Post by F I E R C E on Jan 10, 2010 0:50:15 GMT -5
Name: Fierceclaw
Family: Deceased
Rank: Warrior
Type: Loner
Gender: Tom
Age: 20 Moons
Eye Color: Blue with a patch of green in his left
Fur Color: Black
Other Appearances:
Names of cats: .
Other:
Family: Deceased
Rank: Warrior
Type: Loner
Gender: Tom
Age: 20 Moons
Eye Color: Blue with a patch of green in his left
Fur Color: Black
Other Appearances:
Personality:
While he definitely doesn't seem to know it, Fierceclaw's a little guy. His stature's similar to that of an older apprentice, or...well...one infamously famous bad-cat in the warrior series, eh? It seems the little-dog syndrome isn't completely uncommon, because despite Fierceclaw's intimidating size, you'd be one wise cat to think twice before trying anything that would get you killed. His paws are a little bigger than average, though not enough to get in the in the way of the speed he relies on so heavily to do the things he does. This is because of the snowy climate he comes from. Little paws meant you sank like a fat rock in the stuff.
Those extreme conditions of the Haliskan lands also had an effect on his coat. Cats who had thin pelts simply didn't survive long. And if you didn't survive, you didn't have kits. Fierceclaw's fur is darker than a shadow on a moonless night and about an inch and a half long on average I suppose. It's thickness was where the benefit was. Double layered, with longer, more water-resistant hairs on top and a soft, downy undercoat below. And in a warmer climate, you better believe Fierceclaw hair gets all over the place.
That thick fur is a good disguise too. Scars slice menacingly into his skin beneath, especially around his throat and underbelly. A few of these are somewhat evident though most are not. But you wouldn't have to be the most observant person in the world to catch the horrific designs carved over the pads of his paws. It truly was a wonder they weren't cripplingly disfigured from whatever happened to them.
The first thing you'd notice about this cat though would probably be his eyes. They're piercing. Those icy blue depths stuck out like a lantern against the darkness of his face. And the presence of that odd patch of green in his left mismatched them. Those eyes always held a degree of cruelty and confidence, it was only the levels of it that depended on his mood. And the second thing you'd notice would likely be the muscle he's build up. Not bulky per say, but it wasn't exactly normal either. Fierceclaw's life had definitely been hard lived.
What is there really to say about this cat? A legend whose story is whispered by the ghosts of murdered souls throughout the snowy forests of his own lands, yet such a stranger to the rest of the world. Fierceclaw's personality reflects his name and blackened reputation. So much innocent blood stains his paws both directly and by other means, something that he hardly regrets. Fierceclaw believes that if someone's life is worth keeping they would be able to survive whatever situation fate thrown at them on their own. And if not...well...sucks for you, eh? Survival of the fittest was always the foundation on which Fierceclaw's deeper beliefs were built, morphing his personality from his innocent kithood into the ruthless creature he is now.History:
Fierceclaw relies on his wit and raw courage alone to get him through his life. This cat is absolutely fearless, which might sound great and all in theory but add that to arrogance and you have one heck of a glutton for punishment. Fierceclaw is rarely one to stay out ofthe spotlightdevastating trouble for long and absolutely wouldn't know what to do with himself if there wasn't some goal to reach for or an enemy to be fought. It's easy for him to hook his mind on things he wants and obsessively strive for them, pushing himself to the point his bones crack for whatever it is he has his eyes on at the time. Kind of stupid 9 times out of 10, especially considering the insane bar he sets. But Fierceclaw has absolutely NO tolerance for failure, and, as absolutely ridiculous as it is, this extreme instinct has actually gotten him pretty far in life before his butt had to go and lose it all.
Very analytical of problems presented, and with much experience under his pelt of all things war, it isn't hard to see the leadership qualities he may've possessed somewhere deep beneath all that selfishness. Though this is indeed his downfall. Fierceclaw doesn't care for anyone but himself and that's an understatement at best. Sure, he may seem like he wants to keep someone alive or act like he's concerned for the wellbeing of another. Though, rest assured, any alliance or "friendship" exists only if they are of some service to him and it usually draws to a close at a great price to them - often their life. That stinks pretty bad, but life and cats are inexhaustible in their numbers, and invaluable as far as he's concerned. Of course, there's a perfectly sane reason for that buried somewhere in the shadows of his past, as are just about every element of his personality, but this one in particular is one of his more major drawbacks.
