Post by Taxx on Nov 13, 2017 15:25:26 GMT -5
Name: Blackpelt
Age: 29 moons
Gender: Tom
Clan: None
Rank: Loner
Picture:
Description: Blackpelt’s fur is a mix of black and white- more white. His front, from his cheeks, down his neck, chest, belly, and all four legs, are all a snowy color. His lower jaw is black, the marking on the left extending out further than the right. The fur around both ears, and the backs of his ears, are black; his left ear comes to an abrupt end, the very tip missing.
A ring of white separates the black on his head from the black on his back. A large marking covers his back, wavering and cut through with white stripes and furs. His tail is solidly black. His fur itself is medium length, thicker and longer on his tail. His eyes are green, a pale shade like that of the fresh growth of new-leaf, and the outer corners have small black lines connecting to the dark fur surrounding his ears.
Blackpelt’s form is more on the lean side, and he’s much more skilled as a hunter than a fighter- in the sort of hunting that doesn’t require taking down huge birds. He’s not impressive by any standards, but he’s strong and capable, and that’s all that matters to him.
Description Summary: Black and white tom with green eyes
Personality: Blackpelt has been through a great deal in his life, and each event has shaped him into the cat he is today. A core of friendliness toward cats remains, as they have never hurt him, but a cool word or a hint of claws will put him on the defensive. If a cat is protecting their territory, or a nest of kits, it’s understandable, and he won’t challenge them. If they’re being aggressive for no reason, or trying to force him into giving up a catch he’s made, he’ll show a different side. He’s no pushover, and he won’t be walked over.
Blackpelt has never given up the hope that somewhere, his two sisters are alive, but he’s all but given up the hope of finding them- too much time has passed since the Twolegs attacked. He wouldn’t mind another cat’s company, and frequently he will share a catch if a cat looks hungry. He wishes for some kind of company, but most of the cats around seem to be quite willing to stick to themselves, and he can’t force himself onto a cat who doesn’t want him around.
History: Blackpelt, along with his sisters Moonfeather and Leafwhisper, heard all about how their father and mother had met. He wasn’t quite as interested- love? Ew! The two adults made their home on the edge of the Twolegplace, in the forest that bordered the town, and raised their three kits to hunt and defend themselves as necessary. Easy days of play turned to days of instruction as the kits aged, and all three proved avid learners as they grew from clumsy kits to strong, healthy adults.
Twolegs changed it all. Maybe eventually Blackpelt would have wandered from the family unit, made his own way- but such thoughts hadn’t occurred to him yet. He was happy with his sisters, mother and father; not so much dependent on them, but more than willing to share what prey he caught if the others were hungry, sheltering with them on stormy days and during the night.
He had seen Twolegs before, but they’d never tried to hurt him or his family before- at worst, they simply chased the cats off if they didn’t want them around. These, however, took an interest in the four that proved fatal for Searcy and Blazebriar, and nearly so for Blackpelt himself.
Loud crashes, like thunder, rang in his ears, and pain scorched along his right side, burning a trail from shoulder to flank. A screech burst from him and he ran, blindly, mindlessly, as fast as he could- more roars of thunder behind him pushing him on faster. He never looked back.
When he stopped, the pain from his side finally overwhelming his panic, he was farther from the little clearing he had spent his life at. For the first time, he realized he was alone- neither his parents or Leafwhisper had followed, and Moonfeather hadn’t been there. The briefest pang of worry stirred, promptly crushed by fear; he couldn’t go back. What if the Twolegs were still there?
His side hurt, and the tom settled onto the grass, curling around as carefully as possible to lick at the gash. Blood matted the fur around the edges, but it had stopped bleeding by now. Worn out by the task’s end, the tom slept, but fitfully. The experience, as well as the newness of his surroundings, made deep sleep impossible. When morning came again, he had made up his mind to return- maybe one of his sisters, or Searcy and Blazebriar, would be there.
What he found was a hard thing to accept; both his mother and father lay dead in the clearing. Of Leafwhisper and Moonfeather, there was no sign. Their scent was in the air, but none of it was very fresh, and he didn’t have the slightest idea of where to begin looking for them- or if they were even alive.
