Post by valkyrie on Jun 26, 2013 18:43:57 GMT -5
Hawkfeather
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top] 42 MOONS TOMCAT RIVERCLAN WARRIOR (ATTEMPTING FOR DEPUTY) | [atrb=style, width: 296px; padding: 5px; background-color: e3e3e3; border-top: 4px solid #000000;] GENERAL INFORMATION NAME, Hawkfeather EXPLANATION, |
BRIEF DESCRIPTION, large bengal tom with emerald eyes
FAMILY,♪ Smallfeather, dear mother ♪♪ deceased.
♪ Stormclaw, unforgivable father ♪♪ deceased.
♪ Lillypool,little sister ♪♪ she lives.
♪ Nyx, my sole heir ♪♪ she lives [/div]
APPEARANCE
♪You’d be hard pressed to find a word more appropriate for the tom than massive. The breadth of his shoulders betrayed his true breed,(warning at a glimpse that he was no mere tabby) while the rippling sinew of his musculature shrieked danger, danger to any foolish enough to try and
challenge him. He’d known wars, battles that’d chewed the very heart of lesser felines to pieces.
Gaze like evergreen, the dark, striking lines of hisfacial markings accentuated their size, dark pools outlined by smudges of tan and tawny with two chocolate strikes rolling from their corners down across his cheekbones. Broken up somewhat on his right side, the marks are split in two by the pinkened ridge of his facial scarring, leaving a pregnant gap between his nose and jaw-line. With a hearty sprout of long white whiskers, pale lashes bring out the fading pigments of his age and an unyielding sense of maturity. He is terse, stern, unsettlingly enigmatic—both wisdom and insanity bubbling through the rasping honey of his baritone.
Aesthetically now, regardless of his size, Hawkfeather has never truly grew into his paws. As a result of such, they paws are larger than average in proportion to his form—big, heavy mits deadly at close range with their raking claws and sharp accuracy. Being lumbering than dexterous, Hawkfeather makes up for lost speed due to his weight with strength; his fighting prowess contained within his relentless stamina and ability to take otherwise shattering hits. Like anything large, if his opponent is quick enough to get around him, a multitude of quick strikes will cause him to buckle easily, but only if he doesn’t get his fangs into them first. The press of those teeth aren’t a welcome feeling for any creature.
Hawkfeather’s short furred on account of his lineage, boasting a short, luxuriant coat with shades of, dark brown and bronze.His body is decidedly more streamline, with giant shoulders exaggerated by chocolate strikes that fade against the lush pale of his underbelly, off-white tones peppered with shifting shades.
challenge him. He’d known wars, battles that’d chewed the very heart of lesser felines to pieces.
Gaze like evergreen, the dark, striking lines of hisfacial markings accentuated their size, dark pools outlined by smudges of tan and tawny with two chocolate strikes rolling from their corners down across his cheekbones. Broken up somewhat on his right side, the marks are split in two by the pinkened ridge of his facial scarring, leaving a pregnant gap between his nose and jaw-line. With a hearty sprout of long white whiskers, pale lashes bring out the fading pigments of his age and an unyielding sense of maturity. He is terse, stern, unsettlingly enigmatic—both wisdom and insanity bubbling through the rasping honey of his baritone.
Aesthetically now, regardless of his size, Hawkfeather has never truly grew into his paws. As a result of such, they paws are larger than average in proportion to his form—big, heavy mits deadly at close range with their raking claws and sharp accuracy. Being lumbering than dexterous, Hawkfeather makes up for lost speed due to his weight with strength; his fighting prowess contained within his relentless stamina and ability to take otherwise shattering hits. Like anything large, if his opponent is quick enough to get around him, a multitude of quick strikes will cause him to buckle easily, but only if he doesn’t get his fangs into them first. The press of those teeth aren’t a welcome feeling for any creature.
Hawkfeather’s short furred on account of his lineage, boasting a short, luxuriant coat with shades of, dark brown and bronze.His body is decidedly more streamline, with giant shoulders exaggerated by chocolate strikes that fade against the lush pale of his underbelly, off-white tones peppered with shifting shades.
PERSONALITY
♪The rumors that have spread about this tale are many. They believe he has the temper to rival anyone who dared rise against him, in addition to the strength to back it. Yet don't be fooled entirely he isn't born consumed to the many sins he has preformed. The man has his fair share of knowledge and he uses logic to conquer many situations. It only then when all else fails many catch the fangs they feared they would. The tales of his demons I shall now spill for that is only him to decide whether you are worthy of knowing. Yet I will lure you into his mist with the lovely traits of this devilish Tom. He takes a considerate approach to others, being humble although he is considerably confident in his own skills. He takes his time to oversee his new company with manners that could surprise many he is one you can hold meaningful conversation without you realizing. Yet behind those watchful orbs of his, there is a evil that plagues there, attempting to conquer him once more for its own sick pleasure and silently even his own. But he keeps these urges under control by looking at Nyx, whose guilt is still here and he knows he can not ill in front of her again.
