crocuskit

lichenclan

orange and white tabby tom with amber eyes

swaddled in a blanket of white and orange, crocuskit’s a silky little thing. the faintest tabby stripes tease at his nectarine patches, yet a decent proportion of him’s pure feathery white. you’d see a coat like his in late leaffall, when snow comes to gently coax the dying leaves to sleep.

he’s a tall, willowy cat with long striding limbs; but with his sloping shoulders and sheepish smile, he bites himself small and meek. he’s delicate, belly pinched to his ribs. the bulk of his big, fluffy pelt, however, plumps him up, makes him look broader and stronger than he is.

in his face: soft-whispering features; round eyes of guileless amber; a tentative dab of gold upon his brow; the demure nip of white-haloed ear to skull—the quintessence of kit.

affable, acquiescent

crocuskit is nice. he’s often found chirping out pleasantries to any passer-by. rife with compliment and liable to commiserate with the most irascible of cats, crocuskit tries to be kind. while others hiss with lashing tails, he’s calm and understanding. the thorns of their words bite into him and he simply offers an apologetic smile. i apologise if i have offended you. i won’t do it again.

additionally, crocuskit is acquiescent. he completes his chores and withstands lectures with nary a grunt of complaint. some might say this renders him too much of a goody two-paws to be around. if you asked him, crocuskit’d agree. he’d smile and say that maybe, you’re right. he should loosen up and be more fun-loving. and you’d see him join a game of mossball and gently remind his peers of the rules.

above all, crocuskit’s a good and obedient cat, a dutiful son—any queen’s saccharine dream. he’s simply such a sweet and polite little fellow; how could anyone ever dislike him?

(if you asked him, crocuskit might falter. he might shift, twist his paws across stone. he might ask how he can be better. how he can stop angering you and make you happy.

he might duck his head low and apologise.)

mild-mannered, soft-spoken

a docile wallflower, crocuskit is not one for frolicking or rowdy play. instead, always does his inflection remain serene and mellow, never given towards any extremes of wanton emotion.

he speaks in a soft, high voice, as though he might shatter if he dare raise it any higher. crocuskit, for all his genteel demeanour, really doesn’t have a lot to say. he’s most comfortable when he can melt into the buzz that permeates all chatter, when gazes glance off his form like sunlight bouncing off rivers. of course, it hurts being ignored, it really does—but sunlight burns. and crocuskit much rather be ignored than burnt.

when spoken to on his own, crocuskit is convivial and could be considered garrulous. yet amidst a group, he disappears. only when his name is called does he return.

rigid, inflexible

crocuskit doesn’t look beyond the confines of his insular world. it is the only thing he knows: all cats should heed starclan. starclan’s light is eternal; yet even among their ranks, it can be faint. and this worries him. everyone speaks of starclan with such reverence—and they can’t be wrong. they aren’t.

starclan isn’t the only tome crocuskit regards as sacrosanct. he sticks to the code as wet does to water, could recite it in his sleep. even rules in kit-games, those of everyday interaction cannot be disobeyed. ill-mannered cats may receive no more than a disgruntled huff from him; yet crocuskit holds decorum in the highest esteem, and thus his thoughts concerning them are… less than pleasant.

one must be devout, dutiful, and decent; and anyone who says otherwise is wrong.

impatient, short-tempered

anger should not come quickly to crocuskit and yet it does. it comes like lightning, and sometimes crocuskit feels like being alone. like yelling. like deriding gustkit for being so… pusillanimous, and scolding gustkit for his overbearing, insensitive nature. like screaming at his mother why why why wasn’t he enough, why couldn’t she just love him, why did she have to leave—like shoving everyone away and ripping his sweet kind wonderful bright good exterior to shreds.

but crocuskit loves. he loves his father even if he feels he’s only valued for his mother’s image; his brothers even as vervainkit withdraws and gustkit seethes; his grandmother despite being her own litter’s afterthought; and his mother even when her smiles never quite reach her eyes. though most of all, crocuskit loves lichenclan—and since lichenclan loves starclan, crocuskit must as well.

starclan says to smile, and so crocuskit smiles. starclan says to be polite and respectful, and so crocuskit is polite and respectful. starclan says to never let your tongue astray, and so crocuskit keeps his under adamantine control. thus, if starclan declares you must swallow your anger, to never permit insults to bitter your tongue, to always be understanding and kind and generous and good; then so will crocuskit.

just nod and smile, crocuskit. nod and smile for all you’re worth. starclan knows how long that’ll last.

0 moons

crocuskit is born to rotflower and driftfeather. he’s the middle child in a litter of three. he finds an attentive father in driftfeather; however, his mother is very different. curled in her embrace, crocuskit fancied that even leafbare might not feel as cold as this.

crocuskit was born to care, and so he did. where rotflower’s affection would wane, crocuskit would attempt to fill in the patches of her threadbare love. he’d listen attentively to vervainkit’s stories, engage gustkit in vigorous debates. and when rotflower drew herself away entirely, he pulled the feathers from birds to line their nest with more than dreams, groomed his brothers until they gleamed sleek under the sun. crooned scraps of lullabies he’d heard to nestle them all to sleep.

however, a kit’s roughshod replica of motherly love can only ever be substitute. as he, gustkit, and vervainkit grow from milk-hungered bundles of soft to fledgling apprentices under caveflower’s guidance, crocuskit fears that his efforts might never be enough.