WHAT MAKES A WARRIOR | open, attempted joining.

[center][fancypost=borderwidth; width: 428px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; line-height: 12px; font-size: 7pt]she'd heard of them before, the clan cats; they were a story spread through the street, ally, and stray cats - pesky legends made up to keep them from wandering too far into the forest and claiming land that was taken by other strays. mischa had never really cared for the forest in the first place, had known that if she went in she likely would get lost and she hadn't been prepared enough to survive in a place that did not work like the city. however, much had happened in the city as of late and mischa found herself considering how easy it would be to escape to the forest and ignore the terf war that had left many of her comrades and fellow street cats dying in ally ways screaming for the help that wouldn't come. it had all gone to hell and mischa had finally decided that she needed to get out - she may have made her own there and it was unlikely that any would try to take what was her's but she could not run that risk. her life mattered more the longer she went on, the longer her mind twisted and fell as her instincts slowly came to the front; she had to survive and if it left her "friends" dead then so be it. on the streets no one had any friends, you had allies, and even then... you trusted no one. it was a lonely existence, one fueled by paranoia and violence but after she had been abandoned it was the only one she knew. she'd been forced to learn the rules on her own and she had thrived in a dog eat dog world; she cared for herself and she took care of herself and the needs of others never slowed her down, never inhibited her from doing what needed to be done. she'd killed, most have, and she'd done it for selfish reasons but she did not regret it - her need to feed and shelter herself had come before their needs. did that make her cruel? she didn't think so but, then again, she never cared enough to see herself like others did. maybe she'd killed someone's son, brother, father, mother, whatever but it had been them or her and her desire to live had conquered those doubts instantaneously.

she may not know what she's doing or how she is supposed to find food in the forest but she was going to find out, she had before and she will again. maybe now she'd get a chance at prey that was crazed or skinny, maybe she'd get to taste other things besides pigeons and rats and the trash that the humans threw out in large cans. she couldn't be upset about leaving, that'd get her nowhere now - she'd left, she needed to own that and she needed to move forward and continue to do as she had done. it was a new place, not a new story. she would live, she would thrive, and she would continue to look for her son; however, she now had a reason to. the city had controlled her and forced her to focus on herself but the forest... the forest offered some kind of safety, tranquility, and while she did not plan on staying she would enjoy the limited freedom she was given before she would finally begin her hunt. her little boy was out there somewhere and she may have been idle for months, she now had the time, the resources, and the smarts to hunt him down. the silver coon closed her eyes for a second, blinking away the wave of emotions that hit her - she couldn't allow that, not now; she'd find him, she had no doubt and pissing around and being soft wasn't going to help at this moment but... well, she couldn't exactly help the feelings that overcame her.

she'd remembered when everything had been so simple, when she'd never gone hungry and had more pounds to spare... when she'd sat upon a velvet throne with her son and had never had a care in the world. many abhorred this image, many could never imagine living like that, but they had never known such a life - what were they to judge someone who did not need to worry? who was taken care of and had a life of peace and tranquility; of never wondering if tomorrow would be your last or if your children would live. maybe mischa was biased or maybe she was correct but she would always defend her kittypet life, always. it had been the place she had been born, been raised, been happy in and despite the fact others would find it soft and boring, she'd loved it. she'd cared for her people - another fact most did not understand, a kittypet owned their people; they worked for them and it was a thrilling thought to imagine - she'd loved them like they were her kits and despite the fact they had ultimately abandoned her, she still cared deeply for them. stray cats had always told her that kittypets were weak, feeble creatures who couldn't survive; well then what the hell was she? their argument would always prove invalid to mischa because they didn't understand - they were to narrow minded to know what being a kittypet truly meant.

