[Phoenix]

Name: Whitekit > Whitepaw > Whiteshade
Age: 41 moons
Gender: tom
Clan: LightningClan
Rank: Senior Warrior

Picture:
original from Flickr, editing done by me

Description:

fur white as snow, eyes red as blood, and heart black as ebony

With his pure white fur and pink claws that look as though they have been stained with blood, Whiteshade resembles a monster out of a kit's nightmare more than a real cat. His short fur provides him with little protection during the colder moons of leaf-bare, even if it does thicken some, and he finds it a hassle to keep looking respectably clean as it seems to attract dirt and grime. A lean figure gives him a ghost-like quality, and the air around him practically oozes with a natural charisma. Far from the largest tom in his clan, he treasures his ability to see over the top of his sister's head, even if doing so is more of a struggle than it's worth.

Brilliant red eyes make Whiteshade's appearance all the more striking, and even though they are paler than Cherrypool's, they still unnerve others just as much. An albino like his sister, he is more sensitive to bright sunlight than others and tends to prefer overcast days to cloudless ones, though the latter do little to deter him once he has his mind set on a task.

In battle, he becomes a deadly opponent. A very dexterous and agile, he uses his leaness to weave in and out and dodge blows while his clever mind invents a way to victory.

Description Summary: A slightly smaller albino tom with short fur and brilliant red eyes.

Personality:

Apart from his odd appearance, Whiteshade seems like a perfectly normal, if not slightly boring, warrior. He goes out hunting, patrols the borders, and even deigns to give advice to a passing apprentice on occasion. However his intelligence sets him far apart from the rest, and it is in this area that he excels. Armed with a brilliant mind and an insatiable thirst for knowledge, he could either be an irreplaceable warrior or a clan's worst nightmare. He has a keen memory, which he uses to his advantage, often memorizing infinitesimal details with ease, and his ability to recall these facts with barely a moment's hesitation denotes the speed of his brain. Strategy is his strong suit and though he has the fighting prowess to match his masterminding on the battlefield, the tom also values the intellectually challenging side of fighting battles of a psychological and verbal kind. His wit is nearly as sharp as his tongue, and he prides himself on his ability to smooth talk his way out of nearly any situation. Rarely does it take more than one explanation of an idea for the tom to understand the concept.

Intelligent as he is, the tom does not tend to share his brilliance with the rest of his clan. Though he certainly has enough facts in his mind that would assist others, he prefers to hoard them and keep them secret; in his mind, he will take any advantage he can get. However, he will share his knowledge for a price and bartering as become one of his favorite past times, particularly with those who know how to play the game. Despite his relative indifference to any opinions of him, he has a certain charisma about him that his sister lacks, and his ability to mingle with cats of almost any type has made him quite the charmer. Courtesy has gotten him far in life, though he often prefers the solitude of his thoughts to the opinions of others. Despite his smooth talking, a certain air of creepiness follows him wherever he goes. It is hard to pinpoint at first, but he has a certain emptiness to him that tends to cause shivers to run down the spines of others. Perhaps it stems from the shock his appearance tends to cause, or perhaps it is born of a dark side that he hides deep within himself. Regardless, most dismiss it as a slight oddity about the perfectly cordial tom.

Hidden under layers and layers of normalcy and kept on a tight leash, what could be Whiteshade's ruin lurks in the shadows of his mind. Like his sister, Cherrypool, the warrior harbors a very powerful bloodlust, which is almost as insatiable as his thirst for knowledge, but far more deadly. Though he has been aware of this side of him for most of his life, he has chosen to embrace and utilize it instead of reject it; after all, this bloodlust is a part of him just as much as his claws, so why should he not wield it like a weapon? But his bloodlust is not simply a powerful drive for blood. It has more depth, and his dangerous desire to know everything extends to the realm of death as well. He has always had a fascination with death and blood and will never turn away an opportunity to see the last flicker of light leave a pair of eyes. In his opinion, nothing will ever beat the sensation of power that comes with feeling skin split open under his sharp claws, and he will often wander off on his own in order to sate his desire to experience this once more. Seasons of hiding his thirst from the eyes of the clan have forced Whiteshade to live under a facade of normalcy, which he does with relative ease, but his bloodlust still gnaws at him, like an itch that will not go away until it is scratched. The almost clinical and very analytical way with which he uses his ability - for lack of a better word - to kill without the slightest remorse extends to the way that he dispatches enemies of another clan.

Though the bloodlust that he hides makes him a formidable character in itself, Whiteshade would not pose such a threat if he lacked any ability to act on it. However, the warrior has always excelled in the area of combat, and his lean frame often aids him in his endeavors. He has learned to use everything he has at his disposal, and the dexterity he has with his claws is unmatched by most. His indifference at the thought of his own blood being spilled has molded him into a vicious and ruthless opponent, and he has no qualms about slaughtering others in battle; only the threat of the consequences of his actions, should he slip up, keeps him in check. The guilt that other cats feel about killing is nonexistent, beaten down by his need to have blood on his claws.

History:

"From the moment they were born, Cherrykit and her brother Whitekit, were destined to walk a different path than their fellow Clanmates. The union of Snowbird and Thunderfang had been one of settling for second best and desperation; for the libidinous Thunderfang, deciding to be Snowbird's mate had almost been considered a personal mistake on his part, as he wasn't the sort of tom who enjoyed being tied down. Snowbird, however, had a clingy, almost repellant personality, the homebody type that was sure to cramp Thunderfang's style in every sense of the word. The two, however, had known each other for as long as they'd been alive, and perhaps out of personal favor to her or Thunderfang recalling their long and varied past together, the two officially became mates.

Even Thunderfang would admit, for a short while he was excited for their upcoming offspring, which were sure to be wonderful warriors in the making, as good looking as their father, with their mother's tenacity, surely. What he got, however, was two small, weak, pink-skinned, white-furred, red-eyed little demonlings and a dead mother who'd lost too much blood. Disgusted at these cursed offspring, upset over Snowbird's entirely unnecessary death, Thunderfang honestly considered putting LightningClan out of it's potential misery by killing off his two newborn kits, which had currently been taken in by a very kind queen called Frostbreeze. Surely nothing good would come of those red-eyed little darklings, with their fur as white as snow and their eyes as red as blood.

Unable to bring himself to end their lives and cut out his last loose end to Snowbird, Thunderfang simply went on his way, pretending that they didn't exist. Cherrykit and Whitekit, as they were named by Frostbreeze, grew up not knowing their father, and as far as anyone was concerned, Snowbird was a distant memory, Thunderfang out of the picture, and Frostbreeze their only true link to LightningClan thus far.

It was not a promising future."

Whitekit, however, had little trouble becoming acquainted with the other felines in the nursery. His striking appearance gained him plenty of time in the spotlight, and he learned how to use it to his advantage very quickly. He had seen what they did to his sister when she shied away from the attention, how willing they had been to leap on her weakness like a pack of starving wolves attacking a rabbit, and he decided that he would not follow in the footsteps of his sister. He would not be the prey, but rather, the predator.

Frostbreeze had commented on his charismatic air many times, and Whitekit saw no reason to abandon that quality in favor of trying to climb his way to the top through brute force. He studied the adults, particularly those in power, learning how to mimic their smooth diplomacy and the subtle intonations in their voices that hinted at various meanings. As a result, social grace, notably well-developed for a tom of his age, and the natural talent with which he was able to weave and manipulate his words into webs ready to trap unsuspecting felines chased away just as many cats as those whose respect he slowly gained. Though he received as many glares and judgmental comments as his sister, he refused to lash out and let the irritation they caused ruin what little he had gained for all his efforts. And that resolve paid off, for Whitekit became more accepted by the other kits as time wore on until the scathing comments directed toward him had all but disappeared.

In the 5 moons that he had haunted the nursery, the albino tom had accomplished his goals. His fear of being ostracized like his sister was all but nonexistent, and his talent with smooth talking had grown just as much as he had over the moons. But Whitekit could not help but feel as though the skill with which he wielded his weapon was painfully lost on the other kits; though it was the sign of a master, he found that he could manipulate his oblivious denmates with barely any effort. He had noticed long ago that his intelligence was far above theirs, and Whitekit found that they were not nearly challenging enough to hold his interest for much longer.

It was during this time, in his final moon as a kit, that he first pondered death. Not his own nor any cat's in particular, but rather, he considered death as a whole. How did it happen? What changed to make something dead when it had been alive a moment before?

During his apprenticeship, he found the answer. Apprenticed to Sootfoot, Whitepaw excelled under the older tom's tutelage. He loved his mentor, for the tom's intelligence matched his own, making the warrior his perfect opponent. Surprisingly, Sootfoot had no qualms about training the white-furred and red-eyed apprentice, and though the lessons were long and filled with criticism, Whitepaw found them rewarding in their own sense. He was learning, and Sootfoot posed a challenge.

Battle-training had quickly become his favorite, but it was hunting that provided the answer to his question. Hunting alone did not require the same amount of strategy that fighting did, and the activity tended to bore him. So he made it more interesting by giving his prey a second chance, by toying with it before ultimately ending his life. A part of Whitepaw registered just how sick his actions were, but that part was too small to put up any amount of resistance against the sheer boredom that he derived from hunting. The apprentice had never known that a rabbit had that much blood inside its small body, nor a will to survive that strong. He found it fascinating, the way that every creature, including themselves, strove to survive on more day and just what they would do to achieve that. He found the power of controlling that creature's fate addicting and suddenly, hunting did not seem so bad anymore.

Forced to hide his newfound addiction from Sootfoot, Whitepaw was nearly driven crazy by the desire for this sensation. He adapted his fighting style to fit his need and became more vicious and willing to take risks. As time wore on, his ability to sneak away and play his little game grew smaller and smaller; Sootfoot trained him vigorously, and when he wasn't training, Whitepaw was often on patrol. There was always another cat too close. In response, he began to express his desire for more battle training, as it was the closest he could come to experiencing that wonderful, addicting power. Sootfoot obliged, and their spars grew in length and intensity every time.

Around 9 or 10 moons, the albino tom considered the possibility of him not being the only one "like this" for the first time. The ease with with his sister had dispatched the attacking rogue stunned him; just a quick bite to the neck and the scrawny feline was dead. Just that simple. Though he had given her a horrified look at the time, Whitepaw's mind feasted on the new information and all of the new possibilities. She had attracted his attention, and the thought of what they could accomplish together would not leave him. Despite his careful attentiveness, she did nothing else notable; in fact, she seemed to become a sub-par apprentice. When he became Whiteshade at 12 moons, she still had another moon to go. Regardless of his disappointment in seeing all of that potential go to waste, he still cheered the loudest at her warrior ceremony.

Ever since he had seen his sister kill the rogue, the tom had wondered when he would get the chance to make his first kill. He had not doubt in his mind that he could, and the more he thought about it, the more he knew that he wanted to end the life of a cat, preferably one who was fully conscious of it. While he adored the power he had over prey animals, rabbits and mice had no way of acknowledging that he was the one in charge - the stupid creatures were probably barely aware of what was happening. He wanted to hunt intelligent prey, and finally, after moons of waiting, he had his chance. Sootfoot had grown far too suspicious of his actions and knew him far too well, and the aged warrior definitely met the intelligence level that he wanted. What little emotional attachment he had formed with his former mentor during his apprentice years was hidden away and buried deep.

At 25 moons, he killed his old mentor. It was every bit the challenge he had desired, but Whiteshade was confident in his victory. He had the agility and stamina of youth on his side, even if experience was against him. The look of betrayal in those proud eyes right before he slit Sootfoot's neck was imprinted into his memory, and he decided that the stark red flowing onto the ground a moment later was his best work of art. He told the clan that their beloved warrior had become Demon's meal. No one found the body, and no one questioned his story.

It became incredibly challenging for him to maintain his facade of normalcy for a few weeks after that event. Returning to hunting prey animals was far less rewarding then it had been before, and he often found himself thinking that he had killed the only cat who matched him in intelligence and fighting prowess. His sister had proved herself a major disappointment in his eyes when he observed neither hide nor hair of any attention-rousing activities.

He had nearly given up hope until, perhaps 5 moons after Sootfoot's death, she came to him. Cherrypool had always held a special spot in the pit he called a heart, if only for her blood relation and similar unnerving appearance. She was, perhaps, the only cat whom he trusted nearly completely and knew him well enough to pose any actual threat. Knowledge about his sister's midnight meetings with her StoneClan tom had given him a weapon to wield against her in the unlikely event that he was betrayed, and he had promised to keep them a secret purely out of indifference to the whole thing and the potential danger it posed to his clan; however, the news about her killing her tom brought forth a completely different reaction.

She had done it - killed - again. It was only the deeply shaken expression on her familiar countenance that had him hesitating. Did she feel remorse for her actions? That would not do, not at all. Playing the understanding brother he knew that she needed, Whiteshade decided that he would ever so slowly mold his sister into the cold-blooded killer he wanted her to be. He wanted her to understand and enjoy the sensation of power that he had become addicted to, and the challenge of changing her mindset - so slowly that she was oblivious to his ulterior motives - fascinated him. And if, in the end, she did not turn out the way he wanted... He would feel, perhaps, a little regret.

RP Example: --

Other:
Italicized portion of history copied and pasted from Cherrypool's bio (written by Fawn)
Theme song: Monster by Skillet