✦ DIRTY PAWS » s w i f t f o o t

NAME / NICKNAMES swift // swiftpaw // swiftfoot

NAME ORIGIN she was given the prefix of swift by her mother, to bless her tiny paws in the flight for survival; foot is in reference to her quick-footed paws and her competent hunting ability.

AGE & DATE OF BIRTH 60 moons // spring

CLAN OF BIRTH + RANK windclan [warrior]

GENDER & SEX cis female // female

SEXUALITY asexual

RELATIONSHIP single

FAMILY vivian [mother]; leon [father]; lily [sister]; lotus [brother]

FRIENDS tba

ENEMIES tba

PERSONALITY

"I've no time for the troubled, or the traumatized, or the weak," the she-cat says with a dismissive snort. "Get over it. I certainly did. You don't see me wailing about my life in the city, crying about how mama never came home. No. I moved on. Because that's what survival is. It's running alongside the flow of life, never resisting, never questioning. Oh, you think that's bitter? You think I'm too harsh? Ha! How cute. Perhaps once you've lived nearly as many moons as I have you'll think of things differently."

Swiftfoot has had a hard life. Certainly, the city doesn’t produce the finest – or classiest – of she-cat’s, and she practically reeks of former stray, from her random mix of breeding to her clipped, drawling accent. Once a kitten bound with hope and dreams for the future ahead, that was torn from her the moment she opened her eyes and was met with the glassy gaze of her dead sibling in the midst of an alleyway. Indeed life hasn’t been very fair for this ragged cat.

As such her history has rendered her rather cynical. She isn't fair towards newcomers or young warriors, and she has hardly any time for kittens. She's harsh and blunt to the point of easily being seen as cruel; Swiftfoot understands that life as a cat isn't easy, and so she blocks off any sympathy for stragglers or weaklings and instead focuses on the cats she know will make fine warriors. It isn't that she takes pleasure in their suffering - she just wants to see the clan thrive, and knows the ones that flourish are the strongest cats of all.

"But caring for all clan cats is my duty? I'm supposed to protect the puny and hard-done-by? That's the job of a warrior, you say?" She purrs with amusement at the mere thought, though her tail lashes with barely suppressed irritation. "Listen well and listen good, honey; my job is to help you thrive. Nothing more, nothing less. You want me to say it? Fine. The deaths of the feeble, broken and innocent truly are a tragedy. I won't deny that. If only they'd been birthed into different circumstances. In the end however they are the minority. To see a Clan that's strong, to see cats that contribute and flourish and work together - that's all I want to see. Hate me for my opinions if you wish - I honestly don't care - but do not confuse my beliefs and actions with cruelty. Believe me, that couldn't be farther from the truth."

She’s packed to the brim with a fiery stubbornness; an opinionated passion that earns her more enemies than it does friends. On the subject of companions Swiftfoot doesn’t have many herself. Though an adept and loyal cat, she struggles with mundane conversation and prefers to conserve her energy for the inevitable work to be done in or outside the camp. It’s no secret that she struggles along, even when tired and weak, to contribute to the clancats whom at one point saved her from the very brink of death. Even though she is as rough and troubled around the edges as a cat can be, she is above all a cat whom understands her debt; she is not one to resort to seedy measures, or to take her current circumstances for granted. She lives in the moment, dedicating herself to the clan’s way of life, providing her body and strength as a replacement for words in expressing her gratitude. She mightn’t be at all gracious but she is incredibly decisive and dependable.

Swiftfoot is a loyal warrior, dedicated and hardworking, and she does care deeply about the clan. She's easily offended, and has very traditional values; she believes in respecting your elders, as they have earned their honorable rank through hard work alone, and those more experienced with you. She has no tolerance for rudeness and interruptions to higher-ranking cats. She does, however, hold contempt for the medicine cats; again, she believes the wounds of young warriors should be allowed to heal on their own, as a testament to one's strong body. She seems jittery and paranoid around the healers of the Clan, as if unsure on how to treat or speak to them. As such she simply treats them with an abrasiveness coldness, choosing to ignore their very presence in the Clan.

"The elders were once young, strong warriors just like we are now. They deserve the ease and comfort of Clan life, for they have served Windclan with honor and dignity. One day hopefully we will also reside in the very same den they inhabit; we will have dedicated all our energy, all our soul, into serving our leader, and we would have been loyal to our utmost." A flash of pride lights up her green eyes and she raises her head and tail, as if dreaming of the day. "What? You say elders are weak? Puny little kitten. They have fared longer than you ever will in these moors; they are whom paved the path of history, the ones who's footsteps you so desire to follow. Watch that tongue of yours, kitty; anymore disrespectful questions and I won't hesitate to rip it clean out."