to mischa, kittypets would always be the stronger breed because they were the ones who needed to change the most, who saw the most, who learned faster and became something better. others did not understand what they went through, what they had to prove and the sheer determination that was forced upon them. then again, others didn't care enough to see past a label, to see what greatness laid beneath. she'd done so much in just a few months and she was proud of that, proud of her heritage, and she would prove to anyone who believed her weak. she shook her fur slightly, pushing forward through the forest at a faster pace - she was calm now, determination seeping into her self again and giving her the boost of confidence that she had needed; all feelings of what was and what could have been drifting off as her mind trailed at a speed she could not keep up with. maybe no one would understand, maybe someone would, but her mind had long ago ceased to make sense and had ceased to follow a path that others could understand. maybe she was mad or maybe she was brilliant... hell if she knew. she paused when her feet hit the familiar feel of pavement - she cast a quick glance to either side before continuing her pace across, unaffected as she slipped to the other side. she'd crossed enough streets before to know when to worry and this one was empty compared to the busy streets she'd needed to cross in the past. whomever had said this forest was dangerous must have been driven mad with disease, foaming at the mouth as they spit story of fake dangers to keep them from wondering into an unfamiliar land. mischa had sensed no danger, and met no wild cats, and had seen nothing to make her see that the forest could have something beneath it will to kill her. however, she did not let her guard down, a lesson taught through time - even when you believe yourself to be safe, don't let your guard down, in the next second you'll be dead.

it was the sound of rustling that caught her attention and had her head snapping around and a snarling forming in her throat. her claws unseethed, and her back went up as she switched into a position of warning; she had no idea what was out there - whether it be cat or dog or fox or whatever, she dared not let herself be ambushed because she was unprepared and confused. she had more than enough experience in fights to be able to protect herself if a threat were to make itself known, she kept herself calm as she snarled again her body staying in the twisted position as she awaited the arrival of the beast. then... a smell hit her, it smelled of territory, swamp, and something akin to feline. it was unknown to her and it made her even more hostile, she did not do well with the unknown and she kept herself ready for a fight as she opened her mouth to speak: "hello?" it was rough, thick with disuse and for the hanging accent that clung to her despite having lived in this english speaking country for so long. she flicked the remains of her right ear as she focused her hearing, to try and get a better grasp of what was wandering around in the brush. the smell grew stronger and she soon realized that while she had been so consumed in her thoughts she had wondered into a territory that was not hers. maybe it was the owner wanting to start a fight or chase her out; they wouldn't get far of course, as mischa did not back down if the opportunity was right. her eyes narrowed and zoomed in as more scents began to appear, more sounds, and voices. she couldn't make them out but she knew that she was out numbered but she still held her ground; fleeing would give them happiness and she was not about to let someone push her around - no matter how many of them there were.

//holy shit,,, don't feel like you have to match muse!
this was written pretty awkwardly so it probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense but
i was trying to get her thought process right aha

[center][fancypost=borderwidth; width: 428px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; line-height: 12px; font-size: 7pt]mischa hadn't exactly lost her people, not really, they'd left her on her own and while it stung she couldn't ignore the fact that they had at least tried to give her some kind of better life. she knew her people wouldn't do that unless they had a reason - they wouldn't take her away from her son unless they had to and while it seemed strange to some and probably pretty preposterous, mischa had forgiven them. she wanted to find them, she wanted to find smokey, and she wanted to return to the life they had before; the peaceful and happy life that had ensured the life of her family with little to no fear. she couldn't keep running as she had, fear burned away at you, fear drove you and consumed you and it had utterly consumed mischa. she'd simply learned how to force it far enough down that no one could sense it because if someone could sense it: you died. it was simple, it was so simple and the more she repeated it the more it made sense. here you could make mistakes and you could be okay but out there, on your own, if you made one mistake that was it, that was the end of you, you had no one to scold you and to teach you a better way because you didn't live long enough to do that.

mischa had fallen as the queen of her velvet throne, that could not be denied, although, what many did not understand was that when a king fell from their throne they could always rise again. it didn't mean the end, it never meant the end, it simply began a new story and a change for that monarch. if someone can fall they can get back up, they can rise again into whatever shape they want to - maybe they'll never achieve that status of royalty again but they can damn well get near it again. when mischa had been left alone, a queen had fallen, when she'd survived the streets, a general had risen. she would never be the queen again but she could still be great in the state she'd been left in, she'd ensured it. she had fought hard enough to get to where she was, had shown that housecats had more determination than any feral cat could ever understand; she hadn't wanted to die, and she'd lived up until this point despite the odds staked against her. housecats were strong, they were so strong if they were given a chance because they had so much to show, so much hidden knowledge that so many wildcats would never understand. they didn't starve because they knew were humans threw their food, where the best places to sleep in towns were - they knew more than the feral cats ever could and it's why they lived in situations like hers.

