Post by Storm on Jun 7, 2022 22:18:46 GMT -6
Woodfrost
Redwoodclan
striking all black tom with pale jade eyes
Warrior
tom
74 moons
Appearance
Woodfrost is strong, and he knows it. As do his enemies. His body seems formed for the battles which he so readily takes part in. Long bodied and tall limbed, Woodfrost towers over others like the trees from which his clan takes it’s name. One might think he would be willowy and slim given his height. Not so. This tom is heavy, a lifetime of holding himself to rigorous training has built corded muscle that sit like stone on his hefty frame. Evident with every heavy, stalking step he takes. His long legs aid him in climbing the wide trees, the thick muscle keeping him swift enough to chase down his enemies. He takes pride in his form, including his terribly cruel claws. Too long to sheathe fully, their ends stick out even from his wide paws and he often sharpens them on a favorite redwood trunk in camp.
Born of his tortoiseshell mother, Woodfrost was the only kit to bear her darker coloring. As a kit his black fur was round and fluffy, like a little bear cub. But as he grew his fur lengthened and took on a healthy sheen until it glimmered like bird feathers. The ruff of his neck became a glorious mane, dramatic and thick from his chin down to his front legs. His tail is long, and often appears as a single thick plume due him holding it high as he walks. During Greenleaf in the warm sunlight, his coat will show it’s hidden bister tint. In bare-leaf his entire coat thickens and rounds until he looks like a bear again.
This tom’s face is distinctive. His skull is triangular, with a straight nose sitting on an elongated muzzle spattered with black whiskers. His forehead is tall and capped with larger than average ears, which have long tufts of fur both within them and sticking from the tips. His chin is well pronounced, providing him a strong profile. He uses his remarkably pale green eyes as another weapon in his repertoire, for they are remarkably offset by the darkness of his face and can make one feel uneasy when settled unblinkingly on their target. Combined with his long-furred cheeks and his mighty ruff, Woodfrost is handsome and possesses a regal air.
Born of his tortoiseshell mother, Woodfrost was the only kit to bear her darker coloring. As a kit his black fur was round and fluffy, like a little bear cub. But as he grew his fur lengthened and took on a healthy sheen until it glimmered like bird feathers. The ruff of his neck became a glorious mane, dramatic and thick from his chin down to his front legs. His tail is long, and often appears as a single thick plume due him holding it high as he walks. During Greenleaf in the warm sunlight, his coat will show it’s hidden bister tint. In bare-leaf his entire coat thickens and rounds until he looks like a bear again.
This tom’s face is distinctive. His skull is triangular, with a straight nose sitting on an elongated muzzle spattered with black whiskers. His forehead is tall and capped with larger than average ears, which have long tufts of fur both within them and sticking from the tips. His chin is well pronounced, providing him a strong profile. He uses his remarkably pale green eyes as another weapon in his repertoire, for they are remarkably offset by the darkness of his face and can make one feel uneasy when settled unblinkingly on their target. Combined with his long-furred cheeks and his mighty ruff, Woodfrost is handsome and possesses a regal air.
Personality
INDEPENDENTLY RESOURCEFUL - CONFIDENT - BRAVE - CALM - COLD - CRITICAL - SINISTER
Woodfrost is able to deal with any challenge or new situation easily and independently. He doesn't have difficulty finding solutions and will look within himself for answers before going to another for help. As he has grown older and more experienced this has developed further.
This tom is excessively confident and comfortable in his own skin. This is especially apparent when one spends any prolonged time with him, as he is used to taking control of the dynamic between himself and another. He has strong beliefs centered around the clan and his role in it, not to mention the roles of other cats. He cannot be swayed through other’s actions or words. He often feels no need to even seek out the opinions of other cats, as he knows what their thoughts will be.
Whatever his thoughts about any of his clan mates, they are his clan mates. And that means that Woodfrost will stop at nothing to protect them no matter the danger. His fearlessness is not born of fiery courage, but more a chilling acceptance of what he must do to protect his clan which he faces head on and without regret.
He can remain cool and collected even in the midst of chaos, when his actions or decisions are needed. This makes him a frightening force in battles and a natural leader in emergencies when other cats flee or freeze in panic and fear.
