Posts by Black Widow

Character Name: Primrose

Gender: Female

Alliance: Thunderclan

Rank: Warrior

Appearance: Ginger

Personality: Fierce

History: Ex-kittypet

Notes/Other: X

Thank you. And yes, she has joined before that age.

Yes, I'm an intermediate roleplayer. Are there certain requirements to post in an advanced roleplay thread?

Character Name: Hawkstorm

Gender: Male

Alliance: RiverClan

Rank: Warrior

Appearance: White

Personality: Passionate

History: X

Notes/Other: X

Name/ Primrose
Age/ 18 Moons
Gender/ Female
Alliance/ Thunderclan
Rank/ Warrior
Appearance/ She is a tabby: her coat is short and thick but soft to the touch, and the pale orange hue of her pelt and skin is diluted by higher strikes of a red-gold. Her legs are long and fine, and her figure is slender and shapely; her head is small and triangular, and her ears are always angled stiffly forwards, as if she is straining to hear something in the distance. She has a sway to her walk: that incline of the hips with that seductive swish of the tail that teases, "Come, and take me," but her big brown doe eyes perpetually point earthwards in a demure expression of virginal innocence. Glowing in her cheeks is a particularly becoming rose blush, and the way her black lips twist in a smile, with the slight glimmer of teeth, sends electric thrills down the spine. Fear. Heat. Whichever one a stranger feels towards her will be magnified each time he catches sight of her--the hint of ginger, the lingering scent of wildflowers, and those eyes.
Personality/ She is amiable enough, quick to befriend though equally as quick to grow sullen and spiteful. She is a fierce warrior, and in each fight, no matter how trivial or petty, she acts as if she were battling for her life. She also cannot handle other cats taking or sharing her kills; any extra kill she slides into the fresh kill pile, and she only eats what she catches herself and is loathe to part with even the tiniest morsel of meat or skin if she feels the slightest prick of hunger. Because of her heritage, she tends to speak in broken Spanish, but often catches herself mid-sentence and hurries to translate. Her accent is the sharp staccato of Seville.
History/ Childhood was easy, had always been. In the morning the sun would break through the horizon and shine over her sleeping form, and urge her to wake. And she would. She would get up and stretch her tiny paws, open her little mouth wide in a yawn. "Prim," her human would call. "Marisol," she would reply, and leap onto her lap and curl up in her arms, and they would spend the morning in companionable silence, Marisol running a horsehair brush through her fur, and she letting out the occasional purr. But it was the day when Marisol had to move with her little family to Madrid, Spain, that she found there was no room left for her in the baggage train, and she was released into the street with hot tears and broken whispers. So she grew up fighting and bickering with the other strays for garbage and turf, and she grew strong and fierce. But it wasn't until a tourist picked her up and stowed her away on a plane in a stuffy carpetbag that Primrose arrived in clan territory. Of course she escaped the tourist. It was easy enough when he opened the bag and she leaped out and made a break for the trees. And now here she is, living her life, getting fat off her pickings.
Comments/ X
Roleplay Sample/ She settled down on the rocks to watch the water sparkle and flash as the sunlight played upon the river's surface. Occasionally a fish would dart through the current, and she would watch its quicksilver movements as it shimmied into the lake far ahead, but she had no real interest in fishing today. She was full, fat with rabbit, and happy. There was nothing that could bring her down from cloud nine now that she was feeling lazy. One fish. Two fish. Red fish. Blue fish. They all swam and jumped and maneuvered around each other, their pectoral fins splayed outwards and their mouths gaping. She laughed aloud when she spotted a cross-eyed one, and just for the sport of it, dashed into the icy water and scared it into the mud bank on the other side of the river. But the sudden action was too much for her swollen belly, which sagged and ached, and she waddled back onto the rocks.

Primrose waltzed out of the shadows and into the milling crowd, easily blending in with her average pelt and size. She was now just another piece on the chessboard, a pawn that knew its place and standing, indistinguishable amongst the ranks of petrified wooden figures; she only had to await the great hand to sweep her up in its fingers and place her on the black squares ahead. Or perhaps she would move forward on her own whim and thus start the game. Her lips curved in a small smile. Yes, just another cat, just another face you do not know. Pay me no mind, because you'll see stranger things tonight.

I have two cats available: Primrose of Thunderclan and Hawkstorm of Riverclan. I'm up for anything, such as plotting, fighting, hunting, a casual chat, or a "Let's just see where this goes," sorta thing. I dislike starting threads myself because setting the scene just gets repetitive/sterile for me, but I'll do it with a smile on my face if you push me. Also, I love love love flawed cats; no, not the painfully shy or diabolically evil ones because they are so cliche, but the ugly ones, the scarred ones, the ones with crazy phobias and these little ticks that give depth to the character, so if you have any of those cats, or just a simple laid-back dude, I'd totally enjoy roleplaying with you. :]

Ahaha, that's the problem with quoting posts. But anyway, back to the main theme: yeah, one or two words would be fine--just a little spice to spruce up the cooking pot. (Okay, my analogy was way weird, but you getteth the point, I am sure.)

Awesome. Would love to. When/how shall we start?

I'm going out soon, so I don't mind waiting for tomorrow. :)<--How adorable is this thing??!

I'll keep it short and sweet.

Cat's name: Primrose
Appearance: The pattern of her coat is the familiar ginger stripes on a pale orange backdrop, but there is nothing normal about her eyes: big brown doe eyes that mesmerize and trap one's gaze, linger in the mind long after they disappear, and leave the fragile perfume of wildflowers in their wake.
Personality: She is fierce and passionate, with a hint of Spanish spice.
Roleplay sample: Me duele el corazón. She settled down beside the shapeless boulder, an oversized chunk of sediment really, and pressed her cheek into its dimpled side with a sigh. She had no logical explanation for why she was feeling so depressed tonight, not even the slightest whisper of an idea what the tight pulsing pain in her chest meant. Just trying to think made her head break out in a spasm of aching and throbbing, which would scatter her thoughts like sheep upon the entrance of the big bad wolf. But what was the big bad wolf?--the constant irritation in her head, the buzzing sensation that came back and forth between brief breaks of lucidity?--or the sweet god-forsaken numbness she sensed blooming within her like some parasitic flower. She knew it wouldn't be long before she couldn't feel anything, couldn't talk or cry; her eyelids were growing heavy with sleep and it took all the strength she could muster to pry them open. Her throat already felt dry and cracked, and it was becoming hard to swallow, even though saliva pooled in her mouth like venom. She noted with a tiny prick of alarm that her breathing was uneven, but by then she was too far gone to pay much attention to that little itty bitty detail.

And then she slumped to the ground, her back sliding against the rough stone, lifeless and limp, like a rag doll abandoned by a spoiled child. And the small black coil by her side hissed and rattled.

*Biography

Awesome. Thanks, guys. ;)

Thunderclan:
Primrose - a female ginger tabby with a spicy Latina heritage
Riverclan:
Hawkstorm - a large siamese-patterned white ragdoll male

Her eyes wandered the sea of faceless corpses, puppets hung on a wire noose and led on a wire leash in a stiff and charmless dance. Energy radiated from their bodies in the form of heat, and their perspiration lifted like a tangible mist. The air was charged with their eyes, falling and trilling with a thousand different voices. The animation in their otherwise blank faces--the erratic way some of them moved their limbs--was just an illusion of free will. They acted as if they were exercising their own whim upon those extremities, and not in actuality being manipulated by the dark figures behind the red curtain. Pathetic. She would have felt pity for them if they weren't so stupid--so oblivious. Was she the only one who could see?

Suddenly her eyes stopped, hovered indecisively over a circle of warriors lingering in the center of the tumultuous mess of limbs and skin and heat, and cut through the gap between two of their bodies, straight into the waiting eyes of an unfamiliar cat. Automatically, mechanically, she opened her mouth and breathed in the cat's elusive perfume. It was hard to pick out any individuals in the swells of scents and smells that came to her, but she managed somehow to decipher through the useless, familiar, and the unknown. And when she reached at last her prize, she grappled with it until it opened and burst into a sweet earthy fragrance. Like morning dew, or hanging moss. Definitely a female. She wasn't so sure she could put an exact name to the scent, but either way she decided to approach her.

She weaved through the crowd, her ears pricked forward and her eyes almost level with the ground, tracking the scent. She knew she had found her when the trail ended abruptly, and then exploded in an overwhelming wave of sweetness.

"Hello," she said quietly, sitting down just outside the ring of cats. She lifted her head to lock eyes with the strange cat. "Have we met before?"

Ah, okay. I think I understand how this works now.

((Thanks for waiting, guys! That was so nice of you.))

The she-cat's voice was kind and warm. It was rare to hear and smell such sweetness all on one night. But perhaps tonight was a special night, an eerie and remarkable night, but a good break from the repetitive monotony of clan life all the same. She embraced this chance of a new friend.

"My name is Primrose. I'm from Thunderclan," she explained. She had been keeping her gaze steadily fixed on the Firework's face when she noticed a flush of movement to the right of her head. Her eyes darted to and lingered on Firework's ears--bell-shaped dandies topped with a dollop of jet black fur. Oh, Great Starclan. "My, my, aren't those ears just so adorable??"

She was just going to enter the circle and gush about the advantages of having cute ears--to keep warm in the wintertime, to hear better, to catch the attention of toms--when an even stranger cat than her seemed to materialize out of thin air. He was large, black as the night, and had the airy feel of a child about him. Around his neck swung a great silver medallion, which she immediately recognized as human-crafted. She was waiting for the puff of white smoke for extra effect when he started talking.

"No, we have not met. You seem to know who I am, but who are you?"

