Post by Egotistic on Jul 6, 2024 15:55:20 GMT -6
Castile
Outsider
a torbie-and-white cat w/ one blue and one green eye.
rogue
non-binary
15 moons
Appearance
Had Castile been born into fairer conditions, they might have grown to be as broad as they are tall, yet having endured the scarcity of the island's cliff sides, no such luxuries have they been granted. Instead, they are alarmingly thin, rakish, and further accentuated by their spectacular height, which stands at an impressive 13' at the withers. Their neck is long to match the stretched appearance of the remainder of them, and the head atop it a hodgepodge of gaunt and rounded features. Only one of their ears bears a tuft while the other is bare, and their eyes are similarly mismatched—one is blue, and the other green on the side of their conspicuously adorned ear.
Their coat is long yet possesses no volume and so hangs like a limp and lifeless artifact from their body. It is negligently dowdy, drab, and devoid of luster, bearing what might have been, worn on anyone else, a lustrous coat of classic torbie coloration. Yet, being worn by Castile, it is nothing but a meager hanging. Even the flares of white at muzzle, throat, limb, underbelly, and tail are unimpressively dull and in much need of proper care and tending, which they may never receive.
Due to the limp nature of Castile's coat, the many scars they have acquired throughout their youth and adolescence are more readily visible than most, though most peculiar is the deep gash that severs the flesh of their shoulder and the odd patchiness of their fur, suggesting some sort of affliction of the skin that, once overcome, left their coat to grow back patchy and uneven.
Their coat is long yet possesses no volume and so hangs like a limp and lifeless artifact from their body. It is negligently dowdy, drab, and devoid of luster, bearing what might have been, worn on anyone else, a lustrous coat of classic torbie coloration. Yet, being worn by Castile, it is nothing but a meager hanging. Even the flares of white at muzzle, throat, limb, underbelly, and tail are unimpressively dull and in much need of proper care and tending, which they may never receive.
Due to the limp nature of Castile's coat, the many scars they have acquired throughout their youth and adolescence are more readily visible than most, though most peculiar is the deep gash that severs the flesh of their shoulder and the odd patchiness of their fur, suggesting some sort of affliction of the skin that, once overcome, left their coat to grow back patchy and uneven.
Personality
Positive Traits: resourceful, intelligent, persistent, and efficient.
Negative Traits: unempathetic, bellicose, aloof, and possessive.
Having been raised in relatively barbarous conditions, Castile is lacking a fair amount of refinement. They are unfamiliar with most concepts, such as manners and common courtesies, and while they harbor a certain respect for all things which are stronger and more dangerous than themselves, they do not expend this sentiment to many others. Their life of squalor, however, has made them incredibly cunning, and their resourcefulness leaves few scruples when it comes to survival. They do not consider themselves above anyone or anything and are practical to a fault.
Matters such as sentimentality are rarely an issue to Castile, though they harbor a particular sensitivity in relation to the Old One who took them in after the flood. Beyond this old memory, Castile is largely without compassion for most and seems to tolerate the company of others rather than enjoying it. They do, however, seem to crave companions of some sort, though the intimacy of these bonds is always guarded and withholding.
Due to the almost militaristic way in which they were used by the Old One, Castile has comfortably settled into the mindset of a weapon to be used and disposed of as fits whoever might have need of them. They have no qualms carrying out the petty jobs of lesser, weaker cats and, though they live alone, are known to contact others for the sake of simple trade in herbs and news. In this way, how they interact with others is stiff and officious, and to many, they appear aloof and uninterested.
Though there are currently none in Castile’s life which they would consider themselves close to, Castile is highly possessive and protective of any who can work their way through their defenses; however, it is usually in the transition away from acquaintances that Castile’s more volatile traits shine through.
History
Season 2023
Castile was born into a life of penury. Her mother was a rogue with a simple rogue name. She hunted from the barren fields, which were spared those who swore no fealty to anyone; she rooted up old, stinking cadavers from the low tides of the lake. She feasted on the leavings of others and imparted that same resourcefulness to her children—or what two of them remained to her.
