Post by smoke on Apr 15, 2014 20:01:48 GMT -6
smoke 
a slim black-smoke tabby she-cat with green-gold eyes
Smoke was born a dusty double of her sister, whose coat was silver and spotted with black. Their patterns nearly matched, but every hair of Smoke’s pelt was tipped in black, and the difference in their coats only grew bolder as the two sisters aged. Smoke grew slim, though not tall, with an almost elegant wedged head and large, wide-set ears. Lean, smooth-furred legs end in neat, small paws – the left hind one bears a scar across the tendon from a run in with a rat as a kit. Her eyes are large, slightly rounded, and colored a light, vivid green that fades to gold around the edges, and rimmed with black. When she’s focused, they gain a fierce intensity and seem to dominate her face, but when she relaxes, they drift, lazy and unfocused, from one subject to the next with little regard. Her coat is short, but thick and plush, and smoky coal. She’s faintly tabbied, with spots on her sides that turn to bars on her legs and tail. Her markings are black, while the rest of her is a cloudy, sooty color, from the smoke coloration she has – when her fur parts, it’s easy to see that it’s dusky silver underneath. This quality give her markings a soft, diffused cast. A lighter collar rings her neck, and the subtle tabby marks on her face follow classic patterns, with two distinct lines running from her eyes, lighter spots on each brow, and an “M” on her forehead.
In most situations, Smoke has a natural, contained sort of grace to her – she walks and runs with a fluid, easy gait, turning quickly and often, winding her body and tail around obstacles as she encounters them. When excited, she becomes unpredictable, unable to sit still, constantly pacing, fidgeting, even bolting without provocation. She has a habit of leaning forward and standing on her toes when focused or intrigued, and rocking when trying to think. Her tail – while unremarkable in length – is highly expressive, lashing with excitement, twitching with irritation, or curling around a hind leg when she’s uncomfortable. While Smoke has managed to learn how to control her facial expressions fairly well, her tail will usually betray her true feelings.
independent, intelligent, spirited, noncommittal, restless, anxious
Smoke’s unique upbringing has rendered her something of a drifter. She spends most of her time moving place to place between stores of herbs, sleeping in a thicket deep in the woods one night and under the stars on the moors the next. She’s a wanderer and revels in the sublime loneliness of a night full of stars and a breeze through her pelt. Having never settled down, and with her scant family scattered, Smoke has few important relationships, and values the solitude and level of detachment her lifestyle affords her. She finds it easier to help strangers, knowing that there’s no burden of expectation on her to help – her sudden appearance at the side of a sick or injured cat is always seen as miraculous, even if she only manages to help a little. Smoke has a knack for arriving just in time to witness an accident or intervene with an illness. Twolegs might see something of a black cat’s bad luck in this propensity, but more often or not Smoke’s arrival is a good sign. Even when it’s not, there is so little known of healing anymore that even trying has won Smoke a place of esteem among the cats that know her, and she takes great pride in that reputation.
She does, however, love to help, finding a deep satisfaction in healing those who need it, and adores the connection to the earth that herb gathering affords her. She is welcome most anywhere, and sometimes stays with small groups overnight to care for cats in need, or accept their hospitality. While Smoke hunts well enough to feed herself, it’s not one of her favorite chores, and she’s generally happy to let some other cat hunt live prey while she scours the hills for fragrant green herbs. Smoke does love the conversation that comes with these stays, the nights spent curled in unfamiliar nests and listening to the purrs of contented friends around her, the quiet thrum of belonging in her chest. But she’ll never consent to stay, and always moves on again when all the cats are well or she’s visited a few days, refusing to tether herself to any few cats, to any one tract of land. She’s not picky about her company, as comfortable around well-fed loners living in twoleg barns as she is among scarred rogue bands, confident in her skill to earn her respect.
