Post by Spiderbreath||Soul on Mar 6, 2006 14:02:48 GMT -5
Name: Flintpelt, once known as Isbil.
Do you honor?: Yes, I do.
Age: 19 moons.
Gender: Tom.
Appearance: The night is dark on the forest, and shadows reign at this late hour. The moon hangs still and immobile up above the treetops, shining in its full splendor, but its soft blue beams do not reach a great many areas of the bracken-covered ground. Dew-sprinkled moss gleams faintly as the rays of light hit the surface of the drops of water, dappling nearby fronds with a silver glint.
There is a place, however, in that wild world of rainbow leaves and scurrying mice, that is bathed in sweet luminescence. The twisted and gnarled stump of a moon-old tree sits quietly in the middle of a blue-filled clearing, the light unhindered by spindly branches and semi-transparent leaves. Or maybe not so quietly.
The almost imperceptible sound of a purring feline fills the peaceful night air. The noise has a characteristic murr in it as well, differencing it from another cat's. From the border of the trees, you would not be able to see the animal that is making this strangely appeasing sound, but upon coming a few feet closer, the rising and falling movement of a breathing creature's side can be percepted over the broken and fragmented rim of the stump.
Peaceful, unaware of the presence of a wandering sparrow close by, the feline sleeps on. It can be observed without bother, and seems to actually enjoy the attention of the curious bird as the murr seems to go on without ending.
The tiny prey tilts its head to the side as its eyes rove over the tom's lean features. The dark gray of stormy skies make up most of his pelt, while thin stripes of snowy white and ebony black bar his back, legs, tail and forehead. He is resting with all four of his paws in the air and his tail curled around his left back leg. Each of his paws are colored in a dull hue of silver, like misted platinum. His tail tip is the same tone of silver, though it darkens slightly right at the end. His muzzle and ears are totally black, except for his chin, which is a lighter kind of gray. His belly is a sandy brown hue, and splotched with dark, earthy brown. Thick muscles, though stream-lined by moons of running on and on through the forest, can be seen moving smoothly under the many colors of his coat.
The sparrow flaps its wings as it changes position, taking place nearer the tom's face. A twitch of his silver-tipped tail, a flick of his ebony ear. He has awoken, and detected the presence of the warm meal.
In a lightning-quick movement, the sparrow is clamped tightly between his silver-shod forefeet, and his eyes snap open to see his prize.
The two orbs, clear and bright in the tom's young age, shine with excitement. All warriors feel proud when they hunt for their Clan. And this one was no exception.
His left eye is of a reddish orange color, close to crimson but not quite reaching its bloody hue. It is flecked with a light, creamy gold all around, and the tone veers to baby blue as it reaches his pupil.
His right eye, however, differs greatly. Instead of looking like the smouldering ember of a young fire, it resembles the cool peace of a woodland glade. Green mixes with bright yellow-amber hues, and is speckled with the dark blue of new rain.
The two eyes have one thing in common, though. They both sparkle and glimmer with glee, both in knowing that a haven for a feline such as he awaits him in one part of his mind, and the heavenly fire of young excitement and bravour burns brightly in the other.
A quick bite is all it takes to wipe the life of the small, terrified bird away. Savouring the taste of blood on his teeth, the tom passes his bright pink tongue over the sharp fangs in search for more.
With a sigh of deep contentment, the feline closes his eyes again and drifts back into the dark and comfortale folds of sleep.
RP example:
Clan: Thunderclan.
Rank: Warrior, ex-rogue.
Breed: Unknown, though it looks like breeds of spotted and striped cats intermixed to create him.
Personality: Flintpelt is an overall lazy feline. He'd much rather sleep the day away in full sunshine on Sunning Rocks than go hunting out in the forest, covered in cold shadows. His favorite resting place is the tip of the biggest Sunning stone, which extends out to receive all the sun's rays.
But he's not just a good-for-nothing, lazy-tailed cat that acts as if he was three of four times older than his actual age. He can be quite friendly when he thinks the time is right, conversing peacefully with the other warriors, or as playful as any kit when he's with the younger ones. Leaders and Deputies get his respects and an either serious of joyful attitude, depending on the situation. It can be surprising how sober he becomes when a fight or a raid is involved.