She never knew whose they were. She never wanted to know; she only knew she had two of them, and that was two more mouths than she was equipped to feed. Yet, feed them she did. She nursed them until they were weaned, and when a tom came to live in that dilapidated hole they called a den, she shoved the children out and did not speak to them again. She only entrusted them with vague names, which neither Castile nor their brother remember, and what of her crafty ways she felt generous enough to entrust them with.
She never thought to give them anything more, and they never asked. They set out by night in the warmer part of the summer and never looked back on that life, the hole they’d lived in, or even the mother, whose name they could also not recall.
They wandered the fields for some time, just the two of them. They hunted and bickered over their catches but hunted enough to share between them. They spent many nights hungry, but they never wanted, for they knew not what to want but food and shelter.
They found less of that as the storms blew in and the rain fell. Soon, the island was submerged in rainwater. Their fields were swamped down, and their hunting was poor. Soon, the brother grew sick and withered away, and it was only by luck that the remaining sibling was found by an old, flea-bitten tom named nothing but the Old One.
He was an ancient creature but hardy. He nursed Castile back to health, and they lived together beneath the same dripping den roof until the rains had lessened. In that time, he taught them of his past and the islands and the Clans, and Castile, bedridden and with nowhere to go, listened silently to all he imparted to her. Only when Castile was better did the old one ask where they might go. Not knowing where, the two set out together and found the old one’s people—more rogues, a small, bedraggled band of them, nestled in the shore of the island.
There, Castile earned their name and came to learn also of the rogues which the old one and the rest had been a part of. A legion of them, all under the rule of the one they called Lily. Dead now, and the band disbanded—and they believed they were all that was left.
It suited them to believe that. It kept them close, and Castile soon came to think of them as much a family as they thought of themselves. From the others, Castile learned to fight. Being the youngest and by length, the healthiest, Castile was employed on small raids into Clan territory. There, they searched for others. The Old One wanted more bodies for their gang by the shore. He sought to bring them back to revive Lily’s vision.
No cat ever told him how unlikely that might be—least of all Castile.
They continued on despite it. They hurt and killed, and they hunted. They carried their weight and more in the refuse of the shoreline, battered remnants of a faction never to be resurrected. Castile grew used to being a tool by which the Old One worked. They carried out his business and found themselves with shelter, food, and herbs. For a time, that was enough. Soon, though, news spread of a new faction. Led by Lily’s late daughter, Poppy. A child who survived the war—a most unexpected surprise.
The Old One grew embittered. The glory taken from his hand was not easily forgotten, and their small numbers were put to work in competition with Poppy’s fleet. Castile never knew if Lily’s upstart knew of their existence. In a way, they supposed no one had, and as the temperatures grew colder, the Clans grew meaner. Their explorations into enemy territory were more futile.
Soon, their numbers fell until there were only three of them left: the Old One, Castile, and another they called Flea. The hunting and healing were shared between them, but the Old One was growing weaker. He could not manage the treks into enemy land. Yet still, he would travel with them.
Their processions were slow. The yields smaller. Hunger began to gnaw at them all. Flea began to make plans to leave—to join Poppy. He did not wish to die carrying out dead dreams. And Castile could not fault him. Even they yearned for better living than what they had.
Season 2024
The three of them remained together at the advent of the next season. Flea, continuing his efforts to shift Castile from her post beside the Old One, Castile dutifully the weapon their savior had made them into. When the Old One grew weak, Castile tended to them, and as their sanity slipped and their demands grew more unattainable, Castile carried them out and ensured that Flea attended to them with them.
Flea only grew more restless. They were starving, winter clung to the island, and late new-leaf snows kept the prey in their burrows. Knowing Castile might never secede until the Old One’s passing, in the dead of night, Flea slit the elder’s throat and left him bleeding on the stones. By morning, Castile found him dead and cold, and Flea departed.
Enraged and alone, Castile set out in search of Flea, following old trails and empty leads until they came to believe the tom had perished with the rest.
As summer approaches, however, Castile learns of Flea’s whereabouts. The tom had taken shelter on the outer fringes of ThistleClan territory. Only, when Castile comes to seek them out, they find them already dead, by the paws of another.
Castile was born into a life of penury. Her mother was a rogue with a simple rogue name. She hunted from the barren fields, which were spared those who swore no fealty to anyone; she rooted up old, stinking cadavers from the low tides of the lake. She feasted on the leavings of others and imparted that same resourcefulness to her children—or what two of them remained to her.
She never knew whose they were. She never wanted to know; she only knew she had two of them, and that was two more mouths than she was equipped to feed. Yet, feed them she did. She nursed them until they were weaned, and when a tom came to live in that dilapidated hole they called a den, she shoved the children out and did not speak to them again. She only entrusted them with vague names, which neither Castile nor their brother remember, and what of her crafty ways she felt generous enough to entrust them with.
She never thought to give them anything more, and they never asked. They set out by night in the warmer part of the summer and never looked back on that life, the hole they’d lived in, or even the mother, whose name they could also not recall.
They wandered the fields for some time, just the two of them. They hunted and bickered over their catches but hunted enough to share between them. They spent many nights hungry, but they never wanted, for they knew not what to want but food and shelter.
They found less of that as the storms blew in and the rain fell. Soon, the island was submerged in rainwater. Their fields were swamped down, and their hunting was poor. Soon, the brother grew sick and withered away, and it was only by luck that the remaining sibling was found by an old, flea-bitten tom named nothing but the Old One.
He was an ancient creature but hardy. He nursed Castile back to health, and they lived together beneath the same dripping den roof until the rains had lessened. In that time, he taught them of his past and the islands and the Clans, and Castile, bedridden and with nowhere to go, listened silently to all he imparted to her. Only when Castile was better did the old one ask where they might go. Not knowing where, the two set out together and found the old one’s people—more rogues, a small, bedraggled band of them, nestled in the shore of the island.
There, Castile earned their name and came to learn also of the rogues which the old one and the rest had been a part of. A legion of them, all under the rule of the one they called Lily. Dead now, and the band disbanded—and they believed they were all that was left.
It suited them to believe that. It kept them close, and Castile soon came to think of them as much a family as they thought of themselves. From the others, Castile learned to fight. Being the youngest and by length, the healthiest, Castile was employed on small raids into Clan territory. There, they searched for others. The Old One wanted more bodies for their gang by the shore. He sought to bring them back to revive Lily’s vision.
No cat ever told him how unlikely that might be—least of all Castile.
They continued on despite it. They hurt and killed, and they hunted. They carried their weight and more in the refuse of the shoreline, battered remnants of a faction never to be resurrected. Castile grew used to being a tool by which the Old One worked. They carried out his business and found themselves with shelter, food, and herbs. For a time, that was enough. Soon, though, news spread of a new faction. Led by Lily’s late daughter, Poppy. A child who survived the war—a most unexpected surprise.
The Old One grew embittered. The glory taken from his hand was not easily forgotten, and their small numbers were put to work in competition with Poppy’s fleet. Castile never knew if Lily’s upstart knew of their existence. In a way, they supposed no one had, and as the temperatures grew colder, the Clans grew meaner. Their explorations into enemy territory were more futile.
Soon, their numbers fell until there were only three of them left: the Old One, Castile, and another they called Flea. The hunting and healing were shared between them, but the Old One was growing weaker. He could not manage the treks into enemy land. Yet still, he would travel with them.
Their processions were slow. The yields smaller. Hunger began to gnaw at them all. Flea began to make plans to leave—to join Poppy. He did not wish to die carrying out dead dreams. And Castile could not fault him. Even they yearned for better living than what they had.
Season 2024
The three of them remained together at the advent of the next season. Flea, continuing his efforts to shift Castile from her post beside the Old One, Castile dutifully the weapon their savior had made them into. When the Old One grew weak, Castile tended to them, and as their sanity slipped and their demands grew more unattainable, Castile carried them out and ensured that Flea attended to them with them.
Flea only grew more restless. They were starving, winter clung to the island, and late new-leaf snows kept the prey in their burrows. Knowing Castile might never secede until the Old One’s passing, in the dead of night, Flea slit the elder’s throat and left him bleeding on the stones. By morning, Castile found him dead and cold, and Flea departed.
Enraged and alone, Castile set out in search of Flea, following old trails and empty leads until they came to believe the tom had perished with the rest.
As summer approaches, however, Castile learns of Flea’s whereabouts. The tom had taken shelter on the outer fringes of ThistleClan territory. Only, when Castile comes to seek them out, they find them already dead, by the paws of another.