The next several days were spent looking, timidly scouring Twolegplace and its edges, asking any cats he saw if they’d seen his sisters, but the answer was either ‘no’ or a ‘yes’ that proved to be a different cat than the ones he was looking for. His side slowly healed, but his leg only grew more painful, swelling and stiffening until he was limping, each step an agony.
The day came when he could no longer get around well enough to even hunt, and he lay in the corner of the alley he’d claimed, growing hungrier and weaker. And to his surprise, it was Twolegs who saved him; they picked him up, avoiding his pathetic attempts to bite or claw, and stuck him into a small den which they placed in a monster.
Most of the following time blurred- he never knew quite how long he was in the big den, hearing dogs and cats and other unknown creatures crying around him, but he was aware that slowly, his leg began to hurt less, the pain and swelling receding. He continued to resist them, managing several times to land a good bite or scratch, but it never stopped them from coming back.
He mellowed out a bit, in time, as his stay lengthened, less inclined to lash out in fear. As his leg continued to heal, he was moved to a different room, this one lined with rows of dens with more cats peering from openings. Sometimes they stared at him, sometimes at the others, and frequently one cat disappeared forever, their den soon filled by a new one.
Blackpelt’s time came, and the shock of being dumped into another small den, placed in a monster, and taken to a completely new home, awoke his lessening aggression all over again. He hissed at the three Twolegs, bolted into the small space beneath a tree, and hid there until night. The following day, the fresh scents of trees and grass drew him from his hiding place to an opening in one side of the den. None of the Twolegs saw him leap through the open window or slip through the fence, making his escape smoothly.
It was impossible to judge how much time had passed, but the air was still warm and prey plentiful. Blackpelt, however, was done with Twolegs- they might have saved his life, but he wanted nothing to do with them. He left Twolegplace behind, wandering wherever he chose.
Why he wandered into the mountains, he never really knew- his paws carried them that way and he didn’t bother fighting it. The hunting stayed good, and the journey was easy, if lonely at times. If he had hungry days, that was to be expected.
What he didn’t expect was the threats from above. Foxes and badgers he’d always been aware of, from his parents, but birds big enough to prey on cats?
The eagle would have had him, if not for the mouse he was stalking who spotted it first, and it was fear and instinct that sent Blackpelt bolting for his life. The only problem was that there was no shelter- the only trees were stubby, stunted things, and the grass was almost nonexistent. Blackpelt could only run, terror scorching through him and hearing all too clearly the beating of wings growing closer.
One paw slipped, his pad slicing open painfully on a sharp edge, and then he was sliding down the slope- a short glance revealing cold eyes fixed on him, cruel talons closing in. And then there were other cats, stockier than he’d ever seen, mixed with lithe forms that surrounded him. Blackpelt’s eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding in his chest, as hisses and yowls filled the air, mingled with a harsh screech that belonged to no cat.
A paw prodded his shoulder, one green eye sliding open to stare at the cat looming over him; words passed between them, mews blurring in his ears until another sharp jab pulled him back. Stay awake, he was told. Keep looking at me.
It took a minute for the cats to come to an agreement, and then, with their help, Blackpelt was guided back to their cave, where yet another cat looked him over, pushed plants at him and ordered him to eat them. Slowly, the shock wore off and he realized he was safe. His paw was treated, and by morning, Blackpelt had already begun to find a warm welcome. The eagle they’d caught while rescuing him might have helped.
With nowhere to go, and his paw still not well enough for him to leave anyway, Blackpelt remained with the Tribe. He helped as he could, but he could never get the hang of hunting eagles- he could hardly look at one without remembering how close he’d come to being prey. Instead, he guarded the cave and the ones who were too old to hunt or protect the hunters, and the she-cats with kits, and Stoneteller. It was an effort to repay them for the prey they gave him, and the hospitality of their cave. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the company of other cats, and while not related, the Tribe welcomed him.
He might have stayed with them, who knew how long, except for the collapse. Blackpelt had gone out for a walk with a Tribe cat, enjoying the easy company, when the thunder of falling rocks had sent the two scrambling back to the scene and the devastation. It was a hard day, with many cats dying in the minute of disaster, and others succumbing afterward from injury or shock.
Blackpelt traveled with them when the Tribe left the mountains, following the direction of the Clan cat, Featherstep. He helped as much as he could, but since he hadn’t yet mastered mountain hunting, he often felt useless. He only stayed with them for the extra set of eyes, keeping watch over the Tribe day after day.
When they reached their new home, he decided it might be best now to leave- what help was he being? Sure, he could watch and guard, but he was hardly any help with hunting, and hunters were what they needed. He was just another belly that would take prey and offer little in return.
He wasn’t prepared for another cat to end up choosing to go with him- a to-be who had lost all members of their family, as well as their mentor. The young tom would not be dissuaded, and in the end it was Blackpelt who gave, and the two left the mountains behind. They decided to travel at dawn and dusk, avoiding the threats of eagles and hawks and spending the days and nights resting. In this way, it took far longer to leave the mountains, but the soft feel of grass beneath his paws was so strong a relief that Blackpelt was left wondering why he’d never noticed he’d missed it.
On the other hand, it was much harder for the young Tribe cat to adjust. Being surrounded on all sides by trees and brush, with no way of seeing the sky as he was used to, made him jumpy, and the way of hunting he was accustomed to was useless here. Blackpelt tried to teach him the stalk and pounce method he had grown up knowing- he felt quite at home under the canopy, no longer having to worry about huge, cat-eating birds swooping down on him.
It proved a futile task, and when the to-be began to reminisce about the mountains, Blackpelt knew it was only a matter of time before he lost his companion. He couldn’t help a feeling of misery when the young tom simply left, offering no farewell, his scent trail leading straight toward the mountains in the distance. He wished the youngster well, hoped he remembered how to look after himself, and hoped he made it back to the only home he had known.
Blackpelt remained. He kept to himself, for the most part, unwilling to get involved in scuffles with the other loners or the ‘Clans’ as one friendly she-cat had told him the marked territories were housing. They defended these territories jealously, he was told, and he’d do well to stay clear. Taking the advice, Blackpelt kept to the outer edges, making his own way as best he could.
Other: He’s been neutered and marked to show it
Justice
Age: 29 moons
Gender: Tom
Clan: None
Rank: Loner
Picture:
Description: Blackpelt’s fur is a mix of black and white- more white. His front, from his cheeks, down his neck, chest, belly, and all four legs, are all a snowy color. His lower jaw is black, the marking on the left extending out further than the right. The fur around both ears, and the backs of his ears, are black; his left ear comes to an abrupt end, the very tip missing.
A ring of white separates the black on his head from the black on his back. A large marking covers his back, wavering and cut through with white stripes and furs. His tail is solidly black. His fur itself is medium length, thicker and longer on his tail. His eyes are green, a pale shade like that of the fresh growth of new-leaf, and the outer corners have small black lines connecting to the dark fur surrounding his ears.
Blackpelt’s form is more on the lean side, and he’s much more skilled as a hunter than a fighter- in the sort of hunting that doesn’t require taking down huge birds. He’s not impressive by any standards, but he’s strong and capable, and that’s all that matters to him.
Description Summary: Black and white tom with green eyes
Personality: Blackpelt has been through a great deal in his life, and each event has shaped him into the cat he is today. A core of friendliness toward cats remains, as they have never hurt him, but a cool word or a hint of claws will put him on the defensive. If a cat is protecting their territory, or a nest of kits, it’s understandable, and he won’t challenge them. If they’re being aggressive for no reason, or trying to force him into giving up a catch he’s made, he’ll show a different side. He’s no pushover, and he won’t be walked over.
Blackpelt has never given up the hope that somewhere, his two sisters are alive, but he’s all but given up the hope of finding them- too much time has passed since the Twolegs attacked. He wouldn’t mind another cat’s company, and frequently he will share a catch if a cat looks hungry. He wishes for some kind of company, but most of the cats around seem to be quite willing to stick to themselves, and he can’t force himself onto a cat who doesn’t want him around.
History: Blackpelt, along with his sisters Moonfeather and Leafwhisper, heard all about how their father and mother had met. He wasn’t quite as interested- love? Ew! The two adults made their home on the edge of the Twolegplace, in the forest that bordered the town, and raised their three kits to hunt and defend themselves as necessary. Easy days of play turned to days of instruction as the kits aged, and all three proved avid learners as they grew from clumsy kits to strong, healthy adults.
Twolegs changed it all. Maybe eventually Blackpelt would have wandered from the family unit, made his own way- but such thoughts hadn’t occurred to him yet. He was happy with his sisters, mother and father; not so much dependent on them, but more than willing to share what prey he caught if the others were hungry, sheltering with them on stormy days and during the night.
He had seen Twolegs before, but they’d never tried to hurt him or his family before- at worst, they simply chased the cats off if they didn’t want them around. These, however, took an interest in the four that proved fatal for Searcy and Blazebriar, and nearly so for Blackpelt himself.
Loud crashes, like thunder, rang in his ears, and pain scorched along his right side, burning a trail from shoulder to flank. A screech burst from him and he ran, blindly, mindlessly, as fast as he could- more roars of thunder behind him pushing him on faster. He never looked back.
When he stopped, the pain from his side finally overwhelming his panic, he was farther from the little clearing he had spent his life at. For the first time, he realized he was alone- neither his parents or Leafwhisper had followed, and Moonfeather hadn’t been there. The briefest pang of worry stirred, promptly crushed by fear; he couldn’t go back. What if the Twolegs were still there?
His side hurt, and the tom settled onto the grass, curling around as carefully as possible to lick at the gash. Blood matted the fur around the edges, but it had stopped bleeding by now. Worn out by the task’s end, the tom slept, but fitfully. The experience, as well as the newness of his surroundings, made deep sleep impossible. When morning came again, he had made up his mind to return- maybe one of his sisters, or Searcy and Blazebriar, would be there.
What he found was a hard thing to accept; both his mother and father lay dead in the clearing. Of Leafwhisper and Moonfeather, there was no sign. Their scent was in the air, but none of it was very fresh, and he didn’t have the slightest idea of where to begin looking for them- or if they were even alive.
The next several days were spent looking, timidly scouring Twolegplace and its edges, asking any cats he saw if they’d seen his sisters, but the answer was either ‘no’ or a ‘yes’ that proved to be a different cat than the ones he was looking for. His side slowly healed, but his leg only grew more painful, swelling and stiffening until he was limping, each step an agony.
The day came when he could no longer get around well enough to even hunt, and he lay in the corner of the alley he’d claimed, growing hungrier and weaker. And to his surprise, it was Twolegs who saved him; they picked him up, avoiding his pathetic attempts to bite or claw, and stuck him into a small den which they placed in a monster.
Most of the following time blurred- he never knew quite how long he was in the big den, hearing dogs and cats and other unknown creatures crying around him, but he was aware that slowly, his leg began to hurt less, the pain and swelling receding. He continued to resist them, managing several times to land a good bite or scratch, but it never stopped them from coming back.
He mellowed out a bit, in time, as his stay lengthened, less inclined to lash out in fear. As his leg continued to heal, he was moved to a different room, this one lined with rows of dens with more cats peering from openings. Sometimes they stared at him, sometimes at the others, and frequently one cat disappeared forever, their den soon filled by a new one.
Blackpelt’s time came, and the shock of being dumped into another small den, placed in a monster, and taken to a completely new home, awoke his lessening aggression all over again. He hissed at the three Twolegs, bolted into the small space beneath a tree, and hid there until night. The following day, the fresh scents of trees and grass drew him from his hiding place to an opening in one side of the den. None of the Twolegs saw him leap through the open window or slip through the fence, making his escape smoothly.
It was impossible to judge how much time had passed, but the air was still warm and prey plentiful. Blackpelt, however, was done with Twolegs- they might have saved his life, but he wanted nothing to do with them. He left Twolegplace behind, wandering wherever he chose.
Why he wandered into the mountains, he never really knew- his paws carried them that way and he didn’t bother fighting it. The hunting stayed good, and the journey was easy, if lonely at times. If he had hungry days, that was to be expected.
What he didn’t expect was the threats from above. Foxes and badgers he’d always been aware of, from his parents, but birds big enough to prey on cats?
The eagle would have had him, if not for the mouse he was stalking who spotted it first, and it was fear and instinct that sent Blackpelt bolting for his life. The only problem was that there was no shelter- the only trees were stubby, stunted things, and the grass was almost nonexistent. Blackpelt could only run, terror scorching through him and hearing all too clearly the beating of wings growing closer.
One paw slipped, his pad slicing open painfully on a sharp edge, and then he was sliding down the slope- a short glance revealing cold eyes fixed on him, cruel talons closing in. And then there were other cats, stockier than he’d ever seen, mixed with lithe forms that surrounded him. Blackpelt’s eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding in his chest, as hisses and yowls filled the air, mingled with a harsh screech that belonged to no cat.
A paw prodded his shoulder, one green eye sliding open to stare at the cat looming over him; words passed between them, mews blurring in his ears until another sharp jab pulled him back. Stay awake, he was told. Keep looking at me.
It took a minute for the cats to come to an agreement, and then, with their help, Blackpelt was guided back to their cave, where yet another cat looked him over, pushed plants at him and ordered him to eat them. Slowly, the shock wore off and he realized he was safe. His paw was treated, and by morning, Blackpelt had already begun to find a warm welcome. The eagle they’d caught while rescuing him might have helped.
With nowhere to go, and his paw still not well enough for him to leave anyway, Blackpelt remained with the Tribe. He helped as he could, but he could never get the hang of hunting eagles- he could hardly look at one without remembering how close he’d come to being prey. Instead, he guarded the cave and the ones who were too old to hunt or protect the hunters, and the she-cats with kits, and Stoneteller. It was an effort to repay them for the prey they gave him, and the hospitality of their cave. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the company of other cats, and while not related, the Tribe welcomed him.
He might have stayed with them, who knew how long, except for the collapse. Blackpelt had gone out for a walk with a Tribe cat, enjoying the easy company, when the thunder of falling rocks had sent the two scrambling back to the scene and the devastation. It was a hard day, with many cats dying in the minute of disaster, and others succumbing afterward from injury or shock.
Blackpelt traveled with them when the Tribe left the mountains, following the direction of the Clan cat, Featherstep. He helped as much as he could, but since he hadn’t yet mastered mountain hunting, he often felt useless. He only stayed with them for the extra set of eyes, keeping watch over the Tribe day after day.
When they reached their new home, he decided it might be best now to leave- what help was he being? Sure, he could watch and guard, but he was hardly any help with hunting, and hunters were what they needed. He was just another belly that would take prey and offer little in return.
He wasn’t prepared for another cat to end up choosing to go with him- a to-be who had lost all members of their family, as well as their mentor. The young tom would not be dissuaded, and in the end it was Blackpelt who gave, and the two left the mountains behind. They decided to travel at dawn and dusk, avoiding the threats of eagles and hawks and spending the days and nights resting. In this way, it took far longer to leave the mountains, but the soft feel of grass beneath his paws was so strong a relief that Blackpelt was left wondering why he’d never noticed he’d missed it.
On the other hand, it was much harder for the young Tribe cat to adjust. Being surrounded on all sides by trees and brush, with no way of seeing the sky as he was used to, made him jumpy, and the way of hunting he was accustomed to was useless here. Blackpelt tried to teach him the stalk and pounce method he had grown up knowing- he felt quite at home under the canopy, no longer having to worry about huge, cat-eating birds swooping down on him.
It proved a futile task, and when the to-be began to reminisce about the mountains, Blackpelt knew it was only a matter of time before he lost his companion. He couldn’t help a feeling of misery when the young tom simply left, offering no farewell, his scent trail leading straight toward the mountains in the distance. He wished the youngster well, hoped he remembered how to look after himself, and hoped he made it back to the only home he had known.
Blackpelt remained. He kept to himself, for the most part, unwilling to get involved in scuffles with the other loners or the ‘Clans’ as one friendly she-cat had told him the marked territories were housing. They defended these territories jealously, he was told, and he’d do well to stay clear. Taking the advice, Blackpelt kept to the outer edges, making his own way as best he could.
Other: He’s been neutered and marked to show it
Justice