He will be loyal till death to him part or your worthiness to him is in question. Therefore he is always willing to put his clan before him if he finds that you are worthy of it. If you gain this man's loyalty you will have a valuable weapon on your hand so do not cast him away at first glance. He is a plotter and he always continues forward with his plan whether you notice or not. It would be wise to have this type of destruction on your side but do remember he is not yours to control, suggestions can be made to him but forcing him to squirm under your paw will result in fury of fangs and a claw across your face. Do note that once you've seal your fate with him as enemy for friend there is a lot you must do if you wish to change it. Then again who said he couldn't still deny it?
LIKES,
[/font]He will be loyal till death to him part or your worthiness to him is in question. Therefore he is always willing to put his clan before him if he finds that you are worthy of it. If you gain this man's loyalty you will have a valuable weapon on your hand so do not cast him away at first glance. He is a plotter and he always continues forward with his plan whether you notice or not. It would be wise to have this type of destruction on your side but do remember he is not yours to control, suggestions can be made to him but forcing him to squirm under your paw will result in fury of fangs and a claw across your face. Do note that once you've seal your fate with him as enemy for friend there is a lot you must do if you wish to change it. Then again who said he couldn't still deny it?
LIKES,
♥ ♪Storms
♥ ♪Exploring
♥ ♪Challenges (mentally)
♥ ♪The river
♥ ♪Kits
DISLIKES,[/font]
✗ ♪Losing control
✗ ♪Chaos
✗ ♪Frightening his loved ones
✗ ♪Giving into his desires
✗ ♪Ignorance[/div]
HISTORY
He tore his mother apart the day he was brought into the world. Between ragged breaths and convulsions, her life was ended with a gurgling screech when the monster of a tom was born only seconds before his sister. There was nothing unbecoming about his small, mewling face. His eyes were stunning, his fur thick, though his size—his size was downright abnormal. After Smallfeather perished in the throes of her first childbirth, whispers spread through the camp like wildfire in question of his dubious heritage, mutters passed from Queen to Queen of the massive kit curled in the bracken. Much to his ‘fathers’ disgust, Stormclaw found nothing but disdain in the young tom that looked not a bit like him. Stormclaw’d been a relatively stout tabby, while his son reared at massive proportions; pale, where the kit was dark and looming. Even Smallfeather hadn’t possessed the same dramatic strikes of black and golden-brown that topped his head like a thorny crown. He was the result of an affair.
Hawkkit knew nothing but neglect through the course of his kithood. Left with a father who couldn’t stand to look at him, he was scorned by warriors and Queens alike from the nursery hollow—who deemed him as a bigger danger to their children than the thorn thicket that shielded them from the chilly night winds. She-cats were constantly wary of him, hurriedly ushering away their kits from play in fear of the large tom breaking their brittle bones with a swipe. Instead of playing he was left to grow, bitter and lonely—larger every moon and vying desperately for the attention of a tom who loathed him and the love of overcautious hens. He was forbidden from games, he got too rough; he never knew how to share and his stories were too vivid and frightening. There was no place for him among the other kits, that much was apparent. He just watched, watched from his separate nest; silent.
When the true lies started, he wasn’t sure, but his increasing impatience got the best of him. He’d grown into adulthood swiftly, and sat a good head above the majority of the warriors. At thirteen moons, he far surpassed every other apprentice, yet he was quickly becoming the only one who wasn’t elevated to the rank he deserved. He roared with rage and consistently complained, slithering back to Dimstar. Inspiring a series of hot quarrels between the tom and his mentor—after a begrudging yowl, he finally received the name Hawkfeather in ceremony. The decision caused a dark rift between the pair, deep and underlying. Ashstripe, like his father, never trusted the charismatic tom, and frowned at his Leader’s choices. “It’s a mistake,” he’d muttered quietly. “The brute knows no mercy.”
And right he was.
Since he was a child, Hawkfeather’s bloodlust had been forever rising, spurred perhaps from twisted genes and the savage gore of his mother’s death. His nightly obsession with death began to drip into his days and soon curled beyond the confines of his hunting parties. The morbid chance arose the day he was placed shoulder to shoulder in a three cat patrol, with his mentor and his beloved father. After months of oppression, of sneers, of jibes, of disdainful looks and his own growing desperation—he’d shrieked with glee the moment they were far out of sight and his teeth sunk into the back of Stormclaw’s neck. Crushed under his weight, Hawkfeather had made short work of the elder tom before Ashstripe had turned, shocked, upon the monster he’d watched grow. The fight had raged for some time, mentor against student. The tom had taught him every stance he knew yet still he could still barely contend with him. Managing a deep, brutal claw from one ear right through Hawkfeather’s eye, he’d thought the battle won when the big cat reared and yowled in agony. Instead, his blood instead turned to ice. The heaves weren’t his dying breaths—they were the peels of rasping laughter.
Ashstripe was dead by the time Hawkfeather dragged them back to camp, his soft underbelly clawed to pieces. Tears glistening in his eyes, the tom had thrown himself at the feet of Leopardstar with a heartbroken howl, his massive shoulders heaving with every breath. “Traitor,” he spat, feigning an agonized choke, head turned away from his fathers mangled form as if he couldn’t bear to look at it. Over the passing hours he told his tale—how he’d struggled with his life and failed to protect his poor, defenceless father when Ashstripe had slain him. “He would have killed me too if I hadn’t smelled the blood, he was going to murder us all!” His cinematics were perfect, and no doubt they’d have believed him, who wouldn’t aside from his little sister who was too quiet to speak out against him.
From then, things changed. Hawkfeather had spoken with his sister, regained her trust and strengthened the bond with his clan. See they had accepted him after his dirty deed that hadn’t touched the light fully but what doesn’t touch the light today will do so tomorrow. Hawkfeather didn’t believe in this not when he had lived his whole life in the shadows. Still tempted to be the dark monster he is, he was forced to suppress the monster within especially after he adopted a small kit named Nyx. No one had known of hisrape victim affair and when he brought the kit to the clan and not many turned the small kit away due to Hawkfeather being the one to find her.
The not-so-usually-accepting clan accepted Nyx into the clan allowing her to keep the name Hawkfeather’s dead mate, Rosaline had chosen. From then on the tom suppressed his evil intentions the desires that overwhelmed him to be a father and take up into his arms another cat as a mentor, Brightpaw. He was nineteen moons at that time when he granted such a task; he was given to her as a request from her old mentor Dapplestripe. Brightpaw, ten moons into her life, a female at that too which was the reason the male was far more considerate now. He understood one day in their training session that his harsh brutal ways wouldn’t convince the little she-cat to be all she could be. Therefore he took a different approach, an approach he had seen many others take words of encouragement flooded from his mouth but his was none the less brutal in training session he just figured out when to let up and when to praise rather that neglect.
This led into a successful new warrior who took up the name Brightstream, a beauty she was. This led Hawkfeather to be dangerously protective of her or what others would call possessive. Everyone took notice to the small love unfolding between the mentor and the she-cat. He was gaining the courage and new character to ask her for her love in eternity. Yet he couldn’t as when the clock struck twenty-four moons on the she-cat the love drowned upon the tips of tragedy when Brightstream became sick with greencough and died in the rough times of nature. Thirty-three moons into his own life, Hawkfeather took it harshly and no sooner than a moon later his daughter requested to leave the clan.
He allowed her to do such realizing she was to be just like her mother, unbounded and free. His old self longed for the life so he could rein his hell but the new version that had surface wouldn’t allow it, he had no more tolerance for the ruthless and rash killing he had done before. If he was to kill it would be with a purpose and as he soon found that without his beloved clan he wouldn’t have a purpose. He lost his little girl and his love that had mysteriously surfaced. Then tom finally learned and became dedicated to his clan but only time can tell when the truth will hit the light or will he reveal himself as the little creature that had him in check isn’t remaining at his home anymore.
Dangers lurk behind those eyes and, when he arrives at your door step bloody and howling with a never ending depth of bloodlust with a spice of rage, he won’t be there for sugar.
Hawkkit knew nothing but neglect through the course of his kithood. Left with a father who couldn’t stand to look at him, he was scorned by warriors and Queens alike from the nursery hollow—who deemed him as a bigger danger to their children than the thorn thicket that shielded them from the chilly night winds. She-cats were constantly wary of him, hurriedly ushering away their kits from play in fear of the large tom breaking their brittle bones with a swipe. Instead of playing he was left to grow, bitter and lonely—larger every moon and vying desperately for the attention of a tom who loathed him and the love of overcautious hens. He was forbidden from games, he got too rough; he never knew how to share and his stories were too vivid and frightening. There was no place for him among the other kits, that much was apparent. He just watched, watched from his separate nest; silent.
When the true lies started, he wasn’t sure, but his increasing impatience got the best of him. He’d grown into adulthood swiftly, and sat a good head above the majority of the warriors. At thirteen moons, he far surpassed every other apprentice, yet he was quickly becoming the only one who wasn’t elevated to the rank he deserved. He roared with rage and consistently complained, slithering back to Dimstar. Inspiring a series of hot quarrels between the tom and his mentor—after a begrudging yowl, he finally received the name Hawkfeather in ceremony. The decision caused a dark rift between the pair, deep and underlying. Ashstripe, like his father, never trusted the charismatic tom, and frowned at his Leader’s choices. “It’s a mistake,” he’d muttered quietly. “The brute knows no mercy.”
And right he was.
Since he was a child, Hawkfeather’s bloodlust had been forever rising, spurred perhaps from twisted genes and the savage gore of his mother’s death. His nightly obsession with death began to drip into his days and soon curled beyond the confines of his hunting parties. The morbid chance arose the day he was placed shoulder to shoulder in a three cat patrol, with his mentor and his beloved father. After months of oppression, of sneers, of jibes, of disdainful looks and his own growing desperation—he’d shrieked with glee the moment they were far out of sight and his teeth sunk into the back of Stormclaw’s neck. Crushed under his weight, Hawkfeather had made short work of the elder tom before Ashstripe had turned, shocked, upon the monster he’d watched grow. The fight had raged for some time, mentor against student. The tom had taught him every stance he knew yet still he could still barely contend with him. Managing a deep, brutal claw from one ear right through Hawkfeather’s eye, he’d thought the battle won when the big cat reared and yowled in agony. Instead, his blood instead turned to ice. The heaves weren’t his dying breaths—they were the peels of rasping laughter.
Ashstripe was dead by the time Hawkfeather dragged them back to camp, his soft underbelly clawed to pieces. Tears glistening in his eyes, the tom had thrown himself at the feet of Leopardstar with a heartbroken howl, his massive shoulders heaving with every breath. “Traitor,” he spat, feigning an agonized choke, head turned away from his fathers mangled form as if he couldn’t bear to look at it. Over the passing hours he told his tale—how he’d struggled with his life and failed to protect his poor, defenceless father when Ashstripe had slain him. “He would have killed me too if I hadn’t smelled the blood, he was going to murder us all!” His cinematics were perfect, and no doubt they’d have believed him, who wouldn’t aside from his little sister who was too quiet to speak out against him.
From then, things changed. Hawkfeather had spoken with his sister, regained her trust and strengthened the bond with his clan. See they had accepted him after his dirty deed that hadn’t touched the light fully but what doesn’t touch the light today will do so tomorrow. Hawkfeather didn’t believe in this not when he had lived his whole life in the shadows. Still tempted to be the dark monster he is, he was forced to suppress the monster within especially after he adopted a small kit named Nyx. No one had known of his
The not-so-usually-accepting clan accepted Nyx into the clan allowing her to keep the name Hawkfeather’s dead mate, Rosaline had chosen. From then on the tom suppressed his evil intentions the desires that overwhelmed him to be a father and take up into his arms another cat as a mentor, Brightpaw. He was nineteen moons at that time when he granted such a task; he was given to her as a request from her old mentor Dapplestripe. Brightpaw, ten moons into her life, a female at that too which was the reason the male was far more considerate now. He understood one day in their training session that his harsh brutal ways wouldn’t convince the little she-cat to be all she could be. Therefore he took a different approach, an approach he had seen many others take words of encouragement flooded from his mouth but his was none the less brutal in training session he just figured out when to let up and when to praise rather that neglect.
This led into a successful new warrior who took up the name Brightstream, a beauty she was. This led Hawkfeather to be dangerously protective of her or what others would call possessive. Everyone took notice to the small love unfolding between the mentor and the she-cat. He was gaining the courage and new character to ask her for her love in eternity. Yet he couldn’t as when the clock struck twenty-four moons on the she-cat the love drowned upon the tips of tragedy when Brightstream became sick with greencough and died in the rough times of nature. Thirty-three moons into his own life, Hawkfeather took it harshly and no sooner than a moon later his daughter requested to leave the clan.
He allowed her to do such realizing she was to be just like her mother, unbounded and free. His old self longed for the life so he could rein his hell but the new version that had surface wouldn’t allow it, he had no more tolerance for the ruthless and rash killing he had done before. If he was to kill it would be with a purpose and as he soon found that without his beloved clan he wouldn’t have a purpose. He lost his little girl and his love that had mysteriously surfaced. Then tom finally learned and became dedicated to his clan but only time can tell when the truth will hit the light or will he reveal himself as the little creature that had him in check isn’t remaining at his home anymore.
Dangers lurk behind those eyes and, when he arrives at your door step bloody and howling with a never ending depth of bloodlust with a spice of rage, he won’t be there for sugar.
OTHER INFORMATON
Lillypool will be up for adoption.
ETCETERA
OTHER CATS,
HOW DID YOU FIND US,[/font] Another site ad.[/div][/td][/tr][/table]
[/center]