Woodfrost’s demeanor can be described as cold. Which is true, he is not a cat that is open with his emotions and uses his frosty disposition to keep others at bay. It takes a cat with great perseverance to grow close to him and learn his true emotions, which burn like frostbite deep in his chest.
He is inclined to judge others with severity upon first impressions, as experience has taught him that he’s often correct. Should he find fault, this will inform any decision he makes about the other cat from thereon out. If the judgement is heinous enough, he will not be shy about sharing his criticisms.
Given the way he carries himself and his manner of speech, Woodfrost usually comes off as a threatening figure. There is an ominous air to the way he carries himself and a wicked gleam reflected in his enigmatic pale eyes. This often means that cats with less stern constitutions will be outright scared of him, while more strong-natured cats regard him as a threat. Lucky, for the cats in his own clan. Foreboding for those that are not.
Woodfrost is able to deal with any challenge or new situation easily and independently. He doesn't have difficulty finding solutions and will look within himself for answers before going to another for help. As he has grown older and more experienced this has developed further.
This tom is excessively confident and comfortable in his own skin. This is especially apparent when one spends any prolonged time with him, as he is used to taking control of the dynamic between himself and another. He has strong beliefs centered around the clan and his role in it, not to mention the roles of other cats. He cannot be swayed through other’s actions or words. He often feels no need to even seek out the opinions of other cats, as he knows what their thoughts will be.
Whatever his thoughts about any of his clan mates, they are his clan mates. And that means that Woodfrost will stop at nothing to protect them no matter the danger. His fearlessness is not born of fiery courage, but more a chilling acceptance of what he must do to protect his clan which he faces head on and without regret.
He can remain cool and collected even in the midst of chaos, when his actions or decisions are needed. This makes him a frightening force in battles and a natural leader in emergencies when other cats flee or freeze in panic and fear.
Woodfrost’s demeanor can be described as cold. Which is true, he is not a cat that is open with his emotions and uses his frosty disposition to keep others at bay. It takes a cat with great perseverance to grow close to him and learn his true emotions, which burn like frostbite deep in his chest.
He is inclined to judge others with severity upon first impressions, as experience has taught him that he’s often correct. Should he find fault, this will inform any decision he makes about the other cat from thereon out. If the judgement is heinous enough, he will not be shy about sharing his criticisms.
Given the way he carries himself and his manner of speech, Woodfrost usually comes off as a threatening figure. There is an ominous air to the way he carries himself and a wicked gleam reflected in his enigmatic pale eyes. This often means that cats with less stern constitutions will be outright scared of him, while more strong-natured cats regard him as a threat. Lucky, for the cats in his own clan. Foreboding for those that are not.
History
There is nothing more chilling to an enemy, than an opponent that knows his own ability.
Even as a mewling kit still clutching to Sycamoretail’s belly, Woodkit knew to trust his instincts. His father Foxfire was distant. His visits rare and his actions rehearsed. Less the proud father and more playing the part of one. Woodkit wasn’t a fool and couldn’t stomach his father treating him like one. Foxfire was hiding something. But even though he was young, Woodkit had more pressing concerns than thinking about his father’s failings. His mother was ever-present and fierce in her motherhood. She filled his days with her teachings. He soaked up not only the knowledge she imparted but the intensity of her emotions the ferocity of her actions. He buried both deeply to build a wellspring of knowledge and strength that he would come to rely on later in his life. In this way, Sycamoretail secured her legacy.
While he was still young, he bit another queen’s tail so hard it bled during play. The queen was shocked and admonished him, telling him to learn his own strength. Before the kit could say a thing, Sycamore laughed and pulled him close. Grooming him and purring contentedly, she called him her little champion.
At the same time, Woodkit laid the foundations of his relationship with his siblings. Woodkit enjoyed playing with his brother Gingerkit, who was boisterous and recklessly happy to get into any trouble. Woodkit did not share his impulsiveness, but the two brothers got on well. As for Marigoldkit, there would be no love lost between them. It didn’t escape Woodkit that she was fascinated by their father. There was an inherent weakness within her insecurity, to want the attention of one so clearly uninterested in them. He refused to play with her, and showed no interest in spending time with her.
At six moons he was made Woodpaw and apprenticed to a soft-hearted molly, Dovestream. He had hoped to have a competent fighter as a mentor, a cat that would see his strength and know exactly how to draw out his talents to make him a frightening adversary. Instead he soon realized that there was no such cat to be had, least of all Dovestream. Woodpaw knew that if he continued on the path she set for him, he would be just as weak. It couldn’t be allowed. Every chance he got, the young tom trained alone and in secret. It was strenuous, taxing. He should have been exhausted at the extra work he set himself. Instead, learning how to move swiftly and strike with fury invigorated him down to the marrow of his bones. He woke every sunrise stronger than the last.
But it was not only physical training that he took part in. Sycamoretail’s skill at teaching him and Foxfire’s ineptitude at hiding his failings had shown Woodpaw that there were more ways to protect oneself than in battle. He would need to hone his language skills. It started innocently enough, talking to the older cats and learning to read their emotions by more than just their body language, but the subtle tones of their voices and the pause between words. He soon realized that most cats were so…transparent. It didn’t take long for him to start testing new methods. As it would turn out, most cats grew uneasy under the intensity of his pale gaze, particularly when he let silence breath. He found that speaking slowly and more quietly meant he was more closely listened to. More tricks were discovered, much to his satisfaction. No one, least of all Foxfire, would ever be able to manipulate him with their words,
By the time he reached his twelfth moon, Woodpaw knew that he was ready to be a warrior. His skill in battle was unmatched. All he had to do was prove it.
Demanding to duel Gorseheart confidently, unshaken while the rest of the clan looked on, Woodpaw felt as though the blood of his warrior ancestors surged in his veins. His heart was steady and his gaze resolute. The amusement of his deputy was an insult, but Woodpaw brushed it away as spider webs on a breeze. This was his purpose, he could feel it in his claws. The ancient redwoods that had known every Redwoodclan cat to ever live witnessed the duel, until Gorseheart lay defeated beneath him.
Woodfrost, he was named. Cold and still as the woodlands on a moonless leaf-bare night. He climbed the tall redwood tree with confidence, and reveled in the calm silence that greeted him at that highest bough.
First, he gazed up at Silverpelt. It was clearer than he had ever seen it, unbroken by tree branches. His first vow that night, he made to Starclan. To never fail the ancestors that had carved his home into being through painful effort. Next, his eyes fell below him to where his clan sheltered. No starlight there, only the beating hearts of fragile lives. His second vow he made to them, though they would never know it. To be a warrior that would stand tall against any threat to them. At dawn, he descended to the forest floor with a glacial determination and took his place among the warriors.
As the moons waned on, Woodfrost grew closer to his brother. The two toms shared a hatred for their father after the revelation from Sycamoretail of his traitorous nature. Woodfrost knew vindication. He had always known it. His father was weak, prone to giving in to his emotions and letting them rule his every action. Woodfrost would never let himself be ruled in such a way.
When he was still a new warrior, Woodfrost joined a group going to spar and first saw a cat that would alter him in ways unknown to him. A stout apprentice named Acornpaw, with legs too short to reach her own ears and a tail as long as the rest of her. Watching her attempt to spar, Woodfrost looked up to the sky. Surely a hawk would snatch her eventually? He was less than impressed. However, as time went on the little molly would prove her strength of will and ability, eventually defeating other apprentices in sparring. Needing to know whether she was truly capable, Woodfrost offered to help her train. Though their personalities differed greatly, they got to know each other. She was spunky, while he was sinister. By the time she was named a warrior, she’d earned his respect. Acorntail would become a permanent fixture in his life. A friend for any moon, Greenleaf or leaf-bare.
From there Woodfrost grew older, and it became more and more apparent to him that war was looming over his clan. Lichenclan grew ever more hostile, and it seemed obvious that Redwoodclan should take the position of strength and strike first. But despite his prowess and growing seniority, his leaders did not heed him.