Smoke’s drifting has made her value companionship, but she also finds great amounts of it overwhelming. As a roving healer, she is always the hero, and so she never stays long, as not to shatter the illusion. She maintains a quiet, almost demure level of self-containment, frightened that she’ll betray her duty or her blood if she lets her guard down. Smoke worries, often, that her skill isn’t sufficient, or that she will forget something before she can pass her knowledge on, and thus break the line. As the clans rise and form, her fear has peaked – on one hand, this is her opportunity to secure the skills her family has valued for generations, but she’s also afraid that the conditions will undo her, and she won’t be able to maintain herself in clan life. Living in one place, constantly interacting with the same cats, maintaining blind loyalty to only a few… No matter their actions… Even if they cause a war? And even then, these aren’t the clan cats she heard stories of from her mother, they’re loners, rogues, strays, former kittypets who are eking out an existence by competing mercilessly against each other. Aside from the small groups she sometimes found, overwhelmingly this life was a solitary one, in which most ever cat was out for him- or herself. For all the lofty goals of these ambitious new leaders, and all the wisdom of the – frankly, decrepit – cats they follow, Smoke can’t quite bring herself to believe that they can repeat the past. While she feels it is her duty, and maybe her destiny, to help the clans, she certainly isn’t comfortable with what they represent to her, and how they’re forming now.
the last of the clans’ medicine cat line
Smoke was born to a proud loner queen called Dawn. She and her sister are the youngest in a line descended from a medicine cat of the clans that survived their collapse. The knowledge of which clan, exactly, has been lost – the story goes that in the old days, medicine cats were not supposed to take mates, and so her clanborn ancestor’s name disappeared from family history, to spare them the shame of breaking their code. From this ancestor, a nearly-complete knowledge of herblore has been passed between generations. Some cats follow their blood and become roving medics, treating cats as they find them, while other abandon their legacy and live their lives as loners, rogues, and kittypets.
It was this scattering of cats that left Dawn as the last in the line, and led her to mate with a loner almost exclusively for the kits their union would produce – she held little affection for the tom, and ran him off shortly after discovering she was pregnant. She bore two kits – Smoke and her sister, Dove. The two sisters were taught herblore by their mother, and Dove, while studious, was drawn to the soft life of a kittypet. Dawn tried to convince her daughter to dedicate her life to the forest and the cats in it as her ancestors had, but Dove hated seeing death, hated feeling used, and feared for her life in the wild. She got herself taken in by a twoleg family, who moved away the next season, taking Dove and her gentle spirit beyond her family’s reach.
Smoke had a little more edge than her sister, and thrived under her mother’s focus, learning herbs, their uses, and their locations with speed and accuracy. She took leave of her mother at around a year old and began roaming the forest, finding herbs, storing them around the woods and streams, and helping sick and injured cats as she came across them, ever-drifting and unfettered by territory restrictions. She met with her mother occasionally, who had begun to pine for her lost daughter, and after another few seasons, retreated into twoleg territory with the promise of bringing her daughter home. Smoke hasn’t seen her since, but she knows her mother well – in all likelihood, she found a twoleg family to care for her and is taking a well-deserved retirement from a life of service. Smoke continued with her roving life, and was happy in it. She slept where and when she pleased, and everywhere she went she was a welcome surprise – she knew many cats vaguely, by name or sight, and had an uncanny ability to arrive just as she was needed.
But as the forest began to buzz with the rumor of the clans rising again, Smoke grew suspicious. Sure, uniting the cats of the forest was a fine idea, but the clans had fallen for a reason. And these weren’t a bloodline of noble warriors. They were loners, desperate and loyal only to themselves, clinging to the edge of survival and feeding off the tales of glory days long passed. But she also knew that large numbers of cats together could easily spread disease, and clans would mean rivalry and war, and devoted herself to making sure the clans have the medical expertise they need – though their ideals of loyalty and rivalry seem foreign to her.
from nettlestripe on DD
Despite the recent bout of bad weather, the day had dawned with a weak sunlight streaming through the sky, as if it had forgotten how to shine. Nettlestripe had taken the dawn patrol, and reveled in the warmth of the sun. It had coaxed billowing steam from the waterlogged earth, and now the air was thick and muggy with moisture from the ground. A haze seemed to hang upon the territory, heavy with heat, and the flies were out, buzzing loudly and biting mercilessly. Still, the hardships were worth it for the sun, which was lightly obscured by a gauze of high, pearly clouds as Nettlestripe picked his way toward the lake, pale gray coat seeming thicker than usual, puffy from the humidity. His neat black stripes had gone smudged, but he didn’t mind much.