Another would be that he as a wee bit of a temper problem...well, a BIG temper problem. Fierceclaw is easily annoyed, and anything he considers inappropriate or obnoxious will simply not be tolerated. He's very up tight and serious about life, probably never even learning what "play" was even in kithood, so he's also notoriously a snoot and a little touchy. Arrogance is pride on crack as we know, and if you say the least bit of something he takes offensive you've had a bad day. He's got a heartless tongue to boot. Finding little humor in anything side from the hurt and downfall of others, what could've been a comic personality is now, without a doubt, polluted with venomous insults that are never absent with his presence. Even in a good mood.
Though as much of a terror as he may've been socially, in battle, this feline is poetry in motion. This isn't because of any natural talent he was born with as the stories might've lead you to believe. His claws aren't abnormally long, his fangs aren't sharper than most. He doesn't have super speed or anything weird like that. He's simply trained. Not as a "happy help-my-clan warrior" as so many other cats that we've come to know and love, but as a complete and independent killer. A specially formulated soldier whose training comes from a line of cats who've spent generations and generations developing their warring prowess. A line of cats who were, in the lore, referred to as immortals for their seemingly unbreakability while in good numbers. And being the rising heir for the throne, failure to comply with that standard meant certain death and nothing better.
Nestled within the perilous peaks and frozen cliffs, and through the mountainous forests and snow covered plains they say hell itself's second kingdom stood: Haliska. It was a place of rumor and mystery; no one honestly knew what their camp looked like or where exactly it was, or how exactly they lived their daily lives. No one who'd ever been there had ever made it out alive or with their sanity. The stories were diverse, but they all had a single thing in common: this was NOT a place you wanted to be.RP Example:
Haliska was a massive clan of cats because of their high level of success at what they had built themselves around. Their ranks were made up entirely of hunters and warriors, warriors having several specializing divisions and the title of such was a grueling thing to achieve. Very rarely was there "love" between mates; cats were chosen to breed based on their skills and body type. A lithe tom with extreme speed would be the mate of a she-cat with similar traits to produce offspring that would make good warriors of that division. There was even a line that served as the fighters on the front-line and the guards to the "royals" which had a heavy mixture of lynx in them. Haliskans were conquerers; every one of them seemed to possess a disturbing lust for power and control because that was the way they had always been taught. They seized control of several neighboring clans to the point that all those who shared their new borders usually packed up and left simply because they knew it would only be a matter of time before they'd come for them. The Haliskan clan had been surviving for almost a century in those parts. Generations and generations of cats prowled through that wilderness, offering their own expertise which evolved to the current Haliskan way of training. All of them shared a single ambition for their clan: to become the strongest warriors there ever were.
I can say this for certain because any cat who openly opposed these beliefs were either killed or exiled. There could be no weak links among their ranks. Though rarely did that have to happen because these cats had been brought up their entire lives to believe in these things and there was no outside influence to give them an alternative. There was no "warriors code" which protected elders and the sick, there were no morals or ethics which nurtured those in their clan which needed help. The weak perished. Simple as that. And nobody wanted to help the weak survive because nobody wanted them in their ranks or breeding line. They were a threat to the goal.
The royals were an entirely different bloodline altogether. Whereas other Haliskan cats were bred to specialize in a certain division, strength, speed, spying, hunting, etcetera, the royals had to excel in them all. The reason for that was because they would be killed and have their position taken over if they did not maintain absolute dominance, which had to, essentially, collectively reside in both physical ability and threatening aura to keep the rest of them too frightened to dare stand up to a royal. Challengers had to literally be tortuously killed in order to make an example for the rest: Haliskan cats were far too extreme to be trusted otherwise.
Fierceclaw's birth name had been Zyku, which, to them, literally meant "fierce little claw". He was the runt of his father's fifth litter (fifth attempt to get a surviving heir, more like) of only four kits. Cave cough had been wreaking havoc at that time which claimed the life of his sister before her second moon. Already life had become a struggle.
Because of this necessity to be "the best", most royal kittens never got the privilege to see their tenth moon because of the extremity of training they were expected to complete. Training started at their third moon, and from there, only progressed in its gruesome severity. The first two moons were only conditioning. Everything they ever tried their overseers made sure it was a success, shaping their confidence to a very high level as they nurtured that vicious nature which had been bred into the royal lines more so than even the other Haliskan cats. They were given crippled elders to pick at to death, mice and other such prey animals dropped into a small pit with them for them to learn so many basic skills on their own. It had been fun for a while; they were taught to be winners through means of such "games". But once they hit five moons the horrors began.
The pads of their paws were ripped repeatably to teach them to be agile and excessively soft footed which guaranteed a degree of silence that, even in the cat world, was awe inspiring. Their faces were held beneath water while in sparing sessions for them to learn how stuff that much more exertion within a single breath for stamina's sake. To teach them how to thoughtfully function in panic and how to overcome it. They were pitted against warriors they could never hope to beat in a match they believed was life or death to teach them the consequences of not persevering. Teach them not to dare rely on anything else but themselves. Those are only a few of their exercises. And it was only mental preparation for the training that would come if they managed to survive "stage 1".
Little by little, Fierceclaw watched as the kittens around him fell. The royals, though they had an additional training baggage on top such as the ones we mentioned, were also put into the training classes with the common kits who were to go on and specialize in that given division. It wasn't just he and his siblings that were in constant danger, they were only in a higher level. Watching the blood of your friends fly out on the snow, watching them struggle, give their all, only to die anyway...it kind of did things to you. Especially when you had grown ups looming over you saying it was because they were "weak" and "unfit to live" since they couldn't handle the dish they'd been served. Fierceclaw had always been a rebel to it in a sense. That hereditary violent nature that ran so thick through his veins was more often than not turned on his trainers, hating them for what they did. And so many times Fierceclaw had been slammed into the dirt for trying to protect his fellow kits from their horrific fates. But only at first. Haliskan propaganda wasn't an easy thing to escape, even for minds like his. His brother had been killed accidentally when he'd infuriated an overseer with his attitude, dying from the infection that'd come to those many wounds. But it was when his sister, his best and only friend, had gone missing from her hunting mission that would've promoted her to a third class warrior with only a bloody trail fading away beneath the freshly falling snow to tell what had happened, did Fierceclaw truly lose his grip...
He'd taken control of the search team, forcing them to continue all night through that frostbiting snowstorm in persut of his beloved sibling. He knew halfway in that their efforts were all vein, the snow had covered over everything and the territory was much to vast. But denial made him immune to the numbness in his paws, the freezing temperatures and the shoving, mocking wind. He had to find her, even though he knew he never would...
He and the others had returned that morning to confront Valdus, Fierceclaw's father, with the news. For Fierceclaw, every strand of goodness that remained in him throughout all his life's torture had been stripped from him that night, slaughtered by some mysterious violence and dragged away, never to be seen again. Just like his dear sister.
The news had evoked a fit of rage from Valdus. Fierceclaw's sister was who he expected to make it to the throne, Fierceclaw being the runt...well...not many bets were placed on his survival. And in his fury, right in front of them all, Valdus took Fierceclaw's mother's life - blaming her for the "weak blood" since he certainly wouldn't blame himself. Startled gasps echoed around the dark cave, the king's lair. Though Fierceclaw watched without even getting up from his bow, without a flinch, without a care...he was far too gone.
And he'd made up his mind that day.
He became the monster they had always intended him to be. Sadistic, ruthless, beautiful in battle. He lead patrols, organized hunts and even the battle which tore through a neighboring clan who refused to submit territory. Though, soon, they realized he was becoming a little too much for comfort... Officials were slaughtered for the most insignificant reasons, warriors who might've stammered the wrong words in his presence, or simple a cat who'd caught him in a bad mood. They began to fear him, even the highest ranking lynx cats flinched as his shadow crossed their face. Perhaps this was why no one was surprised when he turned on his father one day...
Fierceclaw seized control of the clan and he ruled in terror. No one crossed him, and no one failed, or else their lives were abruptly ended. Usually it was at the claws of his lynx guards trying to kiss up, though Fierceclaw himself wasn't completely clean of blood. He lead them into battle and won more victories than his saner pride could survive. And in no time, Fierceclaw truly believed he was a god on earth.
As their border continued to expand, a subtle surprise came when a small clan they now shared a border with refused to give up their territory. It was hilarious, really. They were a sweet little clan, believing in some kind of "heavenly light", even calling themselves Favere` which was the native word for "hope". They'd said that was the land their warrior ancestors had given to them and that those same warrior ancestors had told them not to give it up. Needless to say, Fierceclaw and the other higher ups'd had a field day with that one. Dead cats, talking to them. It was priceless. These cats' apprentices were promoted to warrior status simply for growing up and catching a rabbit or two. What a bloodbath this would be.
Fierceclaw didn't even go to that first battle. He'd just sent out a small group with instructions to kill them all except a few prisoners to bring back for grins and giggles. So perhaps you could imagine the shock that rippled through Haliska when only one of their warriors made it back, bloody, broken, sputtering almost incoherently about how impossibly strong they were. He certainly hadn't been allowed to live very long after that. Weak, pathetic coward. It was embarrassing. Favere` had even gone so far as to send a messenger owl telling Haliska to surrender, that they didn't want to fight but would if they must.
Fierceclaw had been slightly disturbed though still in good humor as he sent a larger group out for round two. Only this time no warriors came back... That was when everything went to heck.
