Character Name: Battlestare
Character Age: 34 moons
Gender: Tom
Alliance: ShadowClan
Rank: Warrior
Appearance (6 or more sentences):
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Pelt: Dark brown tabby
Eyes: Green
A handsome brown tabby with a short coat and sharp features, Battlestare has been scarred through moons of battle. Across his upper left flank is a series of four ragged, near-linear scars, ending just before his hindquarter. A generous nick is missing from his left ear, a small, inward-pointing triangle connecting to a vigorous red line within the canal, joined by several clawed tributaries. Concerning his right shoulder, there is a deep bite-mark, left by a dog that happened to get too curious. Many more badges of honor adorn his body, though his pelt hides those that remain unseen, small nicks in comparison to the rest of his collection.
His stare can be described as unnerving, each eye a stormy glow of blue-green that rarely shuts. They are half of his name’s origin, two emerald serpents that hiss and snap silently at each living creature that passes. They are cold and analytical, yet show the potential to soften, if only he were to let his emotional shields drop.
The rest of him, a well-muscled young tom of moderate-large size, is lengthy and lean, lithe as a feline should be. His tail is thick at the base, yet extends a over foot to a thin point, reminiscent of an otter’s. Each paw is slightly large in comparison to his legs, and are equipped with sharp, black claws. His skin, while pink around his ears, paws, and nose, is mostly a smoky black.
Personality (6 or more sentences--these sentences form their own section and do NOT count towards the 4 groups below; those are additional requirements):
He is not much of a social being, and prefers quiet solitude to a large gathering. Haunted by his past, he will shy away from others, an often quite male who appreciates the silence of a cave or the muted rush of rain. Though not one to swim, he often spends his time staring into puddles of rainwater or streams that have eroded their way through the woods.
During the times he often removes himself from the Clan, he spends his time training and muttering thoughts to himself, often in the shade of trees or other foliage. Blessed with thick claws, he has enjoyed climbing his way up trunks and onto branches since kithood, though climbing down is often much trickier. Once perched upon a new ledge, he will survey the area, watching and waiting for the time to pass. He is not fond of speaking to others, and when confronted will either find a way to avoid the confronter, or become very frustrated. He is not especially fond of others, and holds few relationships, though often longs for a companion. He withholds nearly all of his emotions, and in order for another to access them, they must first break through his incredibly tough shell.
---Likes (at least 3): Training, being alone, thinking to himself, water, rain, pheasant, trees
--- Dislikes (at least 3): Fish, dogs, unexpected noises, being bothered
---Strengths (No MORE than 5): A talented fighter, docile, above-average reflexes, a good tree-climber
---Weaknesses (At least 3): Is known to trip over his own legs (clumsy), has reduced hearing in his left ear, often forgets things, will have nightmares and thrash in his sleep, haunted by flashbacks, depressive and has "Feline PTSD."
History (8 or more sentences): He was born Otterkit of Riverclan, the only kit to a she-cat named Pheasantwing who died shortly into his kithood. Growing up, he was playful and rambunctious, a wild child among the others, though was often too naïve for his own good. Adventuresome, he would spend time wandering and causing trouble among the elders. It was around the time he was to be apprenticed that he first heard the whispers of his peers. They spoke in hushed voices of how his mother, who he always had looked up to until her untimely death, was a traitor and a w**** to ShadowClanners and rogues. They breathed tales of her murder and how it was justified, with details too terrible to repeat. Shocked to hear such things about his mother, but eager to please his Clan in order to prove them wrong, he suppressed his feelings of doubt into his apprenticeship. Even then, he could feel the hot gazes of others burning into his back, and he strived harder and harder to prove his worth to those that deemed him unworthy. He succeeded with his training, only to one day be cornered by a trio of restless, young toms shortly before he was to be made warrior. They spat in his face, calling him the spawn of a traitor, the offspring of a w****, taunting his past and doubting his future. They began to pin him down, believing they were doing the Clan a favor in attempting to dispatch him. But Otterpaw had a strong will to live, and he would not be denied such a right. Overcome by a strange explosion of power, he fought back, in the process acquiring deep cuts down his flank and a battered, bleeding ear. Leaping away, he sprinted far past the borders of RiverClan, splashing through water along the way, not caring whether or not his pelt grew heavy or wet. Bleeding severely, he eventually collapsed out of exhaustion, where he was later found by the former ShadowClan medicine cat. He was lucky to survive, for if she had not arrived at the time she did, he most likely would have died of blood loss. For many weeks, he spent his days in her den, slowly regaining his consciousness. At first, he was surprised to be alive, but once the medicine cat explained he reminded her of her old friend Pheasantwing, it became clear to him. His mother truly did have connections with ShadowClan. He opened his mouth to protest, stating his mother had the same name, but the medicine cat silenced him before he could question how she knew her. “She was in love with my brother,” she explained. “I knew she was of RiverClan, in fact we had met before as apprentices at Clan meetings. It was there she met my brother, your father. Yes, I can see you’ve inherited his eyes…” They continued their conversation, and Otterpaw learned the truth of his mother’s death. She had been murdered by a pair of toms who wished to r.ape her, thinking she should take a mate of their Clan, and not lower herself to be the mate of ShadowClan cat. She fought back, desperate to keep what she desired, but in the end was overpowered.
Given mercy due to his ShadowClan blood, he was allowed to live, absorbed into the Clan. He was renamed Ottertail, and from the day of his naming, fought valiantly for the Clan that had saved him from death. He was held in high esteem, the lost son of well-respected warrior, despite his mixed blood, due to his talent in battle. He saved many a clanmate from death by stealing their opponent’s attention and reminding them why he was not a force to be reckoned with. Until that point, he’d thought he’d seen enough death and felt enough pain, and began to loathe the day he would be again forced to battle.
Then, the dog attack. It was a normal day, peaceful, and filled with potential. The harmony, however, was broken when a shriek of pain filled the camp. Leaping from the warrior den, Ottertail and several others rushed to the source of the scream. What they found was a torn and ravaged body of a she-cat, a bulking, ravenous dog standing above her, ripping her limb from limb. The sight alone was enough to scar a cat, but protected with the spurring of revenge and fear for their clan, the group of warriors ran and leapt upon the dog, tearing their claws into his huge form. There was blood and fur strewn among the area, and as Ottertail found a soft spot among the dog’s neck with his claws, a sudden, agonizing pain rippled through his shoulder. He yowled, and managed to shake himself free, claws shredding flesh in the process. Stumbling aback, he let himself fall, joining the bodies of the others that fought at his side. There was a long period of dark silence, and he began to go numb among his right side. Though unconscious, he could feel the gentle grip of jaws around his scruff, a force dragging him along the matted grass. Again, he awoke in the medicine cat den, a nasty bite wound matted with cobwebs and marigold, glad to be alive. But the shock had gotten to him, and for several days, he could only stare, his eyes filled with loss and pain.
He was later re-dubbed Battlestare after the accident, encompassing the facts he had battled for his life for a second time and stared in shock after the accident, and though he did not deny the new name, he has yet to answer to it. Through the trauma he has experienced, he has become withdrawn, refusing to communicate with any other cat.
Roleplay Sample {Required for first advanced bio}:
(While not necessarily “feline”... It’s a sample I’ve had prepared.)
Golden morning light glazed the bed’s sheets, announcing the arrival of the sun in the day’s sky. Below waves of cotton fabric and a thick comforter, movement stirred. Thin, effeminate fingers curled over the edge of the soft yet musky coverings, pulling them gently back, just far enough that a body could wriggle out unnoticed. Small feet touched the plush carpeting below, toes curling with pleasure at the softness of the shag.
It was a quiet morning, and the girl swiveled herself slightly in her seated position upon the mattress, staring at the mound of blankets and sheets beside her. A patch of dusty brown hair caught her eye, partially hidden beneath the comforter, and the gradual intensity that had been building up within her anxious heart suddenly softened. The creases that had settled upon her forehead relaxed, if only for the time being, and she let herself breathe once again.
Gently, she felt herself lean over, back over the bed, and noiselessly prop herself up near her sleeping companion. Her small hand reached forward, shifting the comforter slightly so as to see the man’s handsome face and let her heart leap once more. Careful not to wake her slumbering beau, the young woman laid her soft lips upon his cheek and placed a light peck upon it.
Stumbling into the bathroom, she found herself face to face with a young woman with messy, dark blond hair dressed in a plain, grubby t-shirt. She touched the cold, hard reflection upon the mirror, staring back at the deep green eyes that adorned her long, thin face.
Clenching her jaw, she examined herself in the mirror, seeing how although her head of hair was a dark, ruddy shade of blond, her eyebrows and lashes grew in a shade of medium dark brown. She studied her nose, which she could only assume was the result of Polish blood, moved on to her gently lifted cheekbones, and finally down to her small, pink lips, which when in full smile were as plump as a ripe peach, yet grew thin once more when she went about her business.
“Some days, I just don’t understand myself,” she thought aloud, yet with a whispery voice. She propped herself up on the marble counter, pulling herself closer to her reflection and narrowing her eyes. “There are days when I think I am beautiful, some when I believe I am worth it. And then there are the others, when I gaze upon my face and soul, and all I can find is flaws…”
Nearly silent footfalls interrupted her musings, and she looked up into the mirror, seeing a ruggedly handsome, shirtless man with mussed hair and tired eyes looking back at her.
“If you don’t mind, I could use the mirror myself.” His voice reminded her of a dull thunder, emanating from some sort of hidden storm within him.
(The rest is more PG-13, so I’ll withhold from pasting it on the site.)
Comments (optional):
Om nom nom… So much writing… *flops on face*
