Post by Phoenix on Jul 3, 2016 17:55:56 GMT -5
Name: Finch
Age: 24 moons
Gender: Tom
Clan: None
Rank: Loner
Picture: Here
Description:
Description Summary:
Personality:
History:
RP Example: --
Other:
Were You Referred? N/A
Age: 24 moons
Gender: Tom
Clan: None
Rank: Loner
Picture: Here
Description:
Though the way his short fur clings to a lean frame suggests otherwise, Finch is an average-sized tom. With a pelt consisting of nothing but varying shades of brown, he is fairly unremarkable, and were it not for his odd feather-collecting habits, he could very easily disappear into the ranks of cats forgotten by their peers. Sharp pale green eyes peer out somewhat suspiciously, somewhat sadly from a dark brown face, and the way he carries himself tells a story he refuses to verbalize. Where others might strut confidently or at least carry themselves with pride, he dances awkwardly to the side, nervous and unable to sit perfectly still. He trusts no one at his back, and it shows in the way his eyes constantly flit from one cat to the other, assessing but not quite meeting anyone’s gaze. While in company, he remains constantly on edge, perpetually on the defensive as though expecting an attack from all sides, yet if one were to observe him in the comfort of his own den, they’d discover a lonely brown tom who suddenly seems a lot younger than he is and more vulnerable than anyone ever considered.
Description Summary:
A thin brown tom with short fur and pale green eyes
Personality:
Finch can count on one paw the important parts of his life, and he can count on one claw how many of them he has left. Others view him as the pitifully broken cat who lives on the outskirts of the Oasis and has an odd obsession with bird feathers; they say his den is full of them – all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colors – but very few have ever ventured close enough to see for themselves. He knows that they do not understand why he collects his feathers, just as he knows that the way he is so protective of his beloved collection, the way he can’t help but take any insult to them as a personal attack on himself, is neither normal nor healthy. But he cannot bring himself to stop. Where another cat might simply see a colorful mess, he sees endless worlds into which he can dive in order to forget that the one he’s in is so unfair.
These stories offer him a precious refuge from the harsh reality that he is alone, and they remind him of better times spent with his family listening to his father’s gravelly voice talk of birds and long departed cats. His need for the feathers and everything they represent has become a visceral part of him. They are the glue that holds his pieces together and prevents him from completely falling apart, because he’s never had to live on his own before, and he’s trying to survive but it’s so hard. Before, Jay had been his constant companion. He had always pictured himself growing old beside him, sleeping curled up against him, and now that he’s been torn away, he cannot bring himself to let go just yet.
This loneliness lingers in the air around him and lurks in his mannerisms. Finch is a social cat, but he’s never had to worry about making friends before; always, he had had Jay by his side, and Jay was far better with that than he was. In theory, he knows the concept, just as he knows quite a few others, but he’s found that it’s a lot harder to do something than to hear about it or watch others do it – especially because a large part of him is afraid of others. Inseparable and intertwined, fear and loneliness go hand in hand. Strangers had always set him a little on edge, but they never used to set his heart racing like they do now. Distress makes his tongue sharp and turns his words into weapons. He doesn’t trust anyone at face value, and he hates being outnumbered. But the fear runs deep. With the wound on his heart still raw and open, he is reluctant to let anyone else in because he knows how much it hurts to lose those he loves and he doesn’t want that again.
If someone ever managed to climb over his walls, however, they would find a cat with a good, loyal heart and a wonderfully vivid imagination. Though he doesn’t seem like it at first, Finch can and will talk quite a lot about his stories to anyone who will listen – and he has a lot to say. Blessed with a very good memory, he forgets almost nothing he’s told, especially the stories that he has grown to love so much. And truly, this is what holds him together. The feathers are the physical manifestation of his imagination and an anchor to his past, so that he may find his way back to happiness even when the present is at its bleakest. He looks at the faded colors and draws upon his inherent creativity and what he can recall from those warm nights with his family to create a world of his choosing, where he is happy and not as alone.
------------------------------------------------
Nearly 40 moons have passed since he entered the valley, and time has not been kind. Solitude has become as familiar to him as a second skin, the near-total isolation (he does occasionally run into other loners, though never the ones that haunt his dreams) leaving scars across his heart and mind. He has been weathered and eroded by life, except instead of rounding out his sharp edges, it has given him more. By necessity, he has become tough. He forced all but the most resilient shred of optimistic hope to accept the harsh reality: that his father, if he hadn’t died already, would soon be expiring from old age if nothing else, and that if he hadn’t found Jay by now, he likely never would. He has learned to live with the loneliness and the emptiness in his core. He strengthened and rebuilt the walls around his crumbling heart and that tiny bit of futile hope, built a maze so that only he could uncover what really hurt him and even then he has to go looking to find it.
Fear no longer drives him – it exists, certainly, but it has been tempered. Experience has given him perspective on many matters, but especially this: strangers are no longer monsters that ought to be blindly feared, for most simply want to carry on with their own lives just as he wishes to his. It is those who stick around, who follow him persistently as a hunter would his prey that he must be wary of. But he knows now, though he is not proud of the change, that he can defend himself far better than he could in his youth. He is not soft anymore. He has a sharp tongue made sharper by necessity, because if his words can chase off unwanted company, then he won’t have to worry about unsheathing his claws (it is discomforting, how adept he has become at using them). They are claws that are too sharp. Chasing cats away happens even when he doesn't intend to do so, for solitude has buried his social skills and more often than not he alienates rather than befriends. He is slow to trust, and being around other cats is exhausting. Sometimes it’s easier being alone.
Now, he has regrets, in his older moons, which he lacked when he was younger. He does not let his fear control him as it did before because bad things happened when it did. Every single time, he tells himself that it is self-defense, that it was either him or them and his self-preservation instinct is too strong to ignore. But it’s so easy – too easy. It makes him uneasy. The first was a loner who had taken shelter in his den, one with the same fur color and same size, one who was Jay in all but where it mattered. His heart rose and then fell and shattered to pieces. Fear at the uninvited stranger, bitter disappointment at reality, and anger at how life decided to tease him with what he couldn’t have all manifested in unsheathed claws, and the unexpected guest was lucky to leave in one piece. He knew then that he could fight, if he had to, with the desperation of a feline facing death.
It took a few moons before his control slipped again, but when it did, the outcome was much the same. Food – or rather, the lack thereof and too many hungry cats for one piece of prey – was the reason. And the next was for food as well. And then warding off an overly aggressive cat. And so on. And so on. He doesn't actively seek out violence – and truly the encounters where it emerges are few and far between – but he has found that it works wonders at maintaining his solitude (and his safety), and sometimes he wonders if all the cats he has chased away over the years were truly deserving of such aggression. The guilt eats at him, especially now that he knows that his words wound as well as claws, so he has tempered this newfound capability for violence. It is fear-driven, he knows, born of the desperate need to survive. So he learned to control his fear and to use his words. It’s not too hard; in the past, he has always been more of a speaking rather than fighting tom, so he tries to hang on to that and remind himself that he is civilized. But things have changed since then. He knows now what he can do, and he would be lying if he claimed that he isn't a little scared by it.
These stories offer him a precious refuge from the harsh reality that he is alone, and they remind him of better times spent with his family listening to his father’s gravelly voice talk of birds and long departed cats. His need for the feathers and everything they represent has become a visceral part of him. They are the glue that holds his pieces together and prevents him from completely falling apart, because he’s never had to live on his own before, and he’s trying to survive but it’s so hard. Before, Jay had been his constant companion. He had always pictured himself growing old beside him, sleeping curled up against him, and now that he’s been torn away, he cannot bring himself to let go just yet.
This loneliness lingers in the air around him and lurks in his mannerisms. Finch is a social cat, but he’s never had to worry about making friends before; always, he had had Jay by his side, and Jay was far better with that than he was. In theory, he knows the concept, just as he knows quite a few others, but he’s found that it’s a lot harder to do something than to hear about it or watch others do it – especially because a large part of him is afraid of others. Inseparable and intertwined, fear and loneliness go hand in hand. Strangers had always set him a little on edge, but they never used to set his heart racing like they do now. Distress makes his tongue sharp and turns his words into weapons. He doesn’t trust anyone at face value, and he hates being outnumbered. But the fear runs deep. With the wound on his heart still raw and open, he is reluctant to let anyone else in because he knows how much it hurts to lose those he loves and he doesn’t want that again.
If someone ever managed to climb over his walls, however, they would find a cat with a good, loyal heart and a wonderfully vivid imagination. Though he doesn’t seem like it at first, Finch can and will talk quite a lot about his stories to anyone who will listen – and he has a lot to say. Blessed with a very good memory, he forgets almost nothing he’s told, especially the stories that he has grown to love so much. And truly, this is what holds him together. The feathers are the physical manifestation of his imagination and an anchor to his past, so that he may find his way back to happiness even when the present is at its bleakest. He looks at the faded colors and draws upon his inherent creativity and what he can recall from those warm nights with his family to create a world of his choosing, where he is happy and not as alone.
------------------------------------------------
Nearly 40 moons have passed since he entered the valley, and time has not been kind. Solitude has become as familiar to him as a second skin, the near-total isolation (he does occasionally run into other loners, though never the ones that haunt his dreams) leaving scars across his heart and mind. He has been weathered and eroded by life, except instead of rounding out his sharp edges, it has given him more. By necessity, he has become tough. He forced all but the most resilient shred of optimistic hope to accept the harsh reality: that his father, if he hadn’t died already, would soon be expiring from old age if nothing else, and that if he hadn’t found Jay by now, he likely never would. He has learned to live with the loneliness and the emptiness in his core. He strengthened and rebuilt the walls around his crumbling heart and that tiny bit of futile hope, built a maze so that only he could uncover what really hurt him and even then he has to go looking to find it.
Fear no longer drives him – it exists, certainly, but it has been tempered. Experience has given him perspective on many matters, but especially this: strangers are no longer monsters that ought to be blindly feared, for most simply want to carry on with their own lives just as he wishes to his. It is those who stick around, who follow him persistently as a hunter would his prey that he must be wary of. But he knows now, though he is not proud of the change, that he can defend himself far better than he could in his youth. He is not soft anymore. He has a sharp tongue made sharper by necessity, because if his words can chase off unwanted company, then he won’t have to worry about unsheathing his claws (it is discomforting, how adept he has become at using them). They are claws that are too sharp. Chasing cats away happens even when he doesn't intend to do so, for solitude has buried his social skills and more often than not he alienates rather than befriends. He is slow to trust, and being around other cats is exhausting. Sometimes it’s easier being alone.
Now, he has regrets, in his older moons, which he lacked when he was younger. He does not let his fear control him as it did before because bad things happened when it did. Every single time, he tells himself that it is self-defense, that it was either him or them and his self-preservation instinct is too strong to ignore. But it’s so easy – too easy. It makes him uneasy. The first was a loner who had taken shelter in his den, one with the same fur color and same size, one who was Jay in all but where it mattered. His heart rose and then fell and shattered to pieces. Fear at the uninvited stranger, bitter disappointment at reality, and anger at how life decided to tease him with what he couldn’t have all manifested in unsheathed claws, and the unexpected guest was lucky to leave in one piece. He knew then that he could fight, if he had to, with the desperation of a feline facing death.
It took a few moons before his control slipped again, but when it did, the outcome was much the same. Food – or rather, the lack thereof and too many hungry cats for one piece of prey – was the reason. And the next was for food as well. And then warding off an overly aggressive cat. And so on. And so on. He doesn't actively seek out violence – and truly the encounters where it emerges are few and far between – but he has found that it works wonders at maintaining his solitude (and his safety), and sometimes he wonders if all the cats he has chased away over the years were truly deserving of such aggression. The guilt eats at him, especially now that he knows that his words wound as well as claws, so he has tempered this newfound capability for violence. It is fear-driven, he knows, born of the desperate need to survive. So he learned to control his fear and to use his words. It’s not too hard; in the past, he has always been more of a speaking rather than fighting tom, so he tries to hang on to that and remind himself that he is civilized. But things have changed since then. He knows now what he can do, and he would be lying if he claimed that he isn't a little scared by it.