Flintpelt's also enjoys teasing the other cats. When trading banter, he likes making fun of the other in a nice way. Most of the time, if the cat is not titchy, they just laugh together and a battle of words commences. However, if his partner is especially touchy or grumpy, doesn't understand the joke or doesn't like his comment, it may turn into a flamming scrap.
Enemies, though, are given something quite different from the cats of his own Clan. Intruders, rogues and loners get the same harsh treatment: stinging remarks, a warning swipe or two and a bite to the tail, accompanied with abundant yowls, snarls and bared fangs. Even though he did use to be a rogue himself, Flintpelt now considers himself a full Clan member, and will not tolerate the presence of one against the Clan's ways on Thunderclan's territory.
He doesn't truly believe in Starclan, but a doubt has always been present in his mind. After all, why not? Just as the other Clans existed, Starclan could, too.
His attention span is extremely short. If something does not immediately gain his complete attention, he soon drops off the topic and his mind begins wandering about, ears not paying attention to the other cat's words, but listening to the song of the wind in the trees or the chirping of birds. The world fascinates him, and so he retreats to it when he feels a beginning of bore come upon him.
He is mildly claustrophobic, and can't stand being inside any kind of den. He prefers the Sunning Rock clearing or the forest to the camp, and always sleeps outside whenever he can.
Even though he is lazy, Flintpelt is quite the energetic one when hunting, lively as a bumblebee and never ceases to be happy, even when fighting comes up. It gets his mind away from present matters.
He is forever quiet except when conversation is striked up, or he feels especially sprightly that day.
History: He was born a rogue, deep in a forest far away from that of the Clans.
He clearly remembers the day he was born, something rare and precious in an infant kit. It had been raining hard that night, the beating drops pushing through the leafy cover and drenching the forest floor below. Dark green leaves dripped from excess moisture, adding to the thick, swirling mud created from the usually dry and hard-packed earth.
It was one of those rare times rain would hurl itself upon the trees. All through leaf-bare, new-leaf and green-leaf, the sun had beaten the lands hard, its shining rays falling upon the backs of young and old with a burning vengeance. And now, finally, on the first day of leaf-fall, water could be seen pouring from the bruisy, ripped-open clouds.
A dark gray queen, spotted with light and earthy brows, lay quietly on a bedding of moss, secure inside the rotten middle of a dead stump. A rictus of pain crossed her face for a second. Her lighter gray belly was swollen with kits, and the offsprings' small movements could barely be seen through the short fur and stretched-taut skin.
In the outside, a drenched white-and-black-striped tom waited patiently for his mate to give birth. He had been out there for hours now, and the rain had soaked through his thick, protective coat. He shivered at the cold wet touch of the water, and shook himself for the umpteenth time that night. He knew the little ones would arrive soon, but he didn't know when.
A flash of lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the forest. It struck one of the trees at its base, and the flaming trunk fell over in an ear-splitting crrrraaaaack. The fire was quickly extinguished by the falling droplets, crushed under the sheer weight of the water. In that quick moment, a high-pitched wail of agony ripped the air apart. The tom sitting by the stump jumped up in alarm, but waited a few tense moments before poking his head into the smallish 'den'.
The queen lay there, panting faintly, pelt moist from sweat. Four beautiful kittens waggled their paws feebly at her side, mewling pitifully. A single one stayed immobile, not moving. A worried look in his amber eyes, he stepped forwards and nudged the pure gray kit slightly with his nose.
No response.
"A still-birth, eh?" the queen enquired, voice soft. She threw a sympathetic glance in his direction, and returned to the other three left. Three young felines. Probably only one or two would still be alive at the end of leaf-fall. Anguish filled her deep green orbs as she gazed upon the last three of her litter.
"Yes, a still-birth," was the tom's simple answer as he picked the dead one up in his powerful jaws. A sigh escaped his maw as he looked down regretfully at the tiny bundle of gray fluff.