she body tightened again as a figure made it's way out of the bush - tiny and oh so young; she couldn't figure why the kitten was here or why he seemed to be faking some kind of bravery. she tightened her jaw slightly as her narrowed gaze seemed to soften slightly before she moved into a somewhat more relaxed position. not quite dropping her hostile stance, she couldn't be too careful, couldn't become comfortable just because this was a kitten - she didn't know if he was alone, she couldn't assume because, oh you guessed it, assumption led to death. although, she managed to let the snarling stop, and the sneer on her face to drop as she looked over the brown tabby; she could take him if need be, she knew it probably wouldn't come there and she wouldn't hurt him but... if the situation escalated it wouldn't take much to contain and stop him. the closer she looked at the fellow the softer her eyes grew until she finally noticed the collar resting around her neck and a soft gaze landed on the kid - almost ignoring the question he had asked, tossing it aside and placing them into an unimportant file.

"dat collar, where did you get it?" maybe not the first thing that she should have said but at this point mischa didn't care much about whether she was rude or kind - she needed answers and she wouldn't spare the child his time for pointless answers that would be lost anyway. she would answer him, would give him her name and her purpose but what would be the point? you don't remember fleeting people, you can meet them once and their face will be gone the next second and there was really no point in becoming acquainted with those who would never mean something to you. "your people, dey are close by, yes?" she did not trust strangers on the streets - you simply couldn't in the city. however, whoever this feline owned could be trusted, the collar showed that he ruled somewhere and that was important. although, she couldn't ignore the thinness of the child nor could she ignore the cobwebs wrapped around his leg [their purpose unbeknownst to her] and from there she came to the conclusion that he must have been lost but then... who was this shadowclan he had spoken of? she still doubted the existence of the clan cats but she could not ignore the way he had said that, as if he lived somewhere where there were more of him. more housecats? lost creatures like herself? she couldn't be sure, when could she ever anymore. "who de hell is shadowclan?" should she tell him who she was? no, no, never do that - ask questions first, don't respond until you have their trust. [color=black]"and who de hell are you?"

[center][fancypost=borderwidth; width: 428px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; line-height: 12px; font-size: 7pt]Feral wasn’t something you could be born with, something you could be given like a gift, no, no, there was a difference between wild and feral. A clear rift that separated them and it didn’t matter if you had the blood of some ancient wildcat running through your veins because that didn’t make you feral, maybe it gave you a better chance, but it just didn’t put you in her state - in the state of so many other strays and streetcats. There was a reason they were tainted the way they were - why clan cats and strays could never be the same and it was because of the rift; wild and feral, wild and feral, always two sides of the same coin, always there but never touching. You weren’t given feral, you achieved feral; feral beat you into submission until you were nothing but an instinct run being, until coherent thought mingled with the thoughts of pure animal: eat, sleep, breed. When you no longer could tell which thoughts were yours and which ones were the animal’s. You could believe yourself feral, could fake it in order to prove something but… but you would never understand the itch to fight, to kill, to eat, to survive on the level like them. There was simply no way you could understand it, no, no, not until you’d been awoken like she had been.

The feline was trying too hard, that was obvious - she wanted to match what she believed she could, it was funny really, watching someone imitate feral as if they had any clue what it really meant. Mischa didn’t blink, didn’t twist herself to look at the claws she knew would be out, the voice didn’t hit her - didn’t frighten her; if she was being honest, this was one of the more tamer situations she had been in. She found the little thing funny, she was trying to prove something that didn’t need to be proved; did she think that she was something frightening? After everything that Mischa had bore witness to, she was nothing. The lava wasn’t even a flame and her voice nothing more than a pesky child - the Maine coon had stared death in the face, had fought off dogs, rats, birds, foxes, anything and everything one could even think about. She’d watched fellow felines succumb to the mad disease and attack and brutalize, had seen true horror. This feline, this clan cat apparently, was nothing but a faceless and feeble thing that thought herself some kind of beast… a lie she told herself because it was what she’d been taught to believe. Lies, lies, lies - she couldn’t understand no matter how badly she wanted to, she had nothing for Mischa to fear. Nothing but a god-complex and a want to be some kind of impossibly perfect creature… she found it so terribly pathetic.