History:
He was born on an unremarkable day to unremarkable parents, and everyone assumed he would live an unremarkable life. His sibling was stillborn, so he became an only kit and was named Finch after his mother’s father. But he did not grow up alone. Around the same time, another couple had a litter of five. There was a runt named Jay, who always seemed to be forgotten in the chaos created by his four older brothers and sisters. But Finch, more interested in befriending the lone tom than his bigger siblings, always remembered him. The two hit it off from the start, and they became brothers in all but blood, utterly inseparable.
That is only half the story.
Finch and Jay were born two moons after StoneClan had joined MountainClan at their oasis refuge. The pair grew up listening to the few StoneClan elders tell StoneClan stories to StoneClan kits. They saw StoneClan warriors pacing and grieving and shouting and dealing with a betrayal that, as kits, they could not fully comprehend. But what Finch remembers most is witnessing the unconditional trust that forged unbreakable bonds between the clan cats. MountainClan may call themselves such, but by nature, loners were not particularly trusting cats. When he looked around at his own world, he did not feel the undercurrent of warmth and companionship that existed in StoneClan’s makeshift camp. It was strange; a part of him longed for that safety, but it was also far too alien to him. After all, he had loner blood running through his veins, not StoneClan.
Even so, he still felt the call to arms deep within his gut when StoneClan fought alongside MountainClan and TreeClan. A young cat of merely 7 moons, he was not wanted on the battlefield, but he ran along anyway, the bravery of warriors of ages past thrumming in his chest and the curiosity of an innocent kit clouding his better judgement. What he saw had him freezing. The soft, careful warmth that he had come to associate with StoneClan was shattered by the yowls ringing through the air and the blood pooling on the ground. Never had anyone come close to describing the horrific reality of a fight. Beside him, Jay seemed similarly overwhelmed.
Suddenly, teeth latched onto the back of his neck, and he was being carried to safety, away from the fray. Moments later, Jay was by his side, and then his father was there, shouting at both of them. What were they doing here?! It wasn’t safe. They could be hurt. They had to come with him and get away from here. They did. He was told later that his mother had been a casualty of the fight. His father had seen it happen.
And so their small family of four became three, and they set out on their own. Jay and Finch learned how to hunt for themselves (Jay, the smarter of the two of them, picked it up faster, but Finch had more patience). His father taught them as much as he knew, bestowing upon his two sons – one by blood and one by choice – a loner’s practical knowledge of healing herbs, a survivor’s determination to cling to life in the face of everything, and a storyteller’s love of words. Thunder was not the most expressive of parents, but he had the right amount of love for his children. Finch remembers cold nights as the autumn gave way to winter, huddled in a make-shift shelter. He remembers hearing the comforting rumble of his father’s voice as he told stories to distract them from their nightmares. They were elaborate tales of imaginary worlds where they could fly far above the mountains or dive deep into lakes.
One day, Jay said that he thought that when cats died, their spirits were lifted up into the sky on birds’ wings. There, they could watch over everyone. Thunder said he liked that. Finch never forgot it.
Time moved on. Sometimes it moved quickly. Other times, not so much,
On a different day, one that was much colder and much more unforgiving than he ever remembered, their sometimes-fast-sometimes-slow life was cut abruptly short. There were five cats, driven to do the unthinkable by desperation and the constant ache in their empty stomachs. They saw a group of three toms, an older one and two younger ones, and they saw prey. The night they attacked, it was stormy. Finch remembers vividly the way the wind howled around them, carrying their voices away on the wind as they called for each other and tried to fight, then flee. In the confusion, he ended up singled out. Safe, but alone. For the first time in his life, he spent the rest of the night curled up with only his thoughts for company, unable to sleep for fear of the gang that had attacked him and worrying about his family. In the morning, it became evident that the storm had covered Jay’s and Thunder’s tracks, just as effectively as it had covered his own (which he assumed was why he survived the night). But it meant that he could not find them.
Unsure of his next course of action, he lingered in the area indecisively, knowing that it was likely that, when they noticed his absence, it was there that Jay and Thunder would return first. It was a mistake. The gang of starving cats also stuck around, and his luck ran out. At 17 moons, he was nearly killed, forced to run for his life, and saved by a stranger who had witnessed the bloodshed. With the combined efforts of Finch, with his limited knowledge of healing, and Aster, who had a far more extensive arsenal of medical tricks, the younger tom was nursed back to health. Comforted by the presence of another cat, one whom he could mostly trust to not attack him in the dead of night, Finch stayed with his new companion. They shared stories and experience, and something like a friendship developed. But Aster was too much like the cat the brown loner had left behind. He was smart and cheerful and optimistic in a way that hurt Finch’s heart when he thought about it too much. Three moons after they met, they parted on pleasant terms.
Logically, he knew that anything could have happened to Jay and Thunder in the last three moons. He didn’t even know if they’d outrun the group of cannibalistic cats or if they had stuck together (though he knew that if they had, their chances of survival increased by that much), but he had to think that they were looking for him. That they hadn’t forgotten about him. But he wasn’t quite sure where he was and the world was large. It was unlikely that he would ever stumble upon them again, he knew that. Yet he still found himself slowly retracing his steps, paws carrying back into familiar land because if there was one place he knew, without a doubt, that they could find each other again, it was at the beginning.
There was an odd nostalgia to being back at the Oasis, and for the first day, it tempered his nerves. Some of the cats still remembered him (though he couldn’t say the same), and he thought it was interesting to see what had changed in the time he had been gone. But it did not protect him for long. He did not enjoy the large number of cats that was suddenly around him all the time. He was very aware of how outnumbered he was – one vs. the entirety of MountainClan – and after that disastrous winter night, he did not trust anyone. They were understandably curious about the newcomer in their midst, but he did not appreciate the questions. After moons of living on his own or in the company of only one or two other cats, there suddenly seemed to be too much of everything. By the end of the first week, Finch had to leave.
But he stayed in the area. The mountains were full of nooks and crannies, and he found a relatively comfortable and isolated one not far from the Oasis. Occasionally, he mingled with a few of the MountainClan loners in the area, but more often than not, he kept to himself. His proximity to the clans, whom he had forgotten about until his return, kept his interest, and he found himself thinking often of the warm companionship they all shared. And then he would remember the sheer ferocity of the battle, and how that steady trust was ripped to shreds by sharp claws. Although he didn’t quite know what to think, a renewed fascination with the clans had him descending from the mountains to pace not far from their borders.
It was there, on his first trip down, that he found his first bird feather, the start of his collection. It belonged to a blue jay.
That is only half the story.
Finch and Jay were born two moons after StoneClan had joined MountainClan at their oasis refuge. The pair grew up listening to the few StoneClan elders tell StoneClan stories to StoneClan kits. They saw StoneClan warriors pacing and grieving and shouting and dealing with a betrayal that, as kits, they could not fully comprehend. But what Finch remembers most is witnessing the unconditional trust that forged unbreakable bonds between the clan cats. MountainClan may call themselves such, but by nature, loners were not particularly trusting cats. When he looked around at his own world, he did not feel the undercurrent of warmth and companionship that existed in StoneClan’s makeshift camp. It was strange; a part of him longed for that safety, but it was also far too alien to him. After all, he had loner blood running through his veins, not StoneClan.
Even so, he still felt the call to arms deep within his gut when StoneClan fought alongside MountainClan and TreeClan. A young cat of merely 7 moons, he was not wanted on the battlefield, but he ran along anyway, the bravery of warriors of ages past thrumming in his chest and the curiosity of an innocent kit clouding his better judgement. What he saw had him freezing. The soft, careful warmth that he had come to associate with StoneClan was shattered by the yowls ringing through the air and the blood pooling on the ground. Never had anyone come close to describing the horrific reality of a fight. Beside him, Jay seemed similarly overwhelmed.
Suddenly, teeth latched onto the back of his neck, and he was being carried to safety, away from the fray. Moments later, Jay was by his side, and then his father was there, shouting at both of them. What were they doing here?! It wasn’t safe. They could be hurt. They had to come with him and get away from here. They did. He was told later that his mother had been a casualty of the fight. His father had seen it happen.
And so their small family of four became three, and they set out on their own. Jay and Finch learned how to hunt for themselves (Jay, the smarter of the two of them, picked it up faster, but Finch had more patience). His father taught them as much as he knew, bestowing upon his two sons – one by blood and one by choice – a loner’s practical knowledge of healing herbs, a survivor’s determination to cling to life in the face of everything, and a storyteller’s love of words. Thunder was not the most expressive of parents, but he had the right amount of love for his children. Finch remembers cold nights as the autumn gave way to winter, huddled in a make-shift shelter. He remembers hearing the comforting rumble of his father’s voice as he told stories to distract them from their nightmares. They were elaborate tales of imaginary worlds where they could fly far above the mountains or dive deep into lakes.
One day, Jay said that he thought that when cats died, their spirits were lifted up into the sky on birds’ wings. There, they could watch over everyone. Thunder said he liked that. Finch never forgot it.
Time moved on. Sometimes it moved quickly. Other times, not so much,
On a different day, one that was much colder and much more unforgiving than he ever remembered, their sometimes-fast-sometimes-slow life was cut abruptly short. There were five cats, driven to do the unthinkable by desperation and the constant ache in their empty stomachs. They saw a group of three toms, an older one and two younger ones, and they saw prey. The night they attacked, it was stormy. Finch remembers vividly the way the wind howled around them, carrying their voices away on the wind as they called for each other and tried to fight, then flee. In the confusion, he ended up singled out. Safe, but alone. For the first time in his life, he spent the rest of the night curled up with only his thoughts for company, unable to sleep for fear of the gang that had attacked him and worrying about his family. In the morning, it became evident that the storm had covered Jay’s and Thunder’s tracks, just as effectively as it had covered his own (which he assumed was why he survived the night). But it meant that he could not find them.
Unsure of his next course of action, he lingered in the area indecisively, knowing that it was likely that, when they noticed his absence, it was there that Jay and Thunder would return first. It was a mistake. The gang of starving cats also stuck around, and his luck ran out. At 17 moons, he was nearly killed, forced to run for his life, and saved by a stranger who had witnessed the bloodshed. With the combined efforts of Finch, with his limited knowledge of healing, and Aster, who had a far more extensive arsenal of medical tricks, the younger tom was nursed back to health. Comforted by the presence of another cat, one whom he could mostly trust to not attack him in the dead of night, Finch stayed with his new companion. They shared stories and experience, and something like a friendship developed. But Aster was too much like the cat the brown loner had left behind. He was smart and cheerful and optimistic in a way that hurt Finch’s heart when he thought about it too much. Three moons after they met, they parted on pleasant terms.
Logically, he knew that anything could have happened to Jay and Thunder in the last three moons. He didn’t even know if they’d outrun the group of cannibalistic cats or if they had stuck together (though he knew that if they had, their chances of survival increased by that much), but he had to think that they were looking for him. That they hadn’t forgotten about him. But he wasn’t quite sure where he was and the world was large. It was unlikely that he would ever stumble upon them again, he knew that. Yet he still found himself slowly retracing his steps, paws carrying back into familiar land because if there was one place he knew, without a doubt, that they could find each other again, it was at the beginning.
There was an odd nostalgia to being back at the Oasis, and for the first day, it tempered his nerves. Some of the cats still remembered him (though he couldn’t say the same), and he thought it was interesting to see what had changed in the time he had been gone. But it did not protect him for long. He did not enjoy the large number of cats that was suddenly around him all the time. He was very aware of how outnumbered he was – one vs. the entirety of MountainClan – and after that disastrous winter night, he did not trust anyone. They were understandably curious about the newcomer in their midst, but he did not appreciate the questions. After moons of living on his own or in the company of only one or two other cats, there suddenly seemed to be too much of everything. By the end of the first week, Finch had to leave.
But he stayed in the area. The mountains were full of nooks and crannies, and he found a relatively comfortable and isolated one not far from the Oasis. Occasionally, he mingled with a few of the MountainClan loners in the area, but more often than not, he kept to himself. His proximity to the clans, whom he had forgotten about until his return, kept his interest, and he found himself thinking often of the warm companionship they all shared. And then he would remember the sheer ferocity of the battle, and how that steady trust was ripped to shreds by sharp claws. Although he didn’t quite know what to think, a renewed fascination with the clans had him descending from the mountains to pace not far from their borders.
It was there, on his first trip down, that he found his first bird feather, the start of his collection. It belonged to a blue jay.
RP Example: --
Other:
Were You Referred? N/A