Lightning flashed wickedly as the freezing rain poured, the perfect outward manifestation of Fierceclaw's outrage as he lead his army into the Favere` valley. An otherworldly battle cry splitting the air with the thunder was the only warning they had before the Haliskans roared through their camp. They killed everything they could get their claws on. Queens, kits, elders, everything. Fierceclaw himself had lost it. Clawing and digging and ripping and pinning, the taste of blood and the feeling of fur tearing beneath his claws was like a crack addition that was not only nurtured throughout his life, but it was bred into him. He'd even taken out one of his own who'd gotten between him and a Favere` warrior. Though, as time went on, and Fierceclaw noticed it wasn't getting harder to find a new enemy. If anything them teaming up on him was only getting worse. Looking around at the bodies littering the clearing, to his absolute shock, he recognized most of them. They were his warriors. Even the lynx lay fallen.
It made no sense. Absolutely no sense. Not only was Favere`outnumbered three fold, but they couldn't fight! They had absolutely NO training compared to the advancements Haliska had made. Fierceclaw had been slaughtering them like rabbits in a lion's den with hardly ANY real injuries to himself. What in the world was going on?!
That was his army. There was no more defense for Haliska if they failed here. The owl had said Favere` intended to completely wipe them out if they proceeded with this war. There were nothing but she-cats, kits, trainees and simple guards left at home. So Fierceclaw did what any noble Haliskan would do, in his situation...
He left.
Moons had passed since that fateful night. And Fierceclaw had never stopped walking. His mind wouldn't allow him to. He had no idea where he was going, or why. But every step was haunted. Voices from long past resurfaced in his mind constantly. His father, his trainers, his brother's wheezing beaths. They mocked him in his dreams and prodded him like tireless demons by day. He even began to turn against himself. Surely he wasn't Zyku. This would not have happened to Zyku, king of Haliska. And so even his own voice began to join in on the mockery of who he had been reduced to. It wasn't a split personality per say, it was more like how a self-conscious person might punish themself after every imperfection. That voice that said they weren't good enough was their own in a sense. And slowly, over time, that monster Fierceclaw had been slowly began to eb away into depression and bitterness. Everything he had ever worked for his entire life was gone. All those moons of grueling training, all those wounds from merciless battles, all those taunts and jeers of his trainers and adversaries, all of it was endured for the simple hope of becoming king some day. Of turning it all on their heads. Of making them eat those words along with the poison of his hate...And all of it was taken away by the most unexpected enemy. A soft, family clan. And that infamous name for whom they claimed they drew their power would haunt his mind forever...
Starclan.
The furious thunderstorm from the night before left droplets of moisture lingering on every leaf and grass blade. The simi-swampy forest seemed much less "simi" as a result of those icy rains and dirty mud puddles littered the mushy, bramble-covered ground. Clouds still blocked most of the sun's desperate rays from shining through to the dark forest floor, thickening every shadow, accenting every threatening thorn, gleaming dully off every water particle in the thick mist and darkening every puddle.Cats you RP: 1
The Meandering Stream, as it was called, was much higher now. The stream's banks were deep through this section though it was still very narrow. Thick, tangling grasses and weeds which were weighed down heavily by the moisture lined those banks and out of the corner of one's eye, a movement could be seen.
It was smooth, it was quiet and it was dark. The perfect camouflage in this misty setting. No, one's senses weren't of much use in tracking this shadow. Well, except smell of coarse.
Well toned muscles rippled smoothly beneath the loner's abyssal black pelt. His damp fur was spiked wildly from the moisture and his intimidating orbs pierced through the darkness like glowing blue embers. Young paws that had lead hundreds onto the battle field made not a sound as they carried the small tom skillfully through the brambles and bushes without hardly disturbing them at all.
His dark nose drank in the scents of many cats as he approached the edge of the bank. There was a large group nearby: a territory-owning clan. Just because he'd ignored the scent markers when he crossed the border didn't mean he hadn't noticed them. And all the cats seemed to carry a similar scent which added to his theory of a clan. There was only one thing that added doubt to his mind and that was the other scents. It seemed this territory was also a popular hang out for loners and rogues. Fierceclaw wasn't the only intruder who'd been here lately. Maybe this clan's defenses were down because of all the destruction that had torn through this area like an ungodly force. Fierceclaw was no stranger to tornadoes; he knew their work when he saw it. But perhaps these cats didn't know how to cope with the loss of prey. Poor fools. Maybe they'd appreciate some...guidance.
The cold water hit his stomach like a kick in the gut as he crouched to take in slow drinks from the swift moving stream. It was hard, considering he hadn't had anything to drink in a while. But drinking too fast was a wish for a handicapping gut-ache. He noticed another scent in the area but wasn't alarmed. Maybe whoever it was could help him understand this situation a little more completely.
Names of cats: .
Other:
