breamfur

Lichenclan

a tall, long-haired blue point tom with blue eyes.

Breamfur greatly resembles a fair mix of both of his parents. Born with the long limbs and gracefully curved neck of his mother and the fairly athletic frame of Storkwing, Breamfur stands taller than the average LichenClanner. Not to say he reaches the heights of an average RedwoodClanner or bolsters the muscles of a ThistleClanner, but for his clan and status, it is a considerable thing, to which one might notice first about him. Moons of hunting and sparring have left him with a thin, leaning scraggly build, lending him an unassuming quality. Though be not fooled, Breamfur holds much more strength than he appears. He bears both small paws and a long tail, placing him in a somewhat androgynous category. Breamfur slouches and moves like he is trying to take up as little space as possible.

Furs of pale, snowy white darken into rich, pooling blue at his extremities. Much like Sorrelsong’s, Breamfur sports a pelt which is feathered and of medium-length and provides decent warmth from the cold. Although, while her’s bears an efflorescent glow, downy and pearlescent, Breamfur’s pelt is much less interesting and often appears more of a dull eggshell color. Despite his diet of mostly fish, it lacks any luster and shine and looks even more gray-tinged when wet or next to truly anything which boasts even the slightest vibrancy. Which is all to say that Sorrelsong’s son looks unkempt most of the time, despite him trying his very best.

Breamfur presents a visage that one can truly only describe as shifty, as… weasley. He always appears to be up to something, those flat blue eyes always looking just the slightest bit guilty. Long, crawling whiskers do nothing to challenge this perception. Like his mother, he bears sharp and elongated facial features, his muzzle coming to a sloping point. But where on Sorrelsong, pronounced cheekbones sit dignified and regal, his cave out in a most hauntingly, almost sickened way.

His voice is sharp and nearly nasally and he spends so much time fishing that he smells of the salty water and nearly briny. 

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+ keen, inclined, diplomatic, earnest
- sniveling, narc, cowardly, needy

Breamfur looks exactly like the kind of guy he is. That angular, sniffly-looking face and flat blue stare fit all too well with his personality. He is a wallflower, sticking to skulking around and keeping his head down most of the time. A follower more than he has ever been a leader, even when he has a mind which ticks and toils almost unendingly. Breamfur has never had the courage of his convictions, always too fearful to see such things through. He schemes and plots, but for all of the whisperings he took in, he never once made a move to actively seek out the rebellion nor join. And it comes as no surprise that then in response, still yearning for praise, he flocked back to the loyalist circles and found himself the consort for any searcher of sycophantic company. Which he is surprisingly very good at. Despite his mother’s more refined and warmhearted airs, Breamfur has always been a very unsatisfied and fretting kind of cat. To sit among the upper crusts of LichenClan’s aristocracy and feel like he was rubbing elbows with like-minded, similarly jaded and underappreciated ilk made Breamfur feel less disgruntled about not living out any vigilante dreams as part of the rebellion. It matters little which side he sits with though, for he plays the fence and carries tales and would be quick to change sides if he felt there was nothing left to gain where he was.

He’s gotten by thus far by having relatively good social intelligence and knowing what to say and when to say it. A witty mind and skillful tongue can get you far in LichenClan, but not nearly as far as snitching does. Breamfur lurks and sulks around often enough to see and overhear plenty of things that have been useful and with an earnest, often deadpan demeanor, Breamfur is able to talk his way through most situations and conflicts. It is also how he is able to find himself slipping through reports of his clanmates, able to shift blame and save his own tail. It is to be expected then, that his fickle habits do not find him many long-term friends.

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Sorrelsong and Storkwing’s litter came when the tortoiseshell queen was a mere twenty-six moons. Bringing into the clan and world, three kittens. Two sons and a single daughter. Breamkit was the last of the three, though this never garnered him any extra attention nor favors. If anyone was reserved that right, it was his sister, Rainkit. This would be a theme which would be a recurring one. Breamfur remembers his kittenhood in hazy memories of feeling snubbed, yearning for Rainkit to stop sponging up all of their mother’s time and love. He found comfort in his father’s teaching and attentive nature, even when Rainkit joined him and Dipperkit in sparring lessons.

In reality, it was a mostly uneventful but still doting one. It is just that bitterness has a way of selecting the things one does and does not choose to recall.

Breamfur went on to be apprenticed on time to an older tom named Pigeonheart. He was kind and patient and did his best to ensure training days held some semblance of fun, but Breamfur never showed spectacular promise in either his fishing nor fighting. To his annoyance, his sister did and this burrowed deep into a festering in his chest and rekindled a hatred that had been so close to smoldering out. Breamfur graduated with average marks across the board, his former mentor regarding him kindly, but with the warmth of a mentor who had very little to say in the end of his apprentice’s skills. This is not to say Breamfur was entirely incompetent, for quick into his apprenticeship he proved he was quick of wit and sharp of mind. It pleased him to say he had one thing going for him that his sister did not.

He graduates and remains a wallflower, drifting between the comfortable circle, where his fellow uppercrusts employ his fawning to bolster their egos, and the outskirts of polite LichenClan society, where Breamfur tracks down whispers of a rebellion until he meets the dead end walls of the cavernous camp and is prevented from going any further. He grumbles but his complaints are kept to himself. Under Minnowstar’s reign, Breamfur finds many things to grumble about to himself. The rogue slink into their midst, their leader, once crowned in glory, begins to act manic and refuse to leave her den, they fare worse and worse with each battle. LichenClan seems to be self-cannibalizing and Breamfur grows wary of this.

Praised for being a clever apprentice, he had gone on in his adult life to remain so, but unlike his days of youth, there is never praise for being a deserter, even if a clever one. Breamfur was never a particularly great fighter and there is no greater reminder of such than the last battle. Standing alongside his father, the pair went up against two RedwoodClanners. It should have been an even, or close enough, fight. It should’ve been. But quickly Storkwing was overtaken by his burly opponent, head flung back to see his wily son had slid free of his own enemy.

Storkwing was down, clasped betwixt the tooth and nail of a RedwoodClanner and Breamfur looked his father in the eye and as he pleaded out, Breamfur turned tail in cowardice and ran into the night. Storkwing died that night, watching his son leave him. And in having done so, it appeared as though his father had recklessly and thoughtlessly ran into a fight he could never have won.

He returned to camp early that night and never told Sorrelsong of what really went down. Breamfur meekly affixed himself to his mournful mother’s side and appeared the part of a grieving, shaken son.

Breamfur has not confessed his traitorous act of that night to anyone and he is intent to take such a secret to his grave. For, with Minnowstar’s time gone and the tides of the clan changing, it was uncertain what the future held for him.

Part of what he did not expect was the announcement his dearest friend Rotflower brought to him. During the blizzard, she found him and broke the news to him that she was to be arranged. Delighted, because he harbored intense feelings for him, he assumed it was to him and confessed how happy he was for that. Awkwardly, Rotflower had to correct him, saying that she is to be engaged to Driftfeather.

Angered by this, he sulks and decides to ignore her, having completely changed his mind on her true nature. Breamfur and Driftfeather exchange furious words, but Breamfur backs down, seeking an alternative instead. He talks to Pigeonheart, hoping his mentor’s status can pull some strings for him.

On the other hand, Breamfur begins to act as a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear to Perchwhisker, who struggles through her pitiful, miserable marriage to an unfaithful tom.

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