Icy eyes met fiery ones without hesitation, matching a stare with as much vigor as it was given - maybe the feline believed herself to be scary, intimidating, or something like that but to Mischa she was nothing but a rag doll; a toy that would get pushed around and destroyed where she had come from, maybe she wanted to prove something to Mischa, but she didn't know nor did she really care. The large Maine coon easily towered over the small female but she knew size could be deceiving, that she was small but she'd likely be fast and agile - that knowledge again heightened her ability, her chances, she accepted the other's abilities and settled herself into a lower position; unnoticeable for those who didn't know what they were looking for. Mischa held the gaze before pulling her lip back slightly, her blue eyes snapping towards the young child who had been hushed by the wildcat; she didn't know the relationship, but it had angered her, the way the wildcat had simply silenced the pet, the king, with simply a look. To some it wouldn't mean anything but to someone like Mischa, a kittypet by heart and a mother by soul, the sight of the weak thing infuriated her - sent a spike of rage throughout her body with the apparent treatment the child was getting. She supposed it was common, wildcats only cared for blood... in the kin sense, outsiders had no place - how pathetic, how had they survived so long? Mischa gave an internal huff of laughter as a sudden realization hit her - these mutts must have been so inbred they no longer could tell sane from mad.

"You'll get what you give." she said it calmly, her voice holding back the normal agression she would have used to insinuate authority; despite her feral state, she was not an idiot and she knew when a situation needed tact. Her chest puffed out before her head tilted towards the kid, her chin pressed lightly against her chest - protecting her throat. "As you have given, my name is Mischa - it's a pleasure Moc." she hadn't heard the end of his name but she used what she had and addressed him with as much respect as her muddled mind could give; maybe they didn't treat him right here but from what she could see, they were one in the same. She flicked her single ear before letting out something like a smile, it was awkward and looked off on her stone face but she did her best - it was all she could give when she'd spent so long as was. Now, it was time to address the second part of what the child had said, she gave a side eye towards the female before mentally waving her off as useless immediately - she wouldn't get what she wanted because the other was too interested in acting tough. “I trespass in a lot of territories, what makes yours so special?” her voice was still rough, slowing down and sharp - a soft hint of teasing laced in, territories meant little to her unless she owned them. She’d weaved through territories before - stolen from street gangs and left before they had figured anything wrong; had claimed and battled for scraps and she wasn't afraid of fighting her way out of this one. Fear wasn't rushing through her and she found no reason to figure this situation as danger - her body wasn't reacting and thus she felt no need to do so either, because you see:

Fear kept you alive.

It was a mechanism designed to do that, designed to keep you moving and breathing even when you felt like you had absolutely nothing left. It killed you when you gave in, not when you listened, that was something that needed to be understood. She'd lived so long because she'd listened but she had never given in - not when her crown had been shattered, not when her gown had been shredded, not when her kingdom had been taken away, not when her little prince vanished, and not when her supposed "king" had been left behind; giving in ended you... destroyed you. Those living haven't given up, those who survived struggled but in the end it was fear and determination that kept them alive. If you listened, you lived, if you didn't, you died. it was a simple concept and right now Mischa felt nothing - no fear, no desire to turn tail and get the hell out... wildcats were nothing but a weaker version of strays and she'd handled strays much longer than she had these mutts - fear wasn't something she would give them; she found them amusing at the very least. The female was trying far too hard and Mischa felt nothing but terror coming from the child - understandable, of course.

She titled her head again, she never left eye contact with the small male - bored with the female, and more focused on the easy and quick responses she was getting from the male - however shaky and unformed they were, it was something. She was confused as to what exactly they meant by "reason"; did she need a reason? She went where she pleased and it wasn't as if anyone had any sure claim in a land - Mischa had owned territory but she had never stopped people from coming and going as it would have been ridiculously stupid to even try. It was more than confusing to listen to them demand something that she didn't have - she was traveling, was that a reason? "Do I need a reason?"

[center][fancypost=borderwidth; width: 428px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; line-height: 12px; font-size: 7pt]//just a small boop C: