Post by Taxx on Feb 13, 2019 10:17:28 GMT -5
Name: Quailfoot
Age: 60 moons
Gender: Tom
Clan: LightningClan
Rank: Elder
Picture:
Description: Quailfoot is average- he's not huge, but not tiny; he's not rippling with muscle, but he's not weak. And he's fine with it. He doesn't need to be the most buff cat in the Clan to offer his help. He's strong in his own right, quick and nimble. His frame is slender, his legs a bit on the longer side.
In color, his pelt is patched brown and white. A white muzzle and lower jaw leads to a point almost to the base of his ears, and the rest of his head is brown with thin black stripes. Along his body, the brown tabby patches mingle with white, and a rounded patch covers his rump, with black rings going down the length of his tail, ending in a solid black tip.
Description Summary: Slender, brown and white tabby tom with green eyes
Personality: Quiet and unassuming, Quailfoot is an easy-going sort. He is friendly to a fault, a bit of a pushover, and desperate to please. A bit gullible, and rarely forceful enough to make himself heard- on the few occasions he even tries to speak up- he tends to easily fade into the background, watching the Clan go about their daily business but seldom offering his opinion.
He makes friends easily enough, sociable and thoroughly enjoying the times when he can sit with them and share news and gossip. He loves kits, too, and it's all too common to find him hanging near the nursery, playing with them as much as he can, or just lying back and letting them clamber over him. He doesn't go out of the camp much, but he's quite active within it, and he tries hard to do everything he can for the Clan that took him in when he needed help.
History: He was born Quail, in a small community of cats well outside the valley, residing in an old Twoleg den. They helped each other, sometimes- often most agreeable in the easy moons of newleaf and greenleaf; but it was all too common for those same cats who were generous when prey was abundant to turn greedy when the weather turned cold. Fights for prey weren't uncommon, and neither was watching some cat starve because of their inability to catch their own prey.
Quail's mother, Alder, was strict with her kits out of necessity- she drilled it into their heads to never take prey from a cat without permission, and she rarely let them out of the small room she had claimed for herself upon arrival of the kits.
There were three: Quail, Sparrow, and Robin- two she-cats and a single tom. There had been another she-cat, but she had not survived the birth. Their father, a ginger-and-white tom, was willingly involved with his kits, and he frequently brought prey or stayed with them while their mother went out. Quail found that they had been together for many moons, and that this was not their first litter- some of the cats he saw, he realized, were his older brothers and sisters. Few of them encouraged him to approach, though, and he knew his mother's trust in them was fragile.
That was okay; Robin and Sparrow were great playmates, and he spent many a day wrestling with them. When they were old enough to start eating prey, Alder and Burn, their father, began to teach them how to hunt their own prey. Instinct made it easy enough, and already caught mice were used to train the three kits, honing their skills as they grew. Sparrow was the first to make a true catch of a vole, pouncing on the creature just before it escaped to its burrow. By the end of greenleaf, however, all of them were decent hunters.
Then the weather began to grow colder, and the three experienced their first leafbare. Despite warnings, none of them had expected the harsh reality of it: all five of them were out every day, if the weather allowed, and most days they managed to find something to fill their bellies, but hunger was a near constant. In the deepest part of winter, when snows came down too hard for any cat to go out, the whole group curled together for warmth.
Quail witnessed death that leafbare too; a cat, weakened by an injury, found itself unable to move stealthily enough to catch prey. If he hadn't been so hungry himself, he might have offered a bite now and then, but his growing body demanded all he could catch. In the end, the cat simply faded away; her body was carried away by the strongest into the forest.
That newleaf, Robin nearly met the same fate. She had been tracking a mouse, unaware that another cat was also stalking it, when she pounced and suddenly found herself under attack. Pinned, she could only shriek as claws ripped at her pelt and scored over one eye. Burn came to her rescue, driving off the attacker with a flurry of blows and then helping the wounded she-cat back to the den.
For days she lay limp, struggling to heal, eating prey brought by her family. Quail sat by her, watching and learning again as Alder treated the scratches, offering his company when the rest had to leave. Robin lived- she even kept her eye and sight. But the scars remained, three slanted marks that would never fade. Eventually, too nervous to remain, she and Sparrow left.
But Quail remained. It might be rough, but it was home. At his first year, he was more or less on his own. His mother had ousted him from the little room that had been their birth den- her belly rounding out once more with another litter, which she birthed in late newleaf. A new litter of four, toms and she-cats evenly split. The one time he tried to approach, however, he was blocked by Burn and ordered away. He had no reason to interact with them any longer; he was grown and the kits did not need his company. A little hurt by the blunt dismissal, he backed away and made no further attempts.
Early greenleaf brought on a bout of greencough, and the threat of illness spurred a decision among the group. To reduce the risk of sickening, the group split up, distancing themselves to keep from spreading the disease. It was the last time Quail saw Burn, Alder, and his young siblings; he left with a small group of peers, striking out with them and traveling farther than he ever had before.
Of the group of six, two fell ill, and they were left to their fate- there was no room for weakness, growled the she-cat who took charge of the group, and staying with the sick ones increased the risk of them all getting sick. She had no trouble using her claws to drive Quail away from the ill cats, either, taking the lead and getting the remaining four away from the stricken two. A twinge of guilt for just leaving them still bothers him to this day- he knows how unlikely their survival was with them so sick, and predators would hardly hesitate to kill such easy prey.
But at the time, he simply followed, leaving them two to their fate. The four, three males and the single she-cat, continued on their way. It wasn't until mid-greenleaf, when Quail mentioned starting their trip back to the old den, that he realized none of the others had plans to return at all. Why go back? There was so much of the world to see, and they didn't want to stay stuck in the same area the whole time.
Quail, longing for familiarity and not keen on the idea on being a wanderer his whole life, turned around. He left the three to continue their travels and headed back to the den, the cats he'd known since birth- even his mother and father, even if they didn't really need him. Would they be there? Would his little siblings? He wished he'd asked sooner- it was such a long way to go alone. At least he was skilled enough to keep himself fed, and the weather was warm- good for travel.
Dangers, on the other hand, were not so easily dealt with. And there was little he could do but run for his life with the fox hard on his heels, growls of anticipation sending chills of fear down his spine as he ran as fast as he could- straight past the scent line with hardly a chance to stop.
Then he tripped, a paw sliding into a hole he saw a split second too late- and the leg twisting beneath him as he was hurled to the ground, pain forcing a shriek from him. The fox overshot, going too fast to slow down in time, but it turned back toward him with fangs bared and a hungry gleam in its eyes. Quail struggled upright again, knowing well enough he wasn't going be able to fight it off with one throbbing foreleg but unwilling to just roll over and let it kill him.
An answering yowl came then, startling both Quail and the fox, and both spun to see four other cats hurtling toward them- screeched insults directed at the fox assured Quail of the source of their anger, and he was quick to start beating a retreat as the four cats faced the fox, snarling and harrying it until it broke and ran. Injured leg aside, Quail was making tracks toward the border, unwilling to risk a confrontation with these cats- he just wanted to get off this territory. He was dismayed to see them coming back toward him, having hardly noticed that the fox had been chased off as he'd been hobbling away.
Sitting down, facing them, Quail pinned his ears back and hunched, tucking his injured leg to his chest and fixing his eyes on the ground. He couldn't outrun them, so there was no point in trying- he could only hope they weren't about to treat him as they'd treated the fox.
They weren't exactly friendly, in the end- the ginger-pointed one spoke first, a comment on his leg; gradually, Quail relaxed. Probably because they'd witnessed the chase firsthand and had chased off that fox, they were more willing to be gentle. He wasn't protesting, whatever the reason, and he limped alongside a big, chocolate brown tom, willing to trust them since they had technically saved his life.
The group he saw on entering the camp stunned him. He had expected something like his old group, a ragtag bunch where each cat- except in certain cases- only cared for themselves. But this was different- it was organized. Dens were dug around a central clearing, cats padding to and fro, sitting with others, and working; younger cats were grabbing mouthfuls of grass and disappearing into one of the dens, and there in a corner, little kits tumbled over each other. It was a scene far homier than the one he'd come from.
His first meeting of Firestar was intimidating. He tried to be as respectful as possible, but she made him nervous- but, vouched for by the cats who had guided him here, she allowed him to stay and get treatment. And, later, lying in a nest with his belly full of prey handed out freely, Quail found himself utterly content. Wasn't this what he wanted? A group to be part of- and this one felt closer than the one he'd been born in to. Maybe he could stay here.
In the following days, Quail met with Firestar several more times, telling her what she wanted to know about his past, how he'd come to be fleeing a fox, and learning more about the group- LightningClan- and how it worked. Every able cat pitched in, excepting the mothers and the elders, and every cat played a part in supporting the whole. No cat let another starve, or failed to help if possible- and Quail's thoughts flashed back to that cat he'd watched slowly starve to death, a twinge of guilt in his mind.
When he asked to stay, Firestar told him he would have to take a warrior's name, and that all the responsibilities expected of them would be expected of him too. He agreed. So she named him Quailfoot, and assigned a tom named Flashbrook to teach him the Clan's ways.
The two grew close, and Quailfoot tried his hardest- even in the beginning, with his leg healing, there were things he could do to help. Fetching water, making sure cats had food, keeping the bedding of the queens and elders fresh. In a moon, with his leg healed, he found himself the equivalent of an apprentice, learning LightningClan's territory, how to hunt, how to fight. He grew close to others- most had been wary of him as a stranger, but his obvious drive to fit in got him friends with those who were less standoffish.
It didn't make leafbare any easier. Some nights, when he had hardly eaten, his prey caught to feed the queens and their kits, he wondered about his choice, wondered if it would be all that bad if he went out and caught something and ate it without worrying about other hungry cats. Flashbrook, though, usually reminded him of his promise, told him that these moons would pass, assured that the prey would return, as it always did. He just had to be patient and wait.
And it did. But newleaf, which tempted the prey from their burrows, also brought greencough. Many cats fell ill- many died. Quailfoot got sick too, and even though he recovered, the illness left him weak and often short of breath. He did his best to resume duties, seeing Kindleflare frequently to be looked at, but her treatments brought only temporary relief. He was still part of the battle over the Sun Stones, and present when Mapleheart died as a result.
Then the fire struck. And more were lost- Flashbrook was one of them. Quailfoot mourned the tom, helping to bury him when the danger had passed. The lingering problem with his lungs was made worse by the smoke and it was harder than ever to carry out his duties- and prey was painfully scarce. He pushed himself right to the point of collapse, struggling to draw in enough air after each chase for what prey did remain, and finally forced to take lighter duties.
Then, when even patrols left him gasping, Firestar retired him. As an elder, his duties were gone- and the feelings of guilt and worry started. He had come wounded, relied on them to help while he recovered, and had always planned to spend the rest of his life paying them back- and now he was useless. Were they going to kick him out? He didn't want to leave, but would he be given that choice? He was still young, still capable in some ways, and still willing to help how he could.
He wasn't willing to just lie back and be a burden, but he was still wary that Firestar would tell him he wasn't welcome any more- every day she said nothing to him to that effect, he was grateful all over again. That leafbare was the hardest, but newleaf came again and prey returned, bolstering the Clan after the hunger and the deaths they suffered. Kits were born, new lives to increase LightningClan's numbers, and life continued.
The threat of foxes, that newleaf and greenleaf, brought new trouble, and more deaths, but as they always have, the Clans survive.
Other: Nothing
Age: 60 moons
Gender: Tom
Clan: LightningClan
Rank: Elder
Picture:
Description: Quailfoot is average- he's not huge, but not tiny; he's not rippling with muscle, but he's not weak. And he's fine with it. He doesn't need to be the most buff cat in the Clan to offer his help. He's strong in his own right, quick and nimble. His frame is slender, his legs a bit on the longer side.
In color, his pelt is patched brown and white. A white muzzle and lower jaw leads to a point almost to the base of his ears, and the rest of his head is brown with thin black stripes. Along his body, the brown tabby patches mingle with white, and a rounded patch covers his rump, with black rings going down the length of his tail, ending in a solid black tip.
Description Summary: Slender, brown and white tabby tom with green eyes
Personality: Quiet and unassuming, Quailfoot is an easy-going sort. He is friendly to a fault, a bit of a pushover, and desperate to please. A bit gullible, and rarely forceful enough to make himself heard- on the few occasions he even tries to speak up- he tends to easily fade into the background, watching the Clan go about their daily business but seldom offering his opinion.
He makes friends easily enough, sociable and thoroughly enjoying the times when he can sit with them and share news and gossip. He loves kits, too, and it's all too common to find him hanging near the nursery, playing with them as much as he can, or just lying back and letting them clamber over him. He doesn't go out of the camp much, but he's quite active within it, and he tries hard to do everything he can for the Clan that took him in when he needed help.
History: He was born Quail, in a small community of cats well outside the valley, residing in an old Twoleg den. They helped each other, sometimes- often most agreeable in the easy moons of newleaf and greenleaf; but it was all too common for those same cats who were generous when prey was abundant to turn greedy when the weather turned cold. Fights for prey weren't uncommon, and neither was watching some cat starve because of their inability to catch their own prey.
Quail's mother, Alder, was strict with her kits out of necessity- she drilled it into their heads to never take prey from a cat without permission, and she rarely let them out of the small room she had claimed for herself upon arrival of the kits.
There were three: Quail, Sparrow, and Robin- two she-cats and a single tom. There had been another she-cat, but she had not survived the birth. Their father, a ginger-and-white tom, was willingly involved with his kits, and he frequently brought prey or stayed with them while their mother went out. Quail found that they had been together for many moons, and that this was not their first litter- some of the cats he saw, he realized, were his older brothers and sisters. Few of them encouraged him to approach, though, and he knew his mother's trust in them was fragile.
That was okay; Robin and Sparrow were great playmates, and he spent many a day wrestling with them. When they were old enough to start eating prey, Alder and Burn, their father, began to teach them how to hunt their own prey. Instinct made it easy enough, and already caught mice were used to train the three kits, honing their skills as they grew. Sparrow was the first to make a true catch of a vole, pouncing on the creature just before it escaped to its burrow. By the end of greenleaf, however, all of them were decent hunters.
Then the weather began to grow colder, and the three experienced their first leafbare. Despite warnings, none of them had expected the harsh reality of it: all five of them were out every day, if the weather allowed, and most days they managed to find something to fill their bellies, but hunger was a near constant. In the deepest part of winter, when snows came down too hard for any cat to go out, the whole group curled together for warmth.
Quail witnessed death that leafbare too; a cat, weakened by an injury, found itself unable to move stealthily enough to catch prey. If he hadn't been so hungry himself, he might have offered a bite now and then, but his growing body demanded all he could catch. In the end, the cat simply faded away; her body was carried away by the strongest into the forest.
That newleaf, Robin nearly met the same fate. She had been tracking a mouse, unaware that another cat was also stalking it, when she pounced and suddenly found herself under attack. Pinned, she could only shriek as claws ripped at her pelt and scored over one eye. Burn came to her rescue, driving off the attacker with a flurry of blows and then helping the wounded she-cat back to the den.
For days she lay limp, struggling to heal, eating prey brought by her family. Quail sat by her, watching and learning again as Alder treated the scratches, offering his company when the rest had to leave. Robin lived- she even kept her eye and sight. But the scars remained, three slanted marks that would never fade. Eventually, too nervous to remain, she and Sparrow left.
But Quail remained. It might be rough, but it was home. At his first year, he was more or less on his own. His mother had ousted him from the little room that had been their birth den- her belly rounding out once more with another litter, which she birthed in late newleaf. A new litter of four, toms and she-cats evenly split. The one time he tried to approach, however, he was blocked by Burn and ordered away. He had no reason to interact with them any longer; he was grown and the kits did not need his company. A little hurt by the blunt dismissal, he backed away and made no further attempts.
Early greenleaf brought on a bout of greencough, and the threat of illness spurred a decision among the group. To reduce the risk of sickening, the group split up, distancing themselves to keep from spreading the disease. It was the last time Quail saw Burn, Alder, and his young siblings; he left with a small group of peers, striking out with them and traveling farther than he ever had before.
Of the group of six, two fell ill, and they were left to their fate- there was no room for weakness, growled the she-cat who took charge of the group, and staying with the sick ones increased the risk of them all getting sick. She had no trouble using her claws to drive Quail away from the ill cats, either, taking the lead and getting the remaining four away from the stricken two. A twinge of guilt for just leaving them still bothers him to this day- he knows how unlikely their survival was with them so sick, and predators would hardly hesitate to kill such easy prey.
But at the time, he simply followed, leaving them two to their fate. The four, three males and the single she-cat, continued on their way. It wasn't until mid-greenleaf, when Quail mentioned starting their trip back to the old den, that he realized none of the others had plans to return at all. Why go back? There was so much of the world to see, and they didn't want to stay stuck in the same area the whole time.
Quail, longing for familiarity and not keen on the idea on being a wanderer his whole life, turned around. He left the three to continue their travels and headed back to the den, the cats he'd known since birth- even his mother and father, even if they didn't really need him. Would they be there? Would his little siblings? He wished he'd asked sooner- it was such a long way to go alone. At least he was skilled enough to keep himself fed, and the weather was warm- good for travel.
Dangers, on the other hand, were not so easily dealt with. And there was little he could do but run for his life with the fox hard on his heels, growls of anticipation sending chills of fear down his spine as he ran as fast as he could- straight past the scent line with hardly a chance to stop.
Then he tripped, a paw sliding into a hole he saw a split second too late- and the leg twisting beneath him as he was hurled to the ground, pain forcing a shriek from him. The fox overshot, going too fast to slow down in time, but it turned back toward him with fangs bared and a hungry gleam in its eyes. Quail struggled upright again, knowing well enough he wasn't going be able to fight it off with one throbbing foreleg but unwilling to just roll over and let it kill him.
An answering yowl came then, startling both Quail and the fox, and both spun to see four other cats hurtling toward them- screeched insults directed at the fox assured Quail of the source of their anger, and he was quick to start beating a retreat as the four cats faced the fox, snarling and harrying it until it broke and ran. Injured leg aside, Quail was making tracks toward the border, unwilling to risk a confrontation with these cats- he just wanted to get off this territory. He was dismayed to see them coming back toward him, having hardly noticed that the fox had been chased off as he'd been hobbling away.
Sitting down, facing them, Quail pinned his ears back and hunched, tucking his injured leg to his chest and fixing his eyes on the ground. He couldn't outrun them, so there was no point in trying- he could only hope they weren't about to treat him as they'd treated the fox.
They weren't exactly friendly, in the end- the ginger-pointed one spoke first, a comment on his leg; gradually, Quail relaxed. Probably because they'd witnessed the chase firsthand and had chased off that fox, they were more willing to be gentle. He wasn't protesting, whatever the reason, and he limped alongside a big, chocolate brown tom, willing to trust them since they had technically saved his life.
The group he saw on entering the camp stunned him. He had expected something like his old group, a ragtag bunch where each cat- except in certain cases- only cared for themselves. But this was different- it was organized. Dens were dug around a central clearing, cats padding to and fro, sitting with others, and working; younger cats were grabbing mouthfuls of grass and disappearing into one of the dens, and there in a corner, little kits tumbled over each other. It was a scene far homier than the one he'd come from.
His first meeting of Firestar was intimidating. He tried to be as respectful as possible, but she made him nervous- but, vouched for by the cats who had guided him here, she allowed him to stay and get treatment. And, later, lying in a nest with his belly full of prey handed out freely, Quail found himself utterly content. Wasn't this what he wanted? A group to be part of- and this one felt closer than the one he'd been born in to. Maybe he could stay here.
In the following days, Quail met with Firestar several more times, telling her what she wanted to know about his past, how he'd come to be fleeing a fox, and learning more about the group- LightningClan- and how it worked. Every able cat pitched in, excepting the mothers and the elders, and every cat played a part in supporting the whole. No cat let another starve, or failed to help if possible- and Quail's thoughts flashed back to that cat he'd watched slowly starve to death, a twinge of guilt in his mind.
When he asked to stay, Firestar told him he would have to take a warrior's name, and that all the responsibilities expected of them would be expected of him too. He agreed. So she named him Quailfoot, and assigned a tom named Flashbrook to teach him the Clan's ways.
The two grew close, and Quailfoot tried his hardest- even in the beginning, with his leg healing, there were things he could do to help. Fetching water, making sure cats had food, keeping the bedding of the queens and elders fresh. In a moon, with his leg healed, he found himself the equivalent of an apprentice, learning LightningClan's territory, how to hunt, how to fight. He grew close to others- most had been wary of him as a stranger, but his obvious drive to fit in got him friends with those who were less standoffish.
It didn't make leafbare any easier. Some nights, when he had hardly eaten, his prey caught to feed the queens and their kits, he wondered about his choice, wondered if it would be all that bad if he went out and caught something and ate it without worrying about other hungry cats. Flashbrook, though, usually reminded him of his promise, told him that these moons would pass, assured that the prey would return, as it always did. He just had to be patient and wait.
And it did. But newleaf, which tempted the prey from their burrows, also brought greencough. Many cats fell ill- many died. Quailfoot got sick too, and even though he recovered, the illness left him weak and often short of breath. He did his best to resume duties, seeing Kindleflare frequently to be looked at, but her treatments brought only temporary relief. He was still part of the battle over the Sun Stones, and present when Mapleheart died as a result.
Then the fire struck. And more were lost- Flashbrook was one of them. Quailfoot mourned the tom, helping to bury him when the danger had passed. The lingering problem with his lungs was made worse by the smoke and it was harder than ever to carry out his duties- and prey was painfully scarce. He pushed himself right to the point of collapse, struggling to draw in enough air after each chase for what prey did remain, and finally forced to take lighter duties.
Then, when even patrols left him gasping, Firestar retired him. As an elder, his duties were gone- and the feelings of guilt and worry started. He had come wounded, relied on them to help while he recovered, and had always planned to spend the rest of his life paying them back- and now he was useless. Were they going to kick him out? He didn't want to leave, but would he be given that choice? He was still young, still capable in some ways, and still willing to help how he could.
He wasn't willing to just lie back and be a burden, but he was still wary that Firestar would tell him he wasn't welcome any more- every day she said nothing to him to that effect, he was grateful all over again. That leafbare was the hardest, but newleaf came again and prey returned, bolstering the Clan after the hunger and the deaths they suffered. Kits were born, new lives to increase LightningClan's numbers, and life continued.
The threat of foxes, that newleaf and greenleaf, brought new trouble, and more deaths, but as they always have, the Clans survive.
Other: Nothing