Swiftfoot has an obsession with raising the strength and potential in a cat; she has no time for the weak, and thus those young and feeble have to endure her harsh critique, biting punishments and severe overtime. In a sense she can almost come across as a savage, having no respect for the youth whom have little to contribute and barely sparing them a moment's glance within her presence. She is certainly not afraid to speak her mind, and her methods as a warrior can be downright harsh, although in the eyes of Swiftfoot these measures are required and justified. She has no fear when it comes to making enemies and at times seems much too eager to run into battle, especially if it means protecting the clan's honor and dignity.

"Insult Windclan and I'll show you just how fearsome we can be! Would you like a taste of my powerful bite? Or perhaps a slice of torn claws? It's your call. My personal favorite punishment is when you grip tight down on the windpipe, until you have the enemy begging for mercy! I did that once with an enemy warrior, when he insulted our Clan. Did I finish them off? ...Hmph. The Warrior Code has taught me better, so despite the treason I knew I had to let him live." She narrows her eyes, forcefully spitting the words from her mouth; despite how tempting it would be to reek vengeance on such a warrior, the moral code of ethics her mentor has instilled within her still seems to have some guidance over her judgement. Suddenly, she smirks. "But I did leave him with a lovely scar! All the way across the ribs. What a lovely way to be taught a lesson! Hopefully next time he'll think twice before messing with the strongest Clan in these lands."

She's very forceful of her opinions which aren't always right. She has great trouble seeing another point of view, and tends to look at things with a vivid sense of black-and-white. To Swiftfoot there exists no grey area; there is only what she strongly believes is right, and what she firmly thinks is wrong. Despite this she does carry a moral compass; she upholds the warrior code, even if she doesn't always agree with its rules, namely because it is as ancient and as apart of the Clan as the elders are. She treats it with reluctant respect, and only breaks it when there is a definite, pressing need of that happening.

Along with that, she has a rather twisted sense of humor, something that's been carried with her from her earliest days in the city. Back then it had been essential to possess wittiness; without a healthy dose of cheer then the fire in a cat's spirit would easily wane and quell. The problem is that what Swiftfoot finds amusing, most find disturbing; jokes about death, crow's pickings, bloody battles and aching times are not exactly great ways to lift one's mood. Treating these things as jokes however was a part of what helped Swiftfoot survive; if she laughed at it, if she no longer feared it, then what power did it have over her? A snide, sarcastic comment and an awkward joke helped her harden to the troubles she faced; it steeled her insides and stole away her fear. It was Swiftfoot's way of dealing with all the trauma that she'd seen and experienced.

"Ah yes, the Warrior Code...well, I have to uphold it. I am a Windclan cat. It's my duty and responsibility to understand and respect every individual rule, no matter how...off putting. You seem surprised by that. 'Oh! She's not such a savage after all!' Is that what you're thinking? No...? You still think I'm a nasty piece of work, huh? Young'un, that's your choice and it is not my will to change it. However mull over this; have you ever seen me harm a kitten? Do I eat the bones of apprentices for breakfast? Ha! As much as I'd like to gnaw on your tasty bones, little cat, I'll resist for now. The point is that I would never do such a thing, even if I so desired to. There is a difference between preying on the weak, and simply letting them find their own way; what? You don't understand? Use that darn mouse-dung ridden brain of yours then! I will always be strong, in both opinions and passion, but I will never be a dictator, never a killer of those born under my protection. That is nature's job to decide, and she'll decide, don't you worry - that is why we mustn't interfere, mustn't pity or coddle the fragile and sick. If they are meant to live then they will by their own merits - not by the help of any others."

She's come a long way from living life alone in the city; her teamwork skills and ability to cooperate have improved, and upon being made a warrior she seems to be attempting a self-conscious effort to listen to the opinions of her clanmates. She seems to be trying to further better herself as a Clancat, in an attempt to strengthen her abilities and confidence in becoming the best cat she can possibly be. Although she doesn't show it, truthfully she is nervous at the mere prospect of having such a weighty responsibility on her shoulders, and wishes only to serve her Clan in the best way possible.

Despite her flaws she works hard for Windclan, and only wants it to flourish. She cares for the clan mates which meet her high standards, and only wants what's best for them; despite her cynical rudeness, it’s easy to see that above all else Swiftfoot is a cat trying to do right by Windclan, even if her decisive actions do not always wield the best for her beloved clanmates.