Patrols and guarding were Nettlestripe’s strong suits. He knew this well, and had thoroughly enjoyed the morning’s jaunt. But it wasn’t enough. Something wrapped around the marrow of his bones buzzed – today was a day to move, to work, to push his body. He needed it, after cramped and rainy days. So as soon as he arrived in the open, he pushed out a final breath and rocketed forward, keeping a good distance from the water, hoping not to scare any prey that lurked there. A rabbit burst from its warren beneath a hillock on the cropped grass, and he gave chase, legs thundering, breath coming short and fast as he fixed his amber eyes on the flashing tail before him. The warren apparently had two entrances, because once again the long-eared brown shape disappeared beneath the ground. Nettlestripe nosed at the entrance, savoring the warm, rich scent of the rabbit. He stood very still, so he could hear its heartbeat pulsing in the fur of his ears, so fast he feared it would burst. There was a scrabbling beneath the ground, and the rabbit retreated beyond his senses.
With a sigh, Nettlestripe backed away and stepped lightly toward the water. This was one of the most open places in ThunderClan territory, Nettlestripe hoped the prey was as eager as he was to enjoy the sun while it lasted. A few smooth stones dotted the shore, and on top of one, Nettlestripe spotted a vole. It was thinner than it should be, for Greenleaf, but freshkill was freshkill, and the Clan needed it badly. The most recent bout of storms seemed to be the worst yet, and the more it rained, the harder it was to find prey. One skinny vole wasn’t much, but it was enough. The grey tabby dropped into a crouch, creeping gently forward, trying to keep quiet. All ThunderClan cats hunted, that was a given. But his skills were… Less impressive than they could have been. His bulk didn’t do him many favors, nor did his natural inclination to make noise. But Nettlestripe made every effort to remain silent and weightless, just as his mentor had taught him, and he inched forward. Finally, the vole froze, and Nettlestripe knew he had only one chance. He sprang forward, claws outstretched, at the fleeing prey.
In the nick of time, the vole flattened itself into a crevice, and Nettlestripe landed hard, flipping over and into the pool with a splash. He surfaced, spitting, shocked by how cold the pond was, and churned his legs. The water was shallow, and his feet sank into soft mud. Cursing loudly – no longer bothering to worry about prey – Nettlestripe clambered ashore and over the stones, dropping to lie on the grass, staring forlornly at the mud caking his white paws, and hearing – over the sound of his own still-heavy breathing – the scrabble of the vole’s paws as it hurried away.
Thought we were free, now you're starting to see
Hidden deep in the green there's a yellow and blue
Hidden deep in the green there's a yellow and blue
a slim black-smoke tabby she-cat with green-gold eyes
Smoke was born a dusty double of her sister, whose coat was silver and spotted with black. Their patterns nearly matched, but every hair of Smoke’s pelt was tipped in black, and the difference in their coats only grew bolder as the two sisters aged. Smoke grew slim, though not tall, with an almost elegant wedged head and large, wide-set ears. Lean, smooth-furred legs end in neat, small paws – the left hind one bears a scar across the tendon from a run in with a rat as a kit. Her eyes are large, slightly rounded, and colored a light, vivid green that fades to gold around the edges, and rimmed with black. When she’s focused, they gain a fierce intensity and seem to dominate her face, but when she relaxes, they drift, lazy and unfocused, from one subject to the next with little regard. Her coat is short, but thick and plush, and smoky coal. She’s faintly tabbied, with spots on her sides that turn to bars on her legs and tail. Her markings are black, while the rest of her is a cloudy, sooty color, from the smoke coloration she has – when her fur parts, it’s easy to see that it’s dusky silver underneath. This quality give her markings a soft, diffused cast. A lighter collar rings her neck, and the subtle tabby marks on her face follow classic patterns, with two distinct lines running from her eyes, lighter spots on each brow, and an “M” on her forehead.