"If only he'd survived..." he muttered, padding back outside into the rain, which had started to slow down its course. It was as if it, too, mourned the still-born. It was always a sad experience when one of your kits was dead before it even met the world.
The stocky black and white figure returned alone after a few moments. While he was gone, the queen had cleansed the other younglings' pelts with her rough tongue, and they were now dry as the earth in green-leaf. The first one to raise its head and sniff the air was stocky, like his father, and his pelt was covered in gray and black stripes. However, he was not the first to head over to his mother's belly.
Another kit began scrabbling towards its mother before all the rest. She was striped with black and brown, and her belly fur was a dull silver. She latched one and suckled gluttonly while the stocky one also started making its way to the milky smell. He elbowed his sister roughly aside for more space.
The very last kit was still in the same spot, a small smile of contentment plainly apparent on its chubby face. A rough murr escaped his throat instead of the usual frrrrrt of a young feline. He stayed quite still, the thin black and white stripes of his pelt extending at each intake of air, lean sides going in and out. He was sleeping on his back, all four of his silver-shod paws in the air. His stumpy, sterling-tipped tail flopped lazily about. Sandy yellow belly rose and fell with every breath. Tiny black muzzle hung open limply as an ebony ear flicked.
Sighing, the father nudged and pushed the youngest kit towards his mother, where he finally woke and began to suckle.
"So...what should we name them?"
The queen raised her head at the tom's question, and seemed to look pensive as she gazed at each kit in turn.
"Well..." she muttered, scratching her head slowly. "This one here-" she mewed, pointing at the sturdy one,"-will be named Ooth. The other male-" she pointed at the lean kit "-will be called Isbil, and the female-" she poked the small girl kit with a toe "-shall be known as Akaru."
And that was Isbil's first day in his life.
His life was spent peacefully, without the usual disturbances that rogues normally endure. His father trained him in the art of fighting, as well as his brother and sister. His mother taught him how to escape from a battle you could not win in and how to hunt.
Ooth was the best in fighting, mainly because his muscles were more developed at his young age than that of his siblings. Akaru, on the other hand, was sly and quick, silent as the wind just before the storm. She excessed beautifully in escaping and hunting, and played a number of tricks on Ooth, who, though best in brawn, was unluckily devoid of a good brain. Isbil just did what he could in all sections, and so gained compliments from both parental sides.
The first happening that would shake his life happened when he was three moons old, halfway to what Clan cats call 'apprenticeship'.
His brother was now strong enough to go out on his own. Ooth wandered about their territory as much as he could, for he would be the one to inherit it, and so needed to become familiar with the place. After one of these outings, while his mother stayed at the den teaching the other two and the father had gone hunting, he did not return. His mother did not worry at first, since he was often gone for the whole night, but when his father returned the next morning and still he had not come back, the two adults began worrying.
"What do you think has happened?" the queen asked her mate, brow furrowed in a frown. "He's never been gone this long before."
"Well...maybe he met up with a small problem and will come back soon."
But after three days of not even seeing the tip of his tail, they couldn't ignore the fact that something was wrong.
His father went out first to search. But found nothing. Then his mother, but she also found not a trace of her first-born.
And so Akaru and Isbil were sent out to search.
The trees filtered the soft golden rays of the sun. It was already past sunhigh, and the amber orb of light was beginning to descend in the heavens, turning the skies a slightly purple shade of blue.
"Where do you think he went?" Isbil asked, nose in the air to try and scent something.
"I don't know, dung brain. Why should I?"
The young tom sighed. His sister always called him names.
"I...I don't know."
Akaru gave an exasperated snort, as if she was tired of having to put up with a lead-head like her brother.
"Whatever. Just shu-wait."
The she-cat halted suddenly, nose high in the air, whiskers twitching as she scented the wind. A soft breeze ruffled her striped pelt, and her deep green eyes shot a commanding look at Isbil.
"Follow me."
The two kits trotted along in line. Isbil was also starting to become aware of an aroma in the air. It was sickly sweet, making him feel queasy, and was musky, like the acorns when they fall from the trees and rot.
It was the smell of death.