However he soon found something new to focus his attention on, when the warrior Timberstrike approached him with a request. To train his firstborn son, Pinepaw. Timberstrike was a like-minded warrior, older than Woodfrost who had been impressed by his deeds as an apprentice and warrior. Surprised but pleased, Woodfrost agreed. His new apprentice, however, was not what Woodfrost had imagined. Pinepaw was impulsive, entitled, and unwilling to apply himself. Woodfrost faced a difficulty in Pinepaw that he had never known himself – the young tom lacked initiative.
Finally, Woodfrost reached his breaking point one day during sparring training. Snarling at the apprentice, Woodfrost threatened darkly that he would run Pinepaw from the territory himself before letting him become such a poor excuse for a warrior. Woodfrost would not suffer such a horrible representation of his teachings, even if it was no fault of his own. Even then, he wasn’t sure if Pinepaw truly understood the gravity of his words. But Pinepaw soon would, when not long after that he went off alone to escape training and ran across a fox. Barely a moon into his training, he was unequipped for such a fight and would have been killed if not for Woodfrost. The mentor had been tracking his apprentice down, unwilling to let him shirk a day of sparring practice, when he smelled the predator. The battle was swift, Woodfrost using all his skill to drive off the fox and directing Pinepaw on what to do. In the end, the only casualty was a trailing scar on Woodfrost’s left brow which would be hidden in his fur with time.
But the true consequence of that day was Pinepaw’s laziness. Finally, the apprentice showed his worth. From that day on he was dedicated. Woodfrost trained him tirelessly. He was proud to teach Pinepaw, to impart the skills that he had so painstakingly earned. The end result was a naming ceremony when the apprentice was only ten moons, and Rowanflame joined the warrior’s den. By that time the two toms had established a lasting friendship. Childless himself, Woodfrost saw Rowanflame as his gift to the clan. A new way to ensure it retained his strength. After all, Rowanflame would never fail him.
It was on the eve of their twenty-fourth moon that Woodfrost finally confronted his sister about her relationship with their father. Marigoldleap accused him of being insane, but it mattered little to him. She knew of Foxfire’s activities and was helping him betray the clan. Their fight was instant and furious, a combustion of all the pent up emotions they had kept at bay for each other all their lives. When it was over they parted ways, and have never spoken since.
When he learned of Foxfire’s death, Woodfrost felt not a whisper of emotion in his frigid heart. He did not mourn, and he did not cheer in vindication. His only thought was ‘finally’. While Gingerstep used it as fuel against Lichenclan, Woodfrost spent time considering the emptiness within him. A strange void where that long lived hate had burned, now doused.
That emptiness lasted, stayed with him for some time. He grew used to it, leaning even more into his duties than he ever had before. He fell into every battle with Lichenclan possessing a terrifying chill in his every action, calculating and brutal in his efficiency. It was the only way he knew to fill the hole. He couldn’t have guessed that the void was only waiting for the opportunity to ignite again.
Sycamoretail’s death was like the lightning that sets the forest aflame. Had his mother died of old age and happy in a soft nest, Woodfrost could have been content. Instead her death was from a sickness that should never have touched their clan, inflicted upon her by honorless weaklings from across the water and allowed by the very cat that should have protected her from it. Woodfrost’s loathing of Finchstar was sweeping, consuming, a living thing that breathed through him and settled in his skin.
From then on he has watched his leader with a more critical gaze. He calls attention to every failing, challenges every decision. For he knows that the tom is unfit to lead Redwoodclan, and Woodfrost will not allow Finchstar to be the reason he loses any other cat close to him. He is intent on holding to his oaths.
Even as a mewling kit still clutching to Sycamoretail’s belly, Woodkit knew to trust his instincts. His father Foxfire was distant. His visits rare and his actions rehearsed. Less the proud father and more playing the part of one. Woodkit wasn’t a fool and couldn’t stomach his father treating him like one. Foxfire was hiding something. But even though he was young, Woodkit had more pressing concerns than thinking about his father’s failings. His mother was ever-present and fierce in her motherhood. She filled his days with her teachings. He soaked up not only the knowledge she imparted but the intensity of her emotions the ferocity of her actions. He buried both deeply to build a wellspring of knowledge and strength that he would come to rely on later in his life. In this way, Sycamoretail secured her legacy.