Her brown eyes were narrowed with suspicion, and the fact that Fireworks and this weird, most likely insane, cat hit it off pretty well did not reassure her. At all. As a matter of fact, it made her even more uncertain about him, and she made a mental note not to get too cozy with this night shadow, or else in the morning she might wake up alone. There was something unreal about him, something entirely dreamlike, whether it was those impossibly youthful blue eyes, or the thick chain so like the cold body of a snake that was constricting his throat. She expected the ornament to come to life and hiss.

Hawkstorm rushed into the flurry of snow and launched himself over a small iced-over clearing. He was simply testing his limits, trying to gauge how high he could jump, how fast he could run. As he plowed through the snow like a bulldozer, eyes and ears strained towards the almost invisible horizon, the wind decided to give him a puff of icy breath straight into his face. Frost dangled from his whiskers and eyelashes like delicate wreaths of tinsel. How festive. But other than having his face frozen stiff, he was presented with a scent, more importantly, the sweet scent of a female. He leaped out of the trough of ice and dirt he had left in his wake and darted towards a small ring of trees. And once there, he was rewarded with the pretty sight of a pretty she-cat.

"What's going on, Seamist?" he panted, his chest heaving. He flared his nostrils and caught the scent of Riverclan... and something entirely different. The sharp smell of pine and wood tended to upset his stomach and today was no exception. He covered his nose deftly with the plumed tip of his tail and shuddered. "Let me guess, intruders?"

((Why thank you, haha. I have to say that I like your syntax. It has this indescribably eerie feel, like Poe, in a sense.))

She took a small step away from him--for her, his eager eyes were too luminous and bright--and then hesitated, as if she was second-guessing the wisdom of appearing so shaken, and stood sock-still, her hackles raised, her ears flying backwards to plant themselves in her skull. His question was odd, practically on the brink of rhetorical, and she cast about frantically for an answer adequate enough to suit the situation and not appear to be struck dumb, as she currently was. And in the midst of her panicked search for a hold, on anything, really: the strangeness that seemed to slide out of him as easily as her perspiration, the sudden down-surge of confidence, heck, even the sucky weather, the thought came to her that even though he might be a freak nightmare, he seemed to have weighted his words with something more than just his voice. Was he alluding to some change she might have experienced? Or was that take too literal? She racked her brain in frustration. His cryptic words, his cryptic smile. It hung like an unspoken secret between them, heavy and fleeting. She decided to blab whatever came to her mind.

"You mean how I feel like a crude wooden pawn isolated on the black square of a great chessboard? How I see everyone else behind me, petrified, immobile, save moving where the hands direct us to go? Or how we all twist and spin on wire collars, and sing and dance for the puppeteer's amusement? And how it's like I'm trapped unde-," she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes clouded with confusion and an unfamiliar pain.

She probably wasn't supposed to say such things. Somehow, she knew, he had drawn it out of her, looked straight through her eyes to the locked chest that rested beneath her heart. And the dull pain of giving to the key was at once a sorrowful agony and bittersweet emptiness. She blushed and dropped her gaze to the floor, trying to escape those mesmerizing meres.

((Ah, that makes sense [that you read Poe]. And I don't mind waiting, and I would love that [Primrose-Remembrance relationship]. I sense more cryptic discourse to come. ;D))

Having spoken to him, held to the fringes of a decent conversation with him, seen him, watched his lips hiss breath and whisper words: wouldn't all of these things have proved that, in fact, he was real?--that he was a composition of flesh, blood, and bone, just as she was? No, in fact maybe, but not in truth. He was an apparition, a dark wraith come out of the twilight to tempt and wheedle, to trick her into betting her soul on the enigma that was him. And without a second thought, he would steal her most guarded and treasured secrets, drink in her heart's blood as she lay a pale corpse at his feet. All this and more she could see as she observed her shallow reflection in those blue wells of far gone years, long dissipated lifetimes.

"You say that you 'record the stories.' What are you? A librarian?" She spat the words at his feet, flung them into the snow like curses. "Cats cannot write. And cats cannot carry books. So I am guessing that you keep your 'stories' in the trust of your memory." She dared to shoot him a venomous glare. "But cats do not live long enough to 'record' many 'stories,' and memory tends to fade with age. Who are you? What are you?"

Her mind was in overdrive, working in leaps and bounds rather than the tentative baby steps she had taken in the past. Again, there was something about him, an evanescent quality, that told her he might disappear as soon as she blinked, and then she would be staring into a blank sheet of snow and ice as the red curtain fell onto the stage and closed him in. Then the stage would be set for the next act, the familiar chain of bloody garbage and cold, limp bodies, and Spanish ghosts, and she would wake up in her moss bed back home, screaming Bloody Mary and waking up half the clan.

Name: Blue Ice That Fades Come Spring (Blue)
Gender: Tom
Alliance: Tribe of Burning Eclipse
Rank: Kit
Appearance: He is a snow white Persian with grey to black tabby markings on his tail and face. His big, round eyes are a melancholy blue.
Personality: He's a total worry wart, and prone to many phobias, particularly fear of his own shadow. Though he is exceptionally brilliant, he can easily come across as neurotic.
History: X
Other: X