"Ah yes, I suppose that is all I wish to tell you for now. What? You want more? Don't be such a demanding kittypet! I'll talk when I wish. Although what you know now should be sufficient enough. Whether this changes your opinion on me or not, I frankly don't give a rat's tail. But just know there's more to a tough ol' broad like me then simply the silly label of 'grump.' And..." She seems slightly awkward upon adding this next part, her vigor draining and her voice deepening. "Just so you know...I'm always listening. Yes, even to you, kitty. You might think I'm not. But I am. Whenever you seek me out, with a disagreement, a question, a calling...My ears are wide open. So you needn't fret about that...What? You want me to say it again? Right! Get back to work! I want you to pick every last tick off the elders and to change every single cats' bedding! Don't forget that dear apprentice friend of yours. I hear he has a habit of wetting himself. Come now, no more dillydallying, off to it, chop, chop!"

— positive traits determined, loyal, honest, self disciplined, reliable, practical, assertive, reliable

— neutral traits passionate, ambitious, opinionated, efficient, adaptable, traditional

— negative traits aloof, harsh, cynical, stubborn, judgemental, proud

MBTI TYPE ISTJ

HOUSE slytherin

NATURAL ALIGNMENT true neutral

AESTHETIC

Her appearance is that of a true wildcat; fur pressed close to her ribs, her muscles rippling beneath ragged fur, and her legs lean and long. Her name is Swiftfoot; heralding from a tough upbringing on the streets, she carries that air of brutality along with her. It shines through her very appearance; from the ragged, burry pelt to the torn claws and gleaming eyes, Swiftfoot certainly could not be mistaken for anything other than a battle-worn clancat.

She has her name for a reason; despite her thin and jaunty build, she's quick on her feet and has great endurance to match. Fast and efficient, whether it's in hunting or fighting Swiftfoot plans to have the job done as quickly as possible. Her ears are small and rounded to a tip on her scarred head, and an ugly scar runs from her forehead to the base of her nose in a jagged, uneven line. This wound was the result of a harsh scuffle back in her city days, when a feisty rogue had fought with her over uncertain territory and raked long claws down her once beautiful face. Although other scars fade this one remains prominent to this very day; a symbol of life as a stray, where twolegs and dogs and even fellow cats are all enemies to be feared.

Her pelt is a dark brown, like that of the mud at the pit of a dirtied puddle. Her tail is long and lashes hypnotically as she walks, even when she's in a good mood, though admittedly to find her in such a way is quite rare. Her gold-tinted green eyes are striking and shine with an intimidating glow, flecked with the slightest tinge of sea green and dark amber.

She carries an unusual breeding compared to the other fellow cats of Windclan, further accentuating her differences; she's a mixed havana brown, with a slight blend of Abyssinian, as complimented by her long legs and lean build. That's as far as recognizable breeding goes however; from then on she's a mix of anything and everything wild that you'll find roaming the street.

HISTORY

the parents}}

The first thing you must know about Vivian is that, while she used to be a kittypet, that did not exactly mean she was appreciated or loved.

Quite the opposite actually. The image of a kittypet brings to mind many things - pampered, spoiled, fat, a ball of fluff basking lazily in the morning sunshine - but rarely does one ever think of a dark, dingy country house, where twenty cats roam cramped within, living and repopulating and festering among their own waste.

This was the first sight Vivian was met with upon opening her eyes; the unmistakable scent of defecation and dried blood haunted the stale, musky air, and a crowd of cats swarmed like bees through their hive of a living room. Occasionally the female twoleg whom presided over them would clatter open the door and the cats would stream forward in a hissing rush, snarling and mewling and begging for the splashes of dried pellets that she would rain down upon them.

It was a terrible existence, would the older cats lament; these cats had once known a life where they were allowed outside, where their twolegs would feed them regularly and they had been petted and loved and coddled over. But apparently these cats' families had tired of them; in one of their stories, a withered old tom named Blu had said that, though his family had loved him very much and he in return, they had had a baby and no longer was he a welcome presence around the house. So he was given to the shelter, where he would soon adopted by the Lady. Death would be much more welcome compared to her withered old face.

Many cats had similar stories like this. From what Vivian gathered the Lady was an obsessive animal hoarder, whom loved cats with an intense passion but did not have the abilities or the state of mind to care for them all. So they were cooped up in her tiny house, a Clan of grumpy, angry, worn cats, from pregnant to kittens to aging blind elders. Vivian was one of the few who knew no different from the cramped house, although she did know one thing for sure - she wanted out.

When Vivian was six months old an older tom, named Leon, became a brief mate of hers; there was no romance involved, and the decision was merely influenced by the tiny space they lived in and immense stress and unhappiness that the cats were under. They parted soon after and eventually Vivian's stomach was swollen by the heavy presence of developing kittens.

It came to the point where it was not unusual to see a dead body crawling with flies. Infection was wide spread, and so were bitter attacks from the other cats; Vivian learned to become a character of the background, avoiding others and keeping to herself whenever possible. She did not join the constant battles for food. As she became weaker and weaker, it seemed she and kittens were destined for doom; never knowing a life different from that of a captive's, never feeling the wind in her fur.

It was most likely coincidence, although Vivian wanted to believe it was more than just that; a force, a higher power, fate, well, she'd never know. But when she reached two months of pregnancy they came. The kind humans. The one's with gentle cooing voices and soft hands. Many were saved on that fateful day; taken back with the twolegs, patched up, and adopted out to loving homes.

Vivian was not one of those lucky cats.

When the kind twolegs barged in, there were a few lucky ones whom seized their chance; the young, skittish cats namely, terrified of twoleg hands and fast on their feet. Vivian weaved through the twolegs, dodged their nets, avoided their baskets and cages; finally she was out of that cramp, horrible room. Hugging close to the corridor she hid, dark pelt melding with the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to run. It came a mere hour later when, unnoticed, the twolegs held open the door. Vivian shot past immediately, leaping down a flight of stairs and dashing away as fast as she could from the only home she'd ever known.

For the first time in her life she felt fresh wind ruffling her fur, and scented vivid smells she'd never even smelled before. She ventured through damp alleys, across crowded streets (barely avoiding being squashed under the wheels of a roaring monster) and down avenues trawling with twolegs. So overwhelmed by it all, Vivian was forced to retreat into lonesome back alleys. There she awkwardly learned to hunt rats, and lay quietly in wait for the inevitable birth of her children, hiding in soggy old boxes and in deep, brooding shadows.

When her children were born, she had so many hopes for them. She dreamed of the freedom they'd have, and the happiness, and of how they'd grow up wild and unsullied by twoleg paws. This was where Swift's life began.

swift's kitten years}}

Imagine awaking in the depths of an alleyway. Eyes opened for the first time, heart pounding with a trepidation mixed with a mingling excitement, and a whole array of new sights and sounds to experience –

And then, before your eyes, lies the body of your dead brother; eyes glassy and body cold, flies alighting on the ears, rats already chewing at the stiff flesh of the legs.

Swift's first memory is exactly that. And then, roughly swung up by the scruff by her weak mother, she’s carried away, deeper into the lurking shadows of the alley.

She later learned the dead body she'd seen had been her younger brother; a runt named Lotus. Mama said he'd never been very strong, and he had been born with a disfigured hind leg. Swift didn't understand - why couldn't they have helped him? Why did mama let him die? Wasn't there anything they could do? As a kitten whom had just opened her wide, baby-bright eyes, she couldn't help pestering her mother with so many innocent, curious questions.

Vivian, weak and thin, did not know the answers. After all, how could she express to her kitten that she couldn't even save herself? She did however try to instill some hope into her two remaining kittens; telling them of the place in which she'd hailed from, she made the two promise that they would live life as cats were supposed to live - wild, free and unrestrained.

"Be strong. Be cunning. Use your wit and your claws and your teeth. And live life like everyday is your last. Go out into the world and live. Be who I couldn't be; do what I couldn't do."

Swift and her sister Lily did not understand at the time. But they promised their mother all the same and soon the conversation was forgotten; life dragged on, and before Swift knew it she was three moons old and hunting sick or injured rats for her mother and sister.

Lily was tiny for her age; Swift, the dominant one of the litter, had been the strongest upon birth, and Vivian had possessed very little milk, meaning the two kittens had been forced to fight over suckling. When Swift had opened her eyes Lily was already dreadfully underdeveloped, the effects of starvation wreaking havoc on her tiny body.

Scared for her sister and mother, Swift promised she would save them. Her mother was ailing fast, and desperately needed more than just stringy rat meat to fill her adult-sized body. Her mind flashing back to the glassy eyes of Lotus staring her blankly straight in the face, Swift resolved that she would not allow them perish like him. No...she loved them too much. They were family.

She thought love could save them. She thought hardwork and determination on her part would see them through. But they were dying, and no matter how hard Swift tried she knew, in the deepest part of her heart, that it was already too late.

On one particular day her mother called Swift to her feet. Lily was nestled in the crook of her neck, breathing ragged and harsh; gently but firmly, Vivian told Swift it was time to leave.

"Will you and Lily come with me?" the little kitten mewled, her eyes bright and brimming with hope.

"No...no, sweetie, we can't. I...we like it here. It's peaceful."

"But...I thought you wanted to see the world? There's gotta be more than this! Come on, I'll help you! Let me help you, mama, please!"

The queen smiled. With her last bit of strength she hooked Swift by the middle and pulled her in close, smoothing the fur of her neck with a warm, rasping tongue.

"You'll be fine. You're strong. I know it."

"No I'm not," she muttered, nestling closer to Lily, "I'm nothing without you."

"This is life, Swift. Cats die. The weak perish by nature's call, and there is naught you can do to stop it." The she-cat suddenly shoved her kitten away with a rough paw. Swift tumbled back, her trembling worsening. With frightened eyes she stared up at her mother; the usual gentle light of her face was replaced by a firm, glowering darkness. When she spoke next her voice was hard. "Now go."

Swift didn't move.

"Go!" she snarled, and the voice was so fearsome, so hoarse, so unlike Vivian's soft melodic tune that Swift turned and sprinted with all her might. Out of the alley, up a long and winding path, past a homeless twoleg with nothing but a blanket to lay on, and finally across the road, narrowly dodging every monster that screeched past.

Not once did she turn back.

the city}}

Learn fast or die. That is the rule for all cats cast onto the city streets; whether by choice, abandonment or birth, the earliest and most important lesson soon became apparent. Learn fast or die.

She fought hard to survive in the cruel reality of the twoleg city. A kitten of four moons was not exactly built for street life. Swift became innovative, a scavenger, feeding on crowfood and ripping through twoleg garbage; prey was scarce and territory even scarcer. With so many cats prowling the city there was hardly any room for the little brown kitten, and she learned fast to never stay in one spot for long.

At six moons old Swift founded her own piece of land; it was a bare, prissy street, where the rubbish was locked tight in cans and the gardens were practically infested with dogs. She remembered her mother's words - be cunning, strong, use teeth and claw - and put all she'd learned to the test. Her stealth was excellent, and she became a tough feline, able to put up a strong fight if the need arose. She'd given little yappy dogs scars to remember, and had once torn a twoleg's leg when they'd attempted to pick her up.

Speaking of the twolegs, they hated her presence, and whenever they saw the ragged cat they'd throw stones, yell, and worst of all - attempt to lure her into their homes with meaty cat food.

She'd seen what happened to cats if they fell into the trap. Yes, they got a delicious meal - but they never came outside again. Rumors of animal-catchers - twolegs whom hunted the strays - circulated about, and tensions started to spark between the street wise cats of the city.

When Swift was eight moons old, she was approached by a gang of tough alley mongrels. They were expanding their own territory and demanded she give up the rights to hers.

"Come now, princess. We're starvin' 'ere! Don't you 'ave a heart?"

"Of course I do," she muttered, shooting a glare at the burly tabby. "But I've told you already, my street's got nuttin' to give."

He snorted at that. "Yeah right. What do you say, boys? You think our pretty lady's telling the truth?"

The cats laughed and prowled forward, tails fluffed and muscles rippling under sheen coats. Panic seared through her chest. "Look...I...I need this territory. I'm hungry too. And if you take this away from me, I'll have nowhere to go and -"

"Not my problem." His gang cheered at that. "What? You want me to pity you? Aww, is the poor widdle kitty scared? Why don't you run back to your twoleg scum, pet. Pathetic weaklings like you don't belong on the street."

They attacked. She fought hard - but she was only 8 moons. The most battle experience she'd had was with lazy kittypets and whiny small dogs. These cats were big, muscly and worst of all, in numbers. Their claws raked down her back, sliced through her pelt, tore across her face, leaving her with a facial scar that has yet to heal to this day.

She ran. Humiliated. Starving. Maybe she was pathetic.

Maybe she was weak.

Just like mama and Vivian.

Driven out of the street she'd come to call home, Swift was beaten and worn. She had no goal in mind; she just wanted to run, to escape the unfairness of it all.

That was when she met him.

Stumbling through a broken alleyway, the rotten scent reminding her of her days with Vivian and Lily, she soon felt the weighty support of a tomcat by her shoulder.

He was just a bit older than her, with handsome amber eyes and a fine grey tabby pelt. He called himself Stone, a kittypet whom had just recently been abandoned by his twolegs in a cardboard box. Leading her to a muddied puddle, Stone gently washed her cuts and wounds; the softness was so fatherly, so gentle, that Swift had soon found herself fast asleep, snuggled against his chest.

He took her under his wing, as he did with many cats. He was so trusting, and always saw the good in all whom passed by; sharing his garbage and rats and even what he'd stolen from human vendors, Swift couldn't help herself admiring his foolishness. She grew to see him as a father figure; his kind demeanor lured all sorts of troubled kittens and abandoned kittypets to his lair. Indeed, he was somewhat of a new celebrity among the strays.

Swift stayed with him for five moons, and for those blissful five moons she finally allowed herself to trust others. But like all good things, life must end. Swift knew that better than anyone. She just didn't expect it to happen in the way that it did.

"P-Please!"

A rasping voice bounced across the walls of the alley, the echo sending a shiver up Swift's spine. Without a moment's hesitation Stone bounded ahead; reluctantly, Swift followed behind him.

They found a tom of seven moons, bloodied and torn with his tongue lolling and his ears shredded. "P-Please," he gasped again, but before he could utter another word Stone pressed his tail to his mouth, shushing him with gentle coos.

"He needs food," said Stone, as he began washing the wounded cat's cuts.

"Really? I mean, I know he does but...it's leaf-bare and the garbage cans aren't as full lately."

"Now!"

Swift bit back her own snapping reply, before dipping her head in acknowledgement and bringing back a maggot infested meat bone.

The tom fed hungrily, and drunk greedily, before rolling painfully to his side and falling into a doze. Stone looked down at the tom with loving eyes. Swift watched on, swallowing her doubt; she was just being paranoid, like she was with every cat that passed by.

...Right?

--

The tomcat, named Ginger, was a feisty male with an ambitious streak; his wounds had stemmed from a fight with a gang, and he showed no regret about his stupid actions, despite the consequences it had brought upon him. He was greedy, hogging the garbage cans and refusing to take his leave even when he'd recovered all his strength. It seemed as if he thought the territory was now rightfully his.

"Kick him out," Swift snarled, unsheathing her claws. "He's a lazy good-for-nothing. What right does he have to munch on your food and mark your borders?"

"He's fine," said Stone with a small sigh. "He just needs my help."

"I can beat some sense into him, if you'd like. Wouldn't that be help enough?"

Stone laughed. "Swift, trust me. I'm a good judge of character. If I thought he were a burden, or a pest, I would be rid of him. Don't worry. I have things under control."

Evidently, he didn't. On one afternoon, on her regular visit to see Stone, Swift caught the tangy scent of fresh blood hanging high in the air. Her blood curled. She knew what had happened before she'd even seen it. Turning a corner, Swift froze. There before her, the ground spattered and streaked with blood, stood Ginger, looking down at a torn, icy-gazed Stone.

"Y-You didn't."

He spun around. When Ginger saw her, a sly grin wormed its way onto his muzzle.

"Before you accuse me of anything wild, he started it! Dang cat thought he was ruler of the city, he did."

Her eyes trailed down to the beaten body of her friend. Her paws buckled.

"N-No...he helped you! If it hadn't been for him you'd...you'd..."

Before she could stop herself, she felt the wet streak of tears burn down her furry face, searing the patchy skin where her scar ran in its jagged, uneven line.

"What? I'd be dead." He snorted. "Ever heard of kill or be killed? I'm just lookin' out for myself here. Our ol' friend Stoney was hogging all the good meat. I told him, 'look, it's time you moved on, found your own place.' He refused. Dang foxbrain was stubborn as an ol' she-cat. How annoying."

Stone had been the closest thing she'd had to a father, a tom so reminiscent of when life was simple, of the good that could be found in the world. It was the good that had ended up killing him.

"Oh, wait - don't tell me you're crying." Ginger let out a 'mrrow' of amusement, his eyes glinting with a barely masked mockery. "You know, I thought you were different. You actually had a brain in that skull of yours. Never did I imagine that you were so...so...weak!"

She couldn't stop herself.

As if on instinct her claws unsheathed.

She attacked.

Ginger was the first cat she'd killed.

After the fight, wounded and bloody, Swift simply nested into Stone's fur and breathed in the last of his warm, welcoming musk.

Gone forever. Just like Lily and Vivian and Lotus.

She was alone again.

A week passed. She expected Stone's other followers to join her in mourning, yet they barely paid him a thought. Bitterness bloomed in Swift's chest, flowering into what could only be akin to a cold, icy rage. Her breaking point came two weeks after Stone's tragic death, when she was paid a visit by two siblings of roughly twelve moons old.

"Where's Stone?" the quieter brother asked.

Swift faltered at the question. The word that escaped her maw was nothing more than a rasping choke. "Dead."

The two shared a glance. Then, with a sigh, they brushed past Swift and made their way to the garbage can's he'd used to so generously share with them all.

Swift glared at the two. "Well? Aren't you going to pay your respects?"

They paused. The brother spoke first. "It's sad that Stone died but...he kind of had it coming."

"Yeah," agreed his sister. "He was so foolish. You never trust other cats on the street."

"Agreed. Hey! That means this territory is free!"

"Don't be silly brother! The gangs will want it!"

"Ah, I suppose you're right..."

She watched the exchange with wide eyes. It was as if Stone had never even existed.

He'd helped them. He'd saved them. He'd been a light of honor and dignity, shining down for all to see.

And they were right. That was what had left him for dead.

She hated them for that. For how right they were. Because Stone was foolish, and he wasn't strong or witty or fast, but above all he did NOT deserve the death Ginger had wreaked upon him. He had simply dedicated his life to being a rock for others - and yet still he was not respected.

The anger boiled into a fury, bubbling up from the pit of her stomach right to the very top of her head.

She lunged at the two. Squealing, they ran, Swift hot on their heels; she chased them until they'd left the territory Stone had so generously offered them.
The territory she now claimed as her own.

--

"E-Excuse me?"

Seven moons later, and two young cats found themselves wandering into a dark, shadowy alley. A rat shifted in the gloom, and the sister squealed in fear.

"What do you want?"

The voice snapped like a whip from the darkness; the two cats flinched and cowered back, bones jutting from their paper-thin skin and fur tufted and patchy. They had not eaten in days, and they reeked of fear and sheer exhaustion.

"W-We're hungry," said the oldest, in a shaky voice. "We don't know what happened but...but there was the Man, and the bag, and the river-"

"Oh the river," shivered his sister, her eyes fading at the thought of a distant memory.

"C-Can you help us?"

The cat did not reply for a moment, as if pondering over their pleas. Then - "And how is that my problem?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"You heard me. What do you want me to do about it? Feed you milk and pretend to be your mama?"

"N-No..."

"Then get out! This ain't my problem."

The two cats didn't move. The figure stepped out of the shadows, revealing her scars and torn brown fur, hard green eyes and long limbs. She did not look friendly. Not one little bit.

"I told you my answer," she hissed. "Out! Now!"

"P-Please!"

"NOW!"

They scattered.

Swift sat down, satisfied with herself and feeling quite justified in her actions. How pathetic. Why would she help them? They'd just end up causing her more problems.

Besides...a true wildcat only looked out for herself.

That was the only way to survive, after all.

Wandering}}

When Swift was twenty moons old, little did she know her life was about to change forever. For on this particular day, a clear one in fact, began the ruining and the destruction of all the strays in the city.

When the city council issued a cleanup of the hundreds of stray cats plaguing the city, Swift noticed many were disappearing inexplicably. She didn't like to involve herself in such affairs and decided to simply remain more cautious than usual; perhaps a twoleg had reported sightings of her, for not long after that she was cornered down in her alley.

She just managed to escape, dipping beneath the man's legs. She stayed away from her home for a while, before hesitantly deciding to return.

What she saw there made her heart leap.

Dead rats lay strewn across the alley floor. Poisoned. So the twolegs were upping their game.

Perhaps it was at that moment that something occurred to Swift. A memory of long ago, of her mother longing her to live the life she never could...

She knew twolegs were persistent. She did not want to die by their hands, of all ways to pass. And now that they'd buckled down on the cat population, even food was something to be distrusted.

Perhaps it was time to move on.

She didn’t know anyplace else though; outside was dangerous, lurking with evil creatures and the greatest threat of all – the unknown. Perhaps this was what attracted Swift, however. The allure of possibility, of new sights and sounds, of a land beyond the broken alley laden with memories of Stone and Vivian and Lily.

Yes. Time to leave. To Swift it just felt like the right, instinctive thing to do.

Goodbye.

She didn't look back. She couldn't. Life was about moving forward, not glancing behind.

Leaving the city, Swift traveled for a long while and learned to adapt to her many different environments. She lived like this for a long time; a quiet individual, passing silently from territory to territory, adapting to small villages and twolegplaces and forests and meadows.

For eight moons she was a wandering loner – and those eight moons were the best time in her life. Tough, yes, but incredibly free and wild; no longer was she surrounded by the acrid stench of fumes; no longer did she fear the constant presence of twolegs; no longer was she just a shadow, a slinking figure hiding and running from the many dangers that were constantly snapping at her heels.

Food was scarcer however.

The seasons were brutal, particularly leafbare. So on that fateful day, weak and plodding through snow, Swiftfoot quietly settled in a chilling moorland. She’d had a good life. She was tired. No longer was she afraid of the imminent thought of death; no longer would she fight. The wandering was finally leeching the life from her body.

That was when she was found.

The Clan }}

Granted they were no friendly bunch; prickly and entirely unfriendly of a loner such as herself, Swift was sure she'd be turned away. A shame too; reluctantly taken back to the camp, a fascinated Swift learned of a completely different world, where cats worked together to survive and where every individual was apart of something bigger. She couldn't help thinking wistfully of Stone, and how different things may have been for him if this was his Clan of origin. She still missed him, even though she constantly tried to forget his face.

Regarded with suspicion and even disgrace, the she-cat attempted to make a strong case for herself, on what she could contribute and how she could dedicate herself to the clan. Accepted on a short trial period, she threw herself into training and, due to her adaptable nature, quickly found herself growing used to the unique and rigorous methods of clancats, and the ancient customs. By the end of her trial period she was reluctantly accepted; many regarded her with suspicions and distaste, understandably so; even after adapting and falling into the routine of clan life, she retained many of her age old ideals from back when she lived as a loner. Despite this she fought hard to prove herself and though her past is still a fickle issue - something many wouldn't hesitate to bring up as an insult - Swift, now named Swiftfoot, had definitely proved her worth.

After her acceptance into the Clan many moons passed by, and soon Swiftfoot had become a revered warrior. With her no-nonsense attitude, keen senses and harsh tongue, she wasn't exactly popular within the clan - indeed, she was practically despised by most younger warriors and apprentices - but she did get things done; she was constantly contributing to the clan, starting patrols and keenly eyeing the apprentices, making sure none were slacking and all were hard at work. Her first apprentice was a spirited young tom named Springpaw, justifiably named for the energetic spring he had in every step; excitable, hyperactive and 'full-of-rattlesnakes' as the saying goes, Swiftfoot wasn't at all hesitant to lay down the law with him.

"Aww," the tom whined, "but why can't we go hunting instead?"

"You dare question me?" When he didn't reply, she nodded in approval. "I say what goes. If we patrol the borders, then that's what we'll do."

She glared across at where Riverclan territory lay. Bunch of fish-eating, greasy furred lobsters they were.

"You hate other clans huh?" said Springpaw, following her gaze.

"I don't hate them. I just..." She just wanted to protect the Clan that had given her such a big chance.

In many ways she hadn't adjusted that easily to clan life; she was still much a loner at heart, patrolling on her own and eating fresh-kill on her own, grooming on her own and sleeping on her own...Perhaps that would never change.

She glanced down at Springpaw, who just finished marking another border. "Alright! I'm done, can we go now?"

"Hold it!" she snarled. Springpaw immediately snapped to attention. "What did I tell you about using such a tone?"

"That if I don't stop, you'll tear out my tongue and bind my muzzle with it!"

He giggled inappropriately at that, and Swiftfoot gave him a hard cuff round the ears. "Ouch!"

"Enough talking. Now make yourself useful."

"Fine..."

Windclan was like the essence of Stone's very being; a reminder that good still existed in the world, even if it was rare to come by. She looked after Springpaw, and a rare light of warmth alighted in her icy gaze.

As the moons rolled on, she became even stricter. Cracking down on patrols and offering her assistance in whatever need be,Swiftfoot became obsessed with raising strong, fit warriors. Her need for strength in the clan wasn't out of a lust for power, or born from ambition; rather it was her desire to see Windclan flourish into something great, to see the clancats thrive and overcome whatever obstacle stood in their way. You'd catch her dead before asking for help from anyone. Such displays were a sign of the weak.

And weak was something she was not. It was something she could not tolerate. She'd been called weak so many times but now? Now she was anything but. She silently swore to WindClan that she'd lend her heart in soul in service to its ranks. At times she would feel doubt, something that unnerved her; was she really a good warrior? Was this the home she deserved? But such anxiety would wash away, on sunny days when the prey pile was full and the patrols she participated in were as effortless as floating through cloud.

She does love her Clan dearly; WindClan that gave her a chance and allowed her a new life in a better place. Her tough love and disagreeable methods don't gel with all, but she only wants was best for Windclan. A shame, since her opinions and passionate beliefs aren't always right.

From local city pest, to traversing loner – and finally to her destination; a warrior of Windclan, withered by seasons and battles and scars and hunger pangs; and yet still enthusiastically battling along to this day.

"Why do I love Windclan, you ask? Simple. Because this is my home. Oh yes, I've had many homes before, but this is the place where it feels - well - right. I belong here. I am needed here. Dare I say it, I'm content here also. And I swear to you, I will do all I can in assisting you to making this Clan flourish. Oh? You're scared of me, you say? Good! You should be, little kitty."

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