In most situations, Smoke has a natural, contained sort of grace to her – she walks and runs with a fluid, easy gait, turning quickly and often, winding her body and tail around obstacles as she encounters them. When excited, she becomes unpredictable, unable to sit still, constantly pacing, fidgeting, even bolting without provocation. She has a habit of leaning forward and standing on her toes when focused or intrigued, and rocking when trying to think. Her tail – while unremarkable in length – is highly expressive, lashing with excitement, twitching with irritation, or curling around a hind leg when she’s uncomfortable. While Smoke has managed to learn how to control her facial expressions fairly well, her tail will usually betray her true feelings.
independent, intelligent, spirited, noncommittal, restless, anxious
Smoke’s unique upbringing has rendered her something of a drifter. She spends most of her time moving place to place between stores of herbs, sleeping in a thicket deep in the woods one night and under the stars on the moors the next. She’s a wanderer and revels in the sublime loneliness of a night full of stars and a breeze through her pelt. Having never settled down, and with her scant family scattered, Smoke has few important relationships, and values the solitude and level of detachment her lifestyle affords her. She finds it easier to help strangers, knowing that there’s no burden of expectation on her to help – her sudden appearance at the side of a sick or injured cat is always seen as miraculous, even if she only manages to help a little. Smoke has a knack for arriving just in time to witness an accident or intervene with an illness. Twolegs might see something of a black cat’s bad luck in this propensity, but more often or not Smoke’s arrival is a good sign. Even when it’s not, there is so little known of healing anymore that even trying has won Smoke a place of esteem among the cats that know her, and she takes great pride in that reputation.
She does, however, love to help, finding a deep satisfaction in healing those who need it, and adores the connection to the earth that herb gathering affords her. She is welcome most anywhere, and sometimes stays with small groups overnight to care for cats in need, or accept their hospitality. While Smoke hunts well enough to feed herself, it’s not one of her favorite chores, and she’s generally happy to let some other cat hunt live prey while she scours the hills for fragrant green herbs. Smoke does love the conversation that comes with these stays, the nights spent curled in unfamiliar nests and listening to the purrs of contented friends around her, the quiet thrum of belonging in her chest. But she’ll never consent to stay, and always moves on again when all the cats are well or she’s visited a few days, refusing to tether herself to any few cats, to any one tract of land. She’s not picky about her company, as comfortable around well-fed loners living in twoleg barns as she is among scarred rogue bands, confident in her skill to earn her respect.
Smoke’s drifting has made her value companionship, but she also finds great amounts of it overwhelming. As a roving healer, she is always the hero, and so she never stays long, as not to shatter the illusion. She maintains a quiet, almost demure level of self-containment, frightened that she’ll betray her duty or her blood if she lets her guard down. Smoke worries, often, that her skill isn’t sufficient, or that she will forget something before she can pass her knowledge on, and thus break the line. As the clans rise and form, her fear has peaked – on one hand, this is her opportunity to secure the skills her family has valued for generations, but she’s also afraid that the conditions will undo her, and she won’t be able to maintain herself in clan life. Living in one place, constantly interacting with the same cats, maintaining blind loyalty to only a few… No matter their actions… Even if they cause a war? And even then, these aren’t the clan cats she heard stories of from her mother, they’re loners, rogues, strays, former kittypets who are eking out an existence by competing mercilessly against each other. Aside from the small groups she sometimes found, overwhelmingly this life was a solitary one, in which most ever cat was out for him- or herself. For all the lofty goals of these ambitious new leaders, and all the wisdom of the – frankly, decrepit – cats they follow, Smoke can’t quite bring herself to believe that they can repeat the past. While she feels it is her duty, and maybe her destiny, to help the clans, she certainly isn’t comfortable with what they represent to her, and how they’re forming now.
the last of the clans’ medicine cat line
Smoke was born to a proud loner queen called Dawn. She and her sister are the youngest in a line descended from a medicine cat of the clans that survived their collapse. The knowledge of which clan, exactly, has been lost – the story goes that in the old days, medicine cats were not supposed to take mates, and so her clanborn ancestor’s name disappeared from family history, to spare them the shame of breaking their code. From this ancestor, a nearly-complete knowledge of herblore has been passed between generations. Some cats follow their blood and become roving medics, treating cats as they find them, while other abandon their legacy and live their lives as loners, rogues, and kittypets.
It was this scattering of cats that left Dawn as the last in the line, and led her to mate with a loner almost exclusively for the kits their union would produce – she held little affection for the tom, and ran him off shortly after discovering she was pregnant. She bore two kits – Smoke and her sister, Dove. The two sisters were taught herblore by their mother, and Dove, while studious, was drawn to the soft life of a kittypet. Dawn tried to convince her daughter to dedicate her life to the forest and the cats in it as her ancestors had, but Dove hated seeing death, hated feeling used, and feared for her life in the wild. She got herself taken in by a twