Post by Egotistic on Jan 24, 2020 21:10:25 GMT -6
Crowfrost
ThistleClan
small small snow-mink bengal she-cat with piercing blue eyes.
warrior
she-cat
66 moons
Appearance
Although small in size, Crowfrost does not allow her physical shortcomings to hinder her, instead choosing to carry herself with a certain poised confidence and security unmatched by most—standing tall, chin raised and proud. And for all her moons serving her clan, she has every right to. Her own pelt, once beautiful and unmarred speaks volumes of her merit as a warrior, a testament to the battles hard-fought and won (and lost), while her compact build, although standing her a head shorter than most, ripples with muscles hardened by moons of training and an unfaltering drive for improvement. In this way, she exudes the air of a fighter, and so she is. Her coat littered with a myriad of lesser and greater scars alike, one glance would make one aware of the threat she poses on the battlefield, and if not those, the savage slash that blights her once beautiful face, a wound that cuts so deep it’s a wonder in of itself she managed to keep the eye it crosses.
In color, she is a sight to behold, bearing the distinguished snow mink Bengal markings passed down to her by a father whose name she does not even know. Had it not been tattered by the aftermath of so many battles, she could’ve been quite the stunning cat, but very little remains of her beauty aside from her large blue eyes. Not that she minds. Every scar speaks volumes more and is worth more in her eyes, for that matter, than any rosette decorating her fur.
In color, she is a sight to behold, bearing the distinguished snow mink Bengal markings passed down to her by a father whose name she does not even know. Had it not been tattered by the aftermath of so many battles, she could’ve been quite the stunning cat, but very little remains of her beauty aside from her large blue eyes. Not that she minds. Every scar speaks volumes more and is worth more in her eyes, for that matter, than any rosette decorating her fur.
Personality
For all her potential flaws and shortcomings, Crowfrost strives to exemplify what she thinks the ideal ThistleClan warrior should be. She holds the tenements of loyalty, honor, and service above all else, basing the majority of her decisions around them besides her own personal ideologies. In this way, everything she does is in ThistleClan’s best interest—or, at least, it is in her own personal opinion; whether her clanmates would agree with her is another issue entirely. But whether they do or don’t, it matters not to her. She knows her efforts are appreciated in the long run, whether they were in short, and so long as she serves her clan dutifully, she is unbothered by the opinions of others.
Crowfrost also possesses a certain bravery about herself that some might mistake for recklessness. However, while she certainly is not above arrogance—and often, arguably, is—there’s an undeniable method to her madness. She has a wit as sharp as her own claws, herself being dangerously intelligent and more than willing to accentuate strategy with force should the need arise. And while her ego may inflate her abilities beyond the truth, they are still quite capable in their own right. And how couldn’t they be, having lived so many moons and enduring as much as they have?
Like most ThistleClan cats, Crowfrost’s face is finicky at best. She does not hold her starry ancestors with any tremendous amount of respect but still acknowledges their existence and respects the sacrifices of warriors since past; nevertheless, herself preferring to focus on the present, she does not spend much time thinking about past lives. And while she is of the belief that the dead should be respected, honored, and listened to (on the odd occasion they say anything, that is), the living are the ones that truly forge the future. Clanmates that give their lives in the line of duty are held in highest honor—Crowfrost respects the sacrifices all of her loyal clanmates make. This respect, however, only extends as far as a cat’s loyalty—should treachery or treason be uprooted, any and all trust is retracted. And StarClan help should it be. The only thing fiercer than Crowfrost’s resolve is her temper, and one would consider themselves fortunate should they never have the misfortune of pissing her off.
But for all her intellect, Crowfrost is not generally known for tact. Her grace in social situations has always been something to cringe at. But that’s only to be expected, having spent her youth learning the workings of leadership above pursuing friendships. Even to her clanmates, she can come off as somewhat rude and standoffish in normal conversation, her words either falling completely flat or not landing at all. And yet, when allowed to plant out and memorize that which she wishes to say, her speech is fluid, charismatic, and above all else calculated. But only then. Impromptu conversations hardly go as well, with a tendency to be about as graceful as a fish on land.
She’s done her best to utilize her strengths and minimize her weaknesses—but her drive towards said goal is one that walks a path that is isolated and alone, even amongst her clanmates. For ambition is useful when one can pursue it, but it comes at a cost—and for all her triumph, though she is too proud by far to admit it, she is a terribly lonely individual.
Crowfrost also possesses a certain bravery about herself that some might mistake for recklessness. However, while she certainly is not above arrogance—and often, arguably, is—there’s an undeniable method to her madness. She has a wit as sharp as her own claws, herself being dangerously intelligent and more than willing to accentuate strategy with force should the need arise. And while her ego may inflate her abilities beyond the truth, they are still quite capable in their own right. And how couldn’t they be, having lived so many moons and enduring as much as they have?
Like most ThistleClan cats, Crowfrost’s face is finicky at best. She does not hold her starry ancestors with any tremendous amount of respect but still acknowledges their existence and respects the sacrifices of warriors since past; nevertheless, herself preferring to focus on the present, she does not spend much time thinking about past lives. And while she is of the belief that the dead should be respected, honored, and listened to (on the odd occasion they say anything, that is), the living are the ones that truly forge the future. Clanmates that give their lives in the line of duty are held in highest honor—Crowfrost respects the sacrifices all of her loyal clanmates make. This respect, however, only extends as far as a cat’s loyalty—should treachery or treason be uprooted, any and all trust is retracted. And StarClan help should it be. The only thing fiercer than Crowfrost’s resolve is her temper, and one would consider themselves fortunate should they never have the misfortune of pissing her off.
But for all her intellect, Crowfrost is not generally known for tact. Her grace in social situations has always been something to cringe at. But that’s only to be expected, having spent her youth learning the workings of leadership above pursuing friendships. Even to her clanmates, she can come off as somewhat rude and standoffish in normal conversation, her words either falling completely flat or not landing at all. And yet, when allowed to plant out and memorize that which she wishes to say, her speech is fluid, charismatic, and above all else calculated. But only then. Impromptu conversations hardly go as well, with a tendency to be about as graceful as a fish on land.
She’s done her best to utilize her strengths and minimize her weaknesses—but her drive towards said goal is one that walks a path that is isolated and alone, even amongst her clanmates. For ambition is useful when one can pursue it, but it comes at a cost—and for all her triumph, though she is too proud by far to admit it, she is a terribly lonely individual.
HistorY
She had never intended to be a mother, Weaseltooth; her destiny was one that had been tirelessly laid out for her by her parents, a path to leadership to succeed them where so many in the past had failed. And in the beginning, that had been what she'd strived for. She'd been a veritable warrior, a courageous fighter and loyal subject to her clan. Until she met him.
He was a rogue—low-born with little of the clan's touch about him and odd rosettes spotting his pelt like a LeopardClan cat. And yet, she was drawn to his cunning, to his tongue laced in silver that roped her in with sugary compliments and half-promises. And when she was too deeply ensnared to escape, she was his, and by the seasons change heavy with child—his.
It was not what she wanted.
When she returned to him, her stomach only showing the first signs of the kits that roiled within, she spoke of her sorrow. She begged him for help in rearing them; for a father they could put a name to within the clan. But when she spoke to him, of kits, of a family, of a life amongst clan cats who he'd spent his life abhorring, he shrank from her. And when next she came to visit him, he was gone. Vanished.
She searched far and wide, for scent or trace, but he had covered his tracks well, and when she returned to camp, heavy with the weight of her shame, she went to the medicine cat. Speaking of her grief, of the children she no longer wished to bear, she begged Yarrowfrost for something to silence the lives within her. But the medicine cat refused her wishes, sending her away.
As more time passed, the whispers grew. More cats wondered at her bulging stomach, of the father whom they had never seen her show any measure of affection towards. As, too, had her parents, though their mutterings cut more profoundly than any number of whispers that might have come from her clanmates. When they confronted her on the issue, demanding the name of the father, she told them though it shamed her, and when they heard, they said only that she must be rid of them. Half-clan cats had no place in ThistleClan. They should never be born.
And so, she did as they suggested—she tried to get rid of them. At first, she stopped eating, but when she grew too weak to serve her clan, she found herself eating again. And when the kits grew too heavy for her to serve even then, she became desperate. As the moons ticked by and her stomach swelled, she grew desperate, and in the hush of night raided the medicine den, scouring it of its leaves and eating all mixture of them. How she didn't manage to kill herself then and there no one is certain, but when the time of her kitting arrived, the damage had been done, though not to her.
There were three of them in all, two born with no breath in their bodies, with eyes that would never open and mouths that would never take their first gulps of air. And then there was the one. The one who had not succumbed to the herbs blight. She was the smallest of them all, pitifully so, with a head much too large for her tiny body and a squalling voice that rang off the nursery wall raucous and demanding. Like a crow, Weaseltooth had thought at the sound of her voice, and as she drew the kit hesitantly to her side, she named her as such, and so Crowkit was born, the only living among the dead.
Some saw it as a sign from the stars, but Weaseltooth saw it only as a message from StarClan—that she could not run from her sins. That she must face them.
And so she did, or as best as she could.
From birth, she instilled into Crowkit the idea that she was born for greatness—saying it often enough that even in her own mind, it made it true. And so Crowkit believed her, her path forged for her by her mother and the stars she insisted looked over her. And when she was at last strong enough, her survival assured, her training began.
The prospect of leading a clan in the future was something that would excite most kits—but having it promised to her, left Crowkit more ambitious and starry-eyed than usual. She trained incessantly under her mother's watchful eye, a glutton for praise; as such, she continued, preparing her body for the outside world long before she reached her sixth moon and, as a result, was ahead of her peers from the instant she earned her apprentice name.
But while her upward progression towards excellence was something to behold in everyone's eyes, her mother still hungered for her daughter to be better, greater. She wanted her to achieve all that she had failed to, to make up for her betrayal to the code. And so, when her apprentice ceremony came, she ensured her training was entrusted to a veritable warrior by the name of Wolfleap. His name was one whispered by many on the battlefield—a renowned fighter whose suspicion of outsiders was well known and respected amongst his clanmates. It was to him Weaseltooth thought it best to entrust her daughter's training, hoping that by his teachings, he would instill in her a hatred for outsiders that would prevent her from walking down the same path she had.
And he did. Under Wolfleap's tutelage, Crowpaw became a hardened and veritable force. Her ambition fueling her, she never wavered before her teacher's training, even when he grew cruel. She saw it only as a way to grow stronger, and so she did, overcoming every obstacle he set before her and conquering every foe he pitted her against. Not once did she shirk in the face of danger, nor did she hesitate or hold back, even in training, a habit that made her much feared in the training pits.. and even hated by some. But she never seemed to care. So long as she was progressing, she didn't mind the glares she received after an especially brutal training session, nor did she mind the rumors that stalked her. She cared only for impressing her mother, her clan, and Wolfleap.
When her warrior ceremony arrived, she received the title of Crowfrost, named for her cold and calculating nature. But even then, she could not rest; she had to keep her body toned, her mind sharp, lest she become anything less than perfection.
As a warrior, her name became well known, within and beyond the clan's borders. She was an unflinching fighter, fearless and feared on the battlefield where she earned the most of her rapport. Few could stand before her without donning the marks of her training, fewer were able to grapple with her and win. And with each battle, she only grew stronger, always learning, always proving, always pushing herself to be better than she had been. She had to be perfect—she had to be. She was destined for greatness.
And so, she kept on that way, pushing her body to the limit until her efforts were at last recognized, and she was given her first apprentice, Honeypaw. She saw it as an opportunity, a stepping stone that brought her one step closer to leadership, and so she mentored them to the best of her ability. Day and night, they trained, honing their skills together, learning from each other, bettering one another. So quickly did their apprentice improve that they grew more fervent in their training, more daring, and when the foxes came, she saw no better opportunity to prove their merit than in combat against the foxes that had dogged ThistleClan for so long.
But it was not meant to be. In the chaos, Honeypaw was struck down, torn to ribbons by an assault of foxes too strong for even her and the training she'd received. And when the fighting was done, and Crowfrost laid eyes on her apprentice, bloodied beyond recognition, she felt a hollow pit well in her stomach.
Some whispered that it was her fault Honeypaw had died—that she had gone too far. But she did her best not to listen. And when the time came, it was she who buried her and guarded her, snarling like a feral hound, chasing off all that came near. She crouched beside her apprentices grave for days without rest until, grief and energy spent, she allowed herself to be escorted away, vowing all the while that she would never make the same mistake.
As the moons progressed, Crowfrost returned to the life she knew best. She trained incessantly, patrolled without rest, and served her clan as dutifully as she could, always keeping an eye out for the next apprentice, for her next chance to succeed and claim the position as deputy for herself. But her time never came. All because of her mother.
Whispers had begun to start up again, only this time they did not only concern her mother, but her as well. And though Crowfrost cared little for such things, she could not help herself—she listened to them, drank in the words, and felt herself growing cold inside.
The whispers wondered after her father, of her mother who, ever since she'd become a warrior, had grown more distant and wandered farther and farther from camp despite her moons. Who had he been? Where had he come from? Was he a clan cat? Was he a rogue? Nobody seemed to agree, but they all knew one thing—Weaseltooth had never laid a name to him, and that alone kept their mouths wet with the topic. They wanted to know, even now. And so did Crowfrost, who had never wondered even as a kit who her father had been.
And so, she confronted her mother, demanding answers, and finding them, though the taste of them left a bitter aftertaste.
From her, she learned of her lineage, of the rogue whose name her mother had long since forgotten, of his rogue blood, how he had never loved her mother, never cared for the kits in her belly and yet had planted his seed and left her with child regardless. And then she learned of the purging—of the herbs that had ravaged her mother's womb and stripped the life from her kits, leaving only Crowfrost alive in the aftermath. And when asked why, she could only murmur that she had done what she thought right. But even then, Crowfrost didn't believe her. How could she when she had tried to kill her?
Betrayed, disgusted, and enraged, Crowfrost fell on her mother, blind with fury, scouring her hide with tooth and claw until, overwhelmed by the brunt of her attack, she fled. But even then, Crowfrost did not falter, she chased her well beyond the confines of camp, into the forest and beyond the border, howling all the while that should she ever lay eyes on her mother again she would finish what she started.
Fortunately, her mother heeded her warning. She saw naught of her moons after the incident, and when she returned to camp to announce her mother's traitorous actions, she felt nothing but assured that she would never see her from then on—not alive, at least.
Ever since the incident with her mother, Crowfrost only grew colder and more insistent on her training. The truth of her mixed blood exposed to all, she saw nothing else to do. She had to be perfect, she had to prove to them that her mother's misdeeds would not be reflected in her actions. She was loyal. She was honorable. She would serve until she died. She would never let them whisper of her as they had her mother. Never.
He was a rogue—low-born with little of the clan's touch about him and odd rosettes spotting his pelt like a LeopardClan cat. And yet, she was drawn to his cunning, to his tongue laced in silver that roped her in with sugary compliments and half-promises. And when she was too deeply ensnared to escape, she was his, and by the seasons change heavy with child—his.
It was not what she wanted.
When she returned to him, her stomach only showing the first signs of the kits that roiled within, she spoke of her sorrow. She begged him for help in rearing them; for a father they could put a name to within the clan. But when she spoke to him, of kits, of a family, of a life amongst clan cats who he'd spent his life abhorring, he shrank from her. And when next she came to visit him, he was gone. Vanished.
She searched far and wide, for scent or trace, but he had covered his tracks well, and when she returned to camp, heavy with the weight of her shame, she went to the medicine cat. Speaking of her grief, of the children she no longer wished to bear, she begged Yarrowfrost for something to silence the lives within her. But the medicine cat refused her wishes, sending her away.
As more time passed, the whispers grew. More cats wondered at her bulging stomach, of the father whom they had never seen her show any measure of affection towards. As, too, had her parents, though their mutterings cut more profoundly than any number of whispers that might have come from her clanmates. When they confronted her on the issue, demanding the name of the father, she told them though it shamed her, and when they heard, they said only that she must be rid of them. Half-clan cats had no place in ThistleClan. They should never be born.
And so, she did as they suggested—she tried to get rid of them. At first, she stopped eating, but when she grew too weak to serve her clan, she found herself eating again. And when the kits grew too heavy for her to serve even then, she became desperate. As the moons ticked by and her stomach swelled, she grew desperate, and in the hush of night raided the medicine den, scouring it of its leaves and eating all mixture of them. How she didn't manage to kill herself then and there no one is certain, but when the time of her kitting arrived, the damage had been done, though not to her.
There were three of them in all, two born with no breath in their bodies, with eyes that would never open and mouths that would never take their first gulps of air. And then there was the one. The one who had not succumbed to the herbs blight. She was the smallest of them all, pitifully so, with a head much too large for her tiny body and a squalling voice that rang off the nursery wall raucous and demanding. Like a crow, Weaseltooth had thought at the sound of her voice, and as she drew the kit hesitantly to her side, she named her as such, and so Crowkit was born, the only living among the dead.
Some saw it as a sign from the stars, but Weaseltooth saw it only as a message from StarClan—that she could not run from her sins. That she must face them.
And so she did, or as best as she could.
From birth, she instilled into Crowkit the idea that she was born for greatness—saying it often enough that even in her own mind, it made it true. And so Crowkit believed her, her path forged for her by her mother and the stars she insisted looked over her. And when she was at last strong enough, her survival assured, her training began.
The prospect of leading a clan in the future was something that would excite most kits—but having it promised to her, left Crowkit more ambitious and starry-eyed than usual. She trained incessantly under her mother's watchful eye, a glutton for praise; as such, she continued, preparing her body for the outside world long before she reached her sixth moon and, as a result, was ahead of her peers from the instant she earned her apprentice name.
But while her upward progression towards excellence was something to behold in everyone's eyes, her mother still hungered for her daughter to be better, greater. She wanted her to achieve all that she had failed to, to make up for her betrayal to the code. And so, when her apprentice ceremony came, she ensured her training was entrusted to a veritable warrior by the name of Wolfleap. His name was one whispered by many on the battlefield—a renowned fighter whose suspicion of outsiders was well known and respected amongst his clanmates. It was to him Weaseltooth thought it best to entrust her daughter's training, hoping that by his teachings, he would instill in her a hatred for outsiders that would prevent her from walking down the same path she had.
And he did. Under Wolfleap's tutelage, Crowpaw became a hardened and veritable force. Her ambition fueling her, she never wavered before her teacher's training, even when he grew cruel. She saw it only as a way to grow stronger, and so she did, overcoming every obstacle he set before her and conquering every foe he pitted her against. Not once did she shirk in the face of danger, nor did she hesitate or hold back, even in training, a habit that made her much feared in the training pits.. and even hated by some. But she never seemed to care. So long as she was progressing, she didn't mind the glares she received after an especially brutal training session, nor did she mind the rumors that stalked her. She cared only for impressing her mother, her clan, and Wolfleap.
When her warrior ceremony arrived, she received the title of Crowfrost, named for her cold and calculating nature. But even then, she could not rest; she had to keep her body toned, her mind sharp, lest she become anything less than perfection.
As a warrior, her name became well known, within and beyond the clan's borders. She was an unflinching fighter, fearless and feared on the battlefield where she earned the most of her rapport. Few could stand before her without donning the marks of her training, fewer were able to grapple with her and win. And with each battle, she only grew stronger, always learning, always proving, always pushing herself to be better than she had been. She had to be perfect—she had to be. She was destined for greatness.
And so, she kept on that way, pushing her body to the limit until her efforts were at last recognized, and she was given her first apprentice, Honeypaw. She saw it as an opportunity, a stepping stone that brought her one step closer to leadership, and so she mentored them to the best of her ability. Day and night, they trained, honing their skills together, learning from each other, bettering one another. So quickly did their apprentice improve that they grew more fervent in their training, more daring, and when the foxes came, she saw no better opportunity to prove their merit than in combat against the foxes that had dogged ThistleClan for so long.
But it was not meant to be. In the chaos, Honeypaw was struck down, torn to ribbons by an assault of foxes too strong for even her and the training she'd received. And when the fighting was done, and Crowfrost laid eyes on her apprentice, bloodied beyond recognition, she felt a hollow pit well in her stomach.
Some whispered that it was her fault Honeypaw had died—that she had gone too far. But she did her best not to listen. And when the time came, it was she who buried her and guarded her, snarling like a feral hound, chasing off all that came near. She crouched beside her apprentices grave for days without rest until, grief and energy spent, she allowed herself to be escorted away, vowing all the while that she would never make the same mistake.
As the moons progressed, Crowfrost returned to the life she knew best. She trained incessantly, patrolled without rest, and served her clan as dutifully as she could, always keeping an eye out for the next apprentice, for her next chance to succeed and claim the position as deputy for herself. But her time never came. All because of her mother.
Whispers had begun to start up again, only this time they did not only concern her mother, but her as well. And though Crowfrost cared little for such things, she could not help herself—she listened to them, drank in the words, and felt herself growing cold inside.
The whispers wondered after her father, of her mother who, ever since she'd become a warrior, had grown more distant and wandered farther and farther from camp despite her moons. Who had he been? Where had he come from? Was he a clan cat? Was he a rogue? Nobody seemed to agree, but they all knew one thing—Weaseltooth had never laid a name to him, and that alone kept their mouths wet with the topic. They wanted to know, even now. And so did Crowfrost, who had never wondered even as a kit who her father had been.
And so, she confronted her mother, demanding answers, and finding them, though the taste of them left a bitter aftertaste.
From her, she learned of her lineage, of the rogue whose name her mother had long since forgotten, of his rogue blood, how he had never loved her mother, never cared for the kits in her belly and yet had planted his seed and left her with child regardless. And then she learned of the purging—of the herbs that had ravaged her mother's womb and stripped the life from her kits, leaving only Crowfrost alive in the aftermath. And when asked why, she could only murmur that she had done what she thought right. But even then, Crowfrost didn't believe her. How could she when she had tried to kill her?
Betrayed, disgusted, and enraged, Crowfrost fell on her mother, blind with fury, scouring her hide with tooth and claw until, overwhelmed by the brunt of her attack, she fled. But even then, Crowfrost did not falter, she chased her well beyond the confines of camp, into the forest and beyond the border, howling all the while that should she ever lay eyes on her mother again she would finish what she started.
Fortunately, her mother heeded her warning. She saw naught of her moons after the incident, and when she returned to camp to announce her mother's traitorous actions, she felt nothing but assured that she would never see her from then on—not alive, at least.
Ever since the incident with her mother, Crowfrost only grew colder and more insistent on her training. The truth of her mixed blood exposed to all, she saw nothing else to do. She had to be perfect, she had to prove to them that her mother's misdeeds would not be reflected in her actions. She was loyal. She was honorable. She would serve until she died. She would never let them whisper of her as they had her mother. Never.
