and experience have tempered Rushbriar’s confidence in herself, inside she is still subject to the doubts and insecurities that were thrown in her face when she was younger. The only difference now is that she is an older cat that demands respect, and if it means a claw to the ear of another cat, she’ll get it.
History
Born several leaf-bares after the last time twolegs flooded the island in Greenleaf, Rushkit was the only she-cat in a litter of three. Their mother was a small molly and the kits followed suit, but none were smaller than Rushkit. Her mother told her stories of friendlier weather and a lower shoreline, but Rushkit didn’t really know what any of it meant. Wasn’t the world always the way it was now? And in the nursery, it never occurred to her that her size and length of fur would be any kind of hindrance. She enjoyed sneaking about on her tiny paws and getting the jump on her more clumsy brothers. It was only once she ventured out into the wider world that she realized just how big everything was.
By the time she was made an apprentice Rushpaw had grown a prickly side in defense to the remarks cats would make about her appearance. For all that she was a fit young cat, her fur made her look plump and stumpy – and therefore the object of many jokes. Froststar recognized this issue and named a senior warrior as her mentor – the older tom was experienced and quick-witted. He helped Rushpaw learn how best to use her small size to her advantage. Not to mention, helped her learn to brush off the opinions of other cats – which was a hard task. For every day that he taught her a lesson in being the more fair-minded cat, she was faced with jokes from the other apprentices her age. Her two brothers did their best to aid her, but they didn’t face the same ridicule. For while they were lean toms, they had shorter fur. This ongoing issue helped to hone Rushpaw’s words, the need to respond to mockery driving her to become well-spoken and sly.
It was on an ordinary day that Rushpaw was sent out hunting with Tallpaw as company. A long-bodied grey tom with eyes a startling dark amber, he was several moons older than she and at the end of his time as an apprentice. In fact he would be named Tallflood by the full moon. At first Rushpaw was on guard, she didn’t know the tom well and he was quiet in a way the other apprentices rarely were. But his compliment once she’d caught a mouse surprised her, and he didn’t throw a mean comment about her fur the entire time they were out of camp. From then on, Rushpaw had a friend in camp. Though their time together was limited once he became a warrior, it was nice to know that she wasn’t alone.
Rushbriar, she was named. And though some doubted due to the size of her paws and shortness of her legs, she dug herself a cozy den on the eve of her naming that hid every plume of her wild fur.
Her first few seasons as a warrior met Thistleclan mid expansion and dealing with trouble. No twolegs meant no twoleg pets, and the clan had been steadily expanding outwards into territory previously untouchable for season after season. Battles with rogues weren’t uncommon, and Rushbriar proved her capabilities time and time again clashing with the lawless cats. Not only that, but the threat of a fox was never far away, and warrior patrols stepped warily and in higher numbers to deal with the threat. Her first scar was given to her by a fox who sliced her flank deeply during an ambushed hunting patrol. The wound left her napping in the medicine cat’s den for many sunrises, and limping for many more after that. But her dedication to the clan was proven in this time, and the rude comments about her bushy fur slowly ceased.
Here too, Tallflood’s unwavering character showed itself. The tom was quick to bring her fresh-kill, and help her exercise. Once she was better their friendship continued, closer than ever. The two chose to link their dens together in preparation for the cold leaf-bare that was on the way. Finally, alone together one moonrise beneath the softly swaying pines Tallflood professed his love to her. It was what she had secretly hoped, but been too afraid to ask for – worries over her appearance still harried her private thoughts. But when Tallflood nuzzled her fur and called her beautiful, she knew he meant it.
Kits didn’t come until several leaf-bares later, once both of them were more seasoned warriors and less eager to go charging off on every patrol or battle party. Three kits born on the cusp of Greenleaf, perfect little ones for her to purr her love into while Tallflood cuddled her close. From then on whatever hardships the clan faced, Rushbriar knew that she wouldn’t face them alone. And that gave her a pride and a fury to match any threat.
Her time as a warrior was not idly spent, Rushbriar was given first one apprentice, and then another. A line of them marked her rise to seniority among the clan.
It was Cherrybite that Rushbriar bonded closest with. The two she-cats shared a prickly nature and an unwillingness to be considered less than they were. The molly won Rushbriar over as an apprentice, upon witnessing her stand up for herself easily to others her age. Rushbriar taught her apprentice all she knew, until the day came for her to make her own den. From there, the two seemed destined to share a long friendship.
The opposite could be said for Sparkspirit. It was not the tom’s size, or coloration, nor even his character that drew her ire. It was his very birth that bothered her. She had spent all the seasons of her life fighting rogues, and to have a cat within her clan that bore such blood was an insult to all the work she had done as a warrior. To have to teach the little tom? Was Thievingstar mocking her? Well, she would go on to do her duty as a mentor and teach Sparkpaw, but she would not hold her tongue about her unhappiness.
It wasn’t until moons later, when sickness fell upon the clan and rising waters drove them out of the home she’d always known that Rushbriar really knew the depths of true fear. She and Tallflood were both sickly, huddling together beneath the Great Owl Tree. Were she not so weak, she would have yowled to the sky at the horror of it. Instead, she curled close to Tallflood and they murmured of their love to each other between coughs. Finally they slept, with hope for the morning in their hearts.
When she woke, it was alone. For while Tallflood’s body remained, his spirit had gone – up, to join the stars he’d once whispered his love to her beneath so long ago. Outwardly, Rushbriar mourned his loss for moons. Even after Thistleclan reclaimed their camp and she took on the long task of making her old den feel like home again, she was withdrawn from most cats. Inwardly, Rushbriar will miss her mate for all the long moons of her life.