Isbil, tense and nervous, passed his sister and went ahead, following his nose. He nearly jumped up in fright when his paw touched something soft on the ground right in front of him.
Looking down, he felt as if he would pass out, and swiftly raised his paw from the bleeding mass of fur and flesh that used to be a cat.
And, looking at the markings on the leftover fur, also used to be his brother.
Akaru came up to his side, and looked down, eyes as wide as saucers with dread. After a moment of staring at the mangled body of their sibling, the she-cat sped off.
In the wrong direction.
"Wait, Aka! That's not where the den is!"
But Akaru, powered by pure fright, was already far away.
And so he lost both of his littermates.
When he returned to tell his mother and father of the events, they were waiting for him, a grim look on their maw. He told them that Ooth had been killed by something, though he didn't know what, and that Akaru had run off. He regretted it afterwards. His parents did not believe him.
He grew up alone, though he still lived with his mother and father. They did not pay attention to him anymore, and he soon left them.
His travelling days to him to the forest of the Clans.
By then, he had become bored of the life he led as a rogue. He decided to join a Clan, and try to fit in.
Thunderclan was his choice, mainly because of the forests, which he was used to and loved.
He padded into their territory, a made-up story already forming in his mind. He was older now: about thirteen moons. Clans were known for accepting young kit rogues in, but not older ones.
So he would make himself a loner.
From what he had gathered around the place, there was a Leader, who commanded the Clan, a Deputy, who helped the Leader and would become one in turn when the actual Leader retired or died, warriors, who hunted, mentored and helped the Clan, apprentices, who were mentored, hunted and helped the Clan, kits, who stayed in the nursery and were quite a bit of fun to be around, and finally elders, who just sat around all day like he did.
When he went up to the Leader, he told him the lies he had made. That he was a loner, coming from a distant land with Clans quite similar to the ones here. He told the Leader his name was Flint.
And he was accepted.
His name was changed to Flintpelt in honor of his grayscale coat, and he got used to the Clan's ways, until he felt himself to be a true Clan cat.
Codewords: The Ancient Ways, Zeik
((It's done! Accepted, or is something wrong?))
Do you honor?: Yes, I do.
Age: 19 moons.
Gender: Tom.
Appearance: The night is dark on the forest, and shadows reign at this late hour. The moon hangs still and immobile up above the treetops, shining in its full splendor, but its soft blue beams do not reach a great many areas of the bracken-covered ground. Dew-sprinkled moss gleams faintly as the rays of light hit the surface of the drops of water, dappling nearby fronds with a silver glint.
There is a place, however, in that wild world of rainbow leaves and scurrying mice, that is bathed in sweet luminescence. The twisted and gnarled stump of a moon-old tree sits quietly in the middle of a blue-filled clearing, the light unhindered by spindly branches and semi-transparent leaves. Or maybe not so quietly.
The almost imperceptible sound of a purring feline fills the peaceful night air. The noise has a characteristic murr in it as well, differencing it from another cat's. From the border of the trees, you would not be able to see the animal that is making this strangely appeasing sound, but upon coming a few feet closer, the rising and falling movement of a breathing creature's side can be percepted over the broken and fragmented rim of the stump.
Peaceful, unaware of the presence of a wandering sparrow close by, the feline sleeps on. It can be observed without bother, and seems to actually enjoy the attention of the curious bird as the murr seems to go on without ending.
The tiny prey tilts its head to the side as its eyes rove over the tom's lean features. The dark gray of stormy skies make up most of his pelt, while thin stripes of snowy white and ebony black bar his back, legs, tail and forehead. He is resting with all four of his paws in the air and his tail curled around his left back leg. Each of his paws are colored in a dull hue of silver, like misted platinum. His tail tip is the same tone of silver, though it darkens slightly right at the end. His muzzle and ears are totally black, except for his chin, which is a lighter kind of gray. His belly is a sandy brown hue, and splotched with dark, earthy brown. Thick muscles, though stream-lined by moons of running on and on through the forest, can be seen moving smoothly under the many colors of his coat.
The sparrow flaps its wings as it changes position, taking place nearer the tom's face. A twitch of his silver-tipped tail, a flick of his ebony ear. He has awoken, and detected the presence of the warm meal.
In a lightning-quick movement, the sparrow is clamped tightly between his silver-shod forefeet, and his eyes snap open to see his prize.
The two orbs, clear and bright in the tom's young age, shine with excitement. All warriors feel proud when they hunt for their Clan. And this one was no exception.
His left eye is of a reddish orange color, close to crimson but not quite reaching its bloody hue. It is flecked with a light, creamy gold all around, and the tone veers to baby blue as it reaches his pupil.
His right eye, however, differs greatly. Instead of looking like the smouldering ember of a young fire, it resembles the cool peace of a woodland glade. Green mixes with bright yellow-amber hues, and is speckled with the dark blue of new rain.
The two eyes have one thing in common, though. They both sparkle and glimmer with glee, both in knowing that a haven for a feline such as he awaits him in one part of his mind, and the heavenly fire of young excitement and bravour burns brightly in the other.
A quick bite is all it takes to wipe the life of the small, terrified bird away. Savouring the taste of blood on his teeth, the tom passes his bright pink tongue over the sharp fangs in search for more.
With a sigh of deep contentment, the feline closes his eyes again and drifts back into the dark and comfortale folds of sleep.
RP example:
Clan: Thunderclan.
Rank: Warrior, ex-rogue.
Breed: Unknown, though it looks like breeds of spotted and striped cats intermixed to create him.
Personality: Flintpelt is an overall lazy feline. He'd much rather sleep the day away in full sunshine on Sunning Rocks than go hunting out in the forest, covered in cold shadows. His favorite resting place is the tip of the biggest Sunning stone, which extends out to receive all the sun's rays.
But he's not just a good-for-nothing, lazy-tailed cat that acts as if he was three of four times older than his actual age. He can be quite friendly when he thinks the time is right, conversing peacefully with the other warriors, or as playful as any kit when he's with the younger ones. Leaders and Deputies get his respects and an either serious of joyful attitude, depending on the situation. It can be surprising how sober he becomes when a fight or a raid is involved.
Flintpelt's also enjoys teasing the other cats. When trading banter, he likes making fun of the other in a nice way. Most of the time, if the cat is not titchy, they just laugh together and a battle of words commences. However, if his partner is especially touchy or grumpy, doesn't understand the joke or doesn't like his comment, it may turn into a flamming scrap.
Enemies, though, are given something quite different from the cats of his own Clan. Intruders, rogues and loners get the same harsh treatment: stinging remarks, a warning swipe or two and a bite to the tail, accompanied with abundant yowls, snarls and bared fangs. Even though he did use to be a rogue himself, Flintpelt now considers himself a full Clan member, and will not tolerate the presence of one against the Clan's ways on Thunderclan's territory.
He doesn't truly believe in Starclan, but a doubt has always been present in his mind. After all, why not? Just as the other Clans existed, Starclan could, too.
His attention span is extremely short. If something does not immediately gain his complete attention, he soon drops off the topic and his mind begins wandering about, ears not paying attention to the other cat's words, but listening to the song of the wind in the trees or the chirping of birds. The world fascinates him, and so he retreats to it when he feels a beginning of bore come upon him.
He is mildly claustrophobic, and can't stand being inside any kind of den. He prefers the Sunning Rock clearing or the forest to the camp, and always sleeps outside whenever he can.
Even though he is lazy, Flintpelt is quite the energetic one when hunting, lively as a bumblebee and never ceases to be happy, even when fighting comes up. It gets his mind away from present matters.
He is forever quiet except when conversation is striked up, or he feels especially sprightly that day.
History: He was born a rogue, deep in a forest far away from that of the Clans.
He clearly remembers the day he was born, something rare and precious in an infant kit. It had been raining hard that night, the beating drops pushing through the leafy cover and drenching the forest floor below. Dark green leaves dripped from excess moisture, adding to the thick, swirling mud created from the usually dry and hard-packed earth.