While he was still young, he bit another queen’s tail so hard it bled during play. The queen was shocked and admonished him, telling him to learn his own strength. Before the kit could say a thing, Sycamore laughed and pulled him close. Grooming him and purring contentedly, she called him her little champion.
At the same time, Woodkit laid the foundations of his relationship with his siblings. Woodkit enjoyed playing with his brother Gingerkit, who was boisterous and recklessly happy to get into any trouble. Woodkit did not share his impulsiveness, but the two brothers got on well. As for Marigoldkit, there would be no love lost between them. It didn’t escape Woodkit that she was fascinated by their father. There was an inherent weakness within her insecurity, to want the attention of one so clearly uninterested in them. He refused to play with her, and showed no interest in spending time with her.
At six moons he was made Woodpaw and apprenticed to a soft-hearted molly, Dovestream. He had hoped to have a competent fighter as a mentor, a cat that would see his strength and know exactly how to draw out his talents to make him a frightening adversary. Instead he soon realized that there was no such cat to be had, least of all Dovestream. Woodpaw knew that if he continued on the path she set for him, he would be just as weak. It couldn’t be allowed. Every chance he got, the young tom trained alone and in secret. It was strenuous, taxing. He should have been exhausted at the extra work he set himself. Instead, learning how to move swiftly and strike with fury invigorated him down to the marrow of his bones. He woke every sunrise stronger than the last.
But it was not only physical training that he took part in. Sycamoretail’s skill at teaching him and Foxfire’s ineptitude at hiding his failings had shown Woodpaw that there were more ways to protect oneself than in battle. He would need to hone his language skills. It started innocently enough, talking to the older cats and learning to read their emotions by more than just their body language, but the subtle tones of their voices and the pause between words. He soon realized that most cats were so…transparent. It didn’t take long for him to start testing new methods. As it would turn out, most cats grew uneasy under the intensity of his pale gaze, particularly when he let silence breath. He found that speaking slowly and more quietly meant he was more closely listened to. More tricks were discovered, much to his satisfaction. No one, least of all Foxfire, would ever be able to manipulate him with their words,
By the time he reached his twelfth moon, Woodpaw knew that he was ready to be a warrior. His skill in battle was unmatched. All he had to do was prove it.
Demanding to duel Gorseheart confidently, unshaken while the rest of the clan looked on, Woodpaw felt as though the blood of his warrior ancestors surged in his veins. His heart was steady and his gaze resolute. The amusement of his deputy was an insult, but Woodpaw brushed it away as spider webs on a breeze. This was his purpose, he could feel it in his claws. The ancient redwoods that had known every Redwoodclan cat to ever live witnessed the duel, until Gorseheart lay defeated beneath him.
Woodfrost, he was named. Cold and still as the woodlands on a moonless leaf-bare night. He climbed the tall redwood tree with confidence, and reveled in the calm silence that greeted him at that highest bough.
First, he gazed up at Silverpelt. It was clearer than he had ever seen it, unbroken by tree branches. His first vow that night, he made to Starclan. To never fail the ancestors that had carved his home into being through painful effort. Next, his eyes fell below him to where his clan sheltered. No starlight there, only the beating hearts of fragile lives. His second vow he made to them, though they would never know it. To be a warrior that would stand tall against any threat to them. At dawn, he descended to the forest floor with a glacial determination and took his place among the warriors.
As the moons waned on, Woodfrost grew closer to his brother. The two toms shared a hatred for their father after the revelation from Sycamoretail of his traitorous nature. Woodfrost knew vindication. He had always known it. His father was weak, prone to giving in to his emotions and letting them rule his every action. Woodfrost would never let himself be ruled in such a way.
When he was still a new warrior, Woodfrost joined a group going to spar and first saw a cat that would alter him in ways unknown to him. A stout apprentice named Acornpaw, with legs too short to reach her own ears and a tail as long as the rest of her. Watching her attempt to spar, Woodfrost looked up to the sky. Surely a hawk would snatch her eventually? He was less than impressed. However, as time went on the little molly would prove her strength of will and ability, eventually defeating other apprentices in sparring. Needing to know whether she was truly capable, Woodfrost offered to help her train. Though their personalities differed greatly, they got to know each other. She was spunky, while he was sinister. By the time she was named a warrior, she’d earned his respect. Acorntail would become a permanent fixture in his life. A friend for any moon, Greenleaf or leaf-bare.
From there Woodfrost grew older, and it became more and more apparent to him that war was looming over his clan. Lichenclan grew ever more hostile, and it seemed obvious that Redwoodclan should take the position of strength and strike first. But despite his prowess and growing seniority, his leaders did not heed him.
However he soon found something new to focus his attention on, when the warrior Timberstrike approached him with a request. To train his firstborn son, Pinepaw. Timberstrike was a like-minded warrior, older than Woodfrost who had been impressed by his deeds as an apprentice and warrior. Surprised but pleased, Woodfrost agreed. His new apprentice, however, was not what Woodfrost had imagined. Pinepaw was impulsive, entitled, and unwilling to apply himself. Woodfrost faced a difficulty in Pinepaw that he had never known himself – the young tom lacked initiative.
Finally, Woodfrost reached his breaking point one day during sparring training. Snarling at the apprentice, Woodfrost threatened darkly that he would run Pinepaw from the territory himself before letting him become such a poor excuse for a warrior. Woodfrost would not suffer such a horrible representation of his teachings, even if it was no fault of his own. Even then, he wasn’t sure if Pinepaw truly understood the gravity of his words. But Pinepaw soon would, when not long after that he went off alone to escape training and ran across a fox. Barely a moon into his training, he was unequipped for such a fight and would have been killed if not for Woodfrost. The mentor had been tracking his apprentice down, unwilling to let him shirk a day of sparring practice, when he smelled the predator. The battle was swift, Woodfrost using all his skill to drive off the fox and directing Pinepaw on what to do. In the end, the only casualty was a trailing scar on Woodfrost’s left brow which would be hidden in his fur with time.
But the true consequence of that day was Pinepaw’s laziness. Finally, the apprentice showed his worth. From that day on he was dedicated. Woodfrost trained him tirelessly. He was proud to teach Pinepaw, to impart the skills that he had so painstakingly earned. The end result was a naming ceremony when the apprentice was only ten moons, and Rowanflame joined the warrior’s den. By that time the two toms had established a lasting friendship. Childless himself, Woodfrost saw Rowanflame as his gift to the clan. A new way to ensure it retained his strength. After all, Rowanflame would never fail him.
It was on the eve of their twenty-fourth moon that Woodfrost finally confronted his sister about her relationship with their father. Marigoldleap accused him of being insane, but it mattered little to him. She knew of Foxfire’s activities and was helping him betray the clan. Their fight was instant and furious, a combustion of all the pent up emotions they had kept at bay for each other all their lives. When it was over they parted ways, and have never spoken since.
When he learned of Foxfire’s death, Woodfrost felt not a whisper of emotion in his frigid heart. He did not mourn, and he did not cheer in vindication. His only thought was ‘finally’. While Gingerstep used it as fuel against Lichenclan, Woodfrost spent time considering the emptiness within him. A strange void where that long lived hate had burned, now doused.
That emptiness lasted, stayed with him for some time. He grew used to it, leaning even more into his duties than he ever had before. He fell into every battle with Lichenclan possessing a terrifying chill in his every action, calculating and brutal in his efficiency. It was the only way he knew to fill the hole. He couldn’t have guessed that the void was only waiting for the opportunity to ignite again.
Sycamoretail’s death was like the lightning that sets the forest aflame. Had his mother died of old age and happy in a soft nest, Woodfrost could have been content. Instead her death was from a sickness that should never have touched their clan, inflicted upon her by honorless weaklings from across the water and allowed by the very cat that should have protected her from it. Woodfrost’s loathing of Finchstar was sweeping, consuming, a living thing that breathed through him and settled in his skin.
From then on he has watched his leader with a more critical gaze. He calls attention to every failing, challenges every decision. For he knows that the tom is unfit to lead Redwoodclan, and Woodfrost will not allow Finchstar to be the reason he loses any other cat close to him. He is intent on holding to his oaths.