These days, Rushbriar has embraced her age and the weariness of such a full life. She spends most of her time in camp, a warrior with one eye trained on becoming an elder. She sunbathes and occasionally hunts, and is more than happy to watch kits or apprentices for an opportunity to tell them the stories of the clan. She has a penchant for inspecting dens and, if one is to her liking, leaving some nice moss or sweet smelling plants as a present for the next time the cat comes home. She thinks she does it sneakily, but it’s a well-known secret in the camp due to the pine needles that are always stuck in her fur which she leaves in her wake.
By the time she was made an apprentice Rushpaw had grown a prickly side in defense to the remarks cats would make about her appearance. For all that she was a fit young cat, her fur made her look plump and stumpy – and therefore the object of many jokes. Froststar recognized this issue and named a senior warrior as her mentor – the older tom was experienced and quick-witted. He helped Rushpaw learn how best to use her small size to her advantage. Not to mention, helped her learn to brush off the opinions of other cats – which was a hard task. For every day that he taught her a lesson in being the more fair-minded cat, she was faced with jokes from the other apprentices her age. Her two brothers did their best to aid her, but they didn’t face the same ridicule. For while they were lean toms, they had shorter fur. This ongoing issue helped to hone Rushpaw’s words, the need to respond to mockery driving her to become well-spoken and sly.
It was on an ordinary day that Rushpaw was sent out hunting with Tallpaw as company. A long-bodied grey tom with eyes a startling dark amber, he was several moons older than she and at the end of his time as an apprentice. In fact he would be named Tallflood by the full moon. At first Rushpaw was on guard, she didn’t know the tom well and he was quiet in a way the other apprentices rarely were. But his compliment once she’d caught a mouse surprised her, and he didn’t throw a mean comment about her fur the entire time they were out of camp. From then on, Rushpaw had a friend in camp. Though their time together was limited once he became a warrior, it was nice to know that she wasn’t alone.
Rushbriar, she was named. And though some doubted due to the size of her paws and shortness of her legs, she dug herself a cozy den on the eve of her naming that hid every plume of her wild fur.
Her first few seasons as a warrior met Thistleclan mid expansion and dealing with trouble. No twolegs meant no twoleg pets, and the clan had been steadily expanding outwards into territory previously untouchable for season after season. Battles with rogues weren’t uncommon, and Rushbriar proved her capabilities time and time again clashing with the lawless cats. Not only that, but the threat of a fox was never far away, and warrior patrols stepped warily and in higher numbers to deal with the threat. Her first scar was given to her by a fox who sliced her flank deeply during an ambushed hunting patrol. The wound left her napping in the medicine cat’s den for many sunrises, and limping for many more after that. But her dedication to the clan was proven in this time, and the rude comments about her bushy fur slowly ceased.
Here too, Tallflood’s unwavering character showed itself. The tom was quick to bring her fresh-kill, and help her exercise. Once she was better their friendship continued, closer than ever. The two chose to link their dens together in preparation for the cold leaf-bare that was on the way. Finally, alone together one moonrise beneath the softly swaying pines Tallflood professed his love to her. It was what she had secretly hoped, but been too afraid to ask for – worries over her appearance still harried her private thoughts. But when Tallflood nuzzled her fur and called her beautiful, she knew he meant it.
Kits didn’t come until several leaf-bares later, once both of them were more seasoned warriors and less eager to go charging off on every patrol or battle party. Three kits born on the cusp of Greenleaf, perfect little ones for her to purr her love into while Tallflood cuddled her close. From then on whatever hardships the clan faced, Rushbriar knew that she wouldn’t face them alone. And that gave her a pride and a fury to match any threat.
Her time as a warrior was not idly spent, Rushbriar was given first one apprentice, and then another. A line of them marked her rise to seniority among the clan.
It was Cherrybite that Rushbriar bonded closest with. The two she-cats shared a prickly nature and an unwillingness to be considered less than they were. The molly won Rushbriar over as an apprentice, upon witnessing her stand up for herself easily to others her age. Rushbriar taught her apprentice all she knew, until the day came for her to make her own den. From there, the two seemed destined to share a long friendship.
The opposite could be said for Sparkspirit. It was not the tom’s size, or coloration, nor even his character that drew her ire. It was his very birth that bothered her. She had spent all the seasons of her life fighting rogues, and to have a cat within her clan that bore such blood was an insult to all the work she had done as a warrior. To have to teach the little tom? Was Thievingstar mocking her? Well, she would go on to do her duty as a mentor and teach Sparkpaw, but she would not hold her tongue about her unhappiness.
It wasn’t until moons later, when sickness fell upon the clan and rising waters drove them out of the home she’d always known that Rushbriar really knew the depths of true fear. She and Tallflood were both sickly, huddling together beneath the Great Owl Tree. Were she not so weak, she would have yowled to the sky at the horror of it. Instead, she curled close to Tallflood and they murmured of their love to each other between coughs. Finally they slept, with hope for the morning in their hearts.
When she woke, it was alone. For while Tallflood’s body remained, his spirit had gone – up, to join the stars he’d once whispered his love to her beneath so long ago. Outwardly, Rushbriar mourned his loss for moons. Even after Thistleclan reclaimed their camp and she took on the long task of making her old den feel like home again, she was withdrawn from most cats. Inwardly, Rushbriar will miss her mate for all the long moons of her life.
These days, Rushbriar has embraced her age and the weariness of such a full life. She spends most of her time in camp, a warrior with one eye trained on becoming an elder. She sunbathes and occasionally hunts, and is more than happy to watch kits or apprentices for an opportunity to tell them the stories of the clan. She has a penchant for inspecting dens and, if one is to her liking, leaving some nice moss or sweet smelling plants as a present for the next time the cat comes home. She thinks she does it sneakily, but it’s a well-known secret in the camp due to the pine needles that are always stuck in her fur which she leaves in her wake.