It was one of those rare times rain would hurl itself upon the trees. All through leaf-bare, new-leaf and green-leaf, the sun had beaten the lands hard, its shining rays falling upon the backs of young and old with a burning vengeance. And now, finally, on the first day of leaf-fall, water could be seen pouring from the bruisy, ripped-open clouds.
A dark gray queen, spotted with light and earthy brows, lay quietly on a bedding of moss, secure inside the rotten middle of a dead stump. A rictus of pain crossed her face for a second. Her lighter gray belly was swollen with kits, and the offsprings' small movements could barely be seen through the short fur and stretched-taut skin.
In the outside, a drenched white-and-black-striped tom waited patiently for his mate to give birth. He had been out there for hours now, and the rain had soaked through his thick, protective coat. He shivered at the cold wet touch of the water, and shook himself for the umpteenth time that night. He knew the little ones would arrive soon, but he didn't know when.
A flash of lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the forest. It struck one of the trees at its base, and the flaming trunk fell over in an ear-splitting crrrraaaaack. The fire was quickly extinguished by the falling droplets, crushed under the sheer weight of the water. In that quick moment, a high-pitched wail of agony ripped the air apart. The tom sitting by the stump jumped up in alarm, but waited a few tense moments before poking his head into the smallish 'den'.
The queen lay there, panting faintly, pelt moist from sweat. Four beautiful kittens waggled their paws feebly at her side, mewling pitifully. A single one stayed immobile, not moving. A worried look in his amber eyes, he stepped forwards and nudged the pure gray kit slightly with his nose.
No response.
"A still-birth, eh?" the queen enquired, voice soft. She threw a sympathetic glance in his direction, and returned to the other three left. Three young felines. Probably only one or two would still be alive at the end of leaf-fall. Anguish filled her deep green orbs as she gazed upon the last three of her litter.
"Yes, a still-birth," was the tom's simple answer as he picked the dead one up in his powerful jaws. A sigh escaped his maw as he looked down regretfully at the tiny bundle of gray fluff.
"If only he'd survived..." he muttered, padding back outside into the rain, which had started to slow down its course. It was as if it, too, mourned the still-born. It was always a sad experience when one of your kits was dead before it even met the world.
The stocky black and white figure returned alone after a few moments. While he was gone, the queen had cleansed the other younglings' pelts with her rough tongue, and they were now dry as the earth in green-leaf. The first one to raise its head and sniff the air was stocky, like his father, and his pelt was covered in gray and black stripes. However, he was not the first to head over to his mother's belly.
Another kit began scrabbling towards its mother before all the rest. She was striped with black and brown, and her belly fur was a dull silver. She latched one and suckled gluttonly while the stocky one also started making its way to the milky smell. He elbowed his sister roughly aside for more space.
The very last kit was still in the same spot, a small smile of contentment plainly apparent on its chubby face. A rough murr escaped his throat instead of the usual frrrrrt of a young feline. He stayed quite still, the thin black and white stripes of his pelt extending at each intake of air, lean sides going in and out. He was sleeping on his back, all four of his silver-shod paws in the air. His stumpy, sterling-tipped tail flopped lazily about. Sandy yellow belly rose and fell with every breath. Tiny black muzzle hung open limply as an ebony ear flicked.
Sighing, the father nudged and pushed the youngest kit towards his mother, where he finally woke and began to suckle.
"So...what should we name them?"
The queen raised her head at the tom's question, and seemed to look pensive as she gazed at each kit in turn.
"Well..." she muttered, scratching her head slowly. "This one here-" she mewed, pointing at the sturdy one,"-will be named Ooth. The other male-" she pointed at the lean kit "-will be called Isbil, and the female-" she poked the small girl kit with a toe "-shall be known as Akaru."
And that was Isbil's first day in his life.
His life was spent peacefully, without the usual disturbances that rogues normally endure. His father trained him in the art of fighting, as well as his brother and sister. His mother taught him how to escape from a battle you could not win in and how to hunt.
Ooth was the best in fighting, mainly because his muscles were more developed at his young age than that of his siblings. Akaru, on the other hand, was sly and quick, silent as the wind just before the storm. She excessed beautifully in escaping and hunting, and played a number of tricks on Ooth, who, though best in brawn, was unluckily devoid of a good brain. Isbil just did what he could in all sections, and so gained compliments from both parental sides.
The first happening that would shake his life happened when he was three moons old, halfway to what Clan cats call 'apprenticeship'.
His brother was now strong enough to go out on his own. Ooth wandered about their territory as much as he could, for he would be the one to inherit it, and so needed to become familiar with the place. After one of these outings, while his mother stayed at the den teaching the other two and the father had gone hunting, he did not return. His mother did not worry at first, since he was often gone for the whole night, but when his father returned the next morning and still he had not come back, the two adults began worrying.
"What do you think has happened?" the queen asked her mate, brow furrowed in a frown. "He's never been gone this long before."
"Well...maybe he met up with a small problem and will come back soon."
But after three days of not even seeing the tip of his tail, they couldn't ignore the fact that something was wrong.
His father went out first to search. But found nothing. Then his mother, but she also found not a trace of her first-born.
And so Akaru and Isbil were sent out to search.
The trees filtered the soft golden rays of the sun. It was already past sunhigh, and the amber orb of light was beginning to descend in the heavens, turning the skies a slightly purple shade of blue.
"Where do you think he went?" Isbil asked, nose in the air to try and scent something.
"I don't know, dung brain. Why should I?"
The young tom sighed. His sister always called him names.
"I...I don't know."
Akaru gave an exasperated snort, as if she was tired of having to put up with a lead-head like her brother.
"Whatever. Just shu-wait."
The she-cat halted suddenly, nose high in the air, whiskers twitching as she scented the wind. A soft breeze ruffled her striped pelt, and her deep green eyes shot a commanding look at Isbil.
"Follow me."
The two kits trotted along in line. Isbil was also starting to become aware of an aroma in the air. It was sickly sweet, making him feel queasy, and was musky, like the acorns when they fall from the trees and rot.
It was the smell of death.
Isbil, tense and nervous, passed his sister and went ahead, following his nose. He nearly jumped up in fright when his paw touched something soft on the ground right in front of him.
Looking down, he felt as if he would pass out, and swiftly raised his paw from the bleeding mass of fur and flesh that used to be a cat.
And, looking at the markings on the leftover fur, also used to be his brother.
Akaru came up to his side, and looked down, eyes as wide as saucers with dread. After a moment of staring at the mangled body of their sibling, the she-cat sped off.
In the wrong direction.
"Wait, Aka! That's not where the den is!"
But Akaru, powered by pure fright, was already far away.
And so he lost both of his littermates.
When he returned to tell his mother and father of the events, they were waiting for him, a grim look on their maw. He told them that Ooth had been killed by something, though he didn't know what, and that Akaru had run off. He regretted it afterwards. His parents did not believe him.
He grew up alone, though he still lived with his mother and father. They did not pay attention to him anymore, and he soon left them.
His travelling days to him to the forest of the Clans.
By then, he had become bored of the life he led as a rogue. He decided to join a Clan, and try to fit in.
Thunderclan was his choice, mainly because of the forests, which he was used to and loved.
He padded into their territory, a made-up story already forming in his mind. He was older now: about thirteen moons. Clans were known for accepting young kit rogues in, but not older ones.
So he would make himself a loner.
From what he had gathered around the place, there was a Leader, who commanded the Clan, a Deputy, who helped the Leader and would become one in turn when the actual Leader retired or died, warriors, who hunted, mentored and helped the Clan, apprentices, who were mentored, hunted and helped the Clan, kits, who stayed in the nursery and were quite a bit of fun to be around, and finally elders, who just sat around all day like he did.
When he went up to the Leader, he told him the lies he had made. That he was a loner, coming from a distant land with Clans quite similar to the ones here. He told the Leader his name was Flint.
And he was accepted.
His name was changed to Flintpelt in honor of his grayscale coat, and he got used to the Clan's ways, until he felt himself to be a true Clan cat.
Codewords: The Ancient Ways, Zeik
((It's done! Accepted, or is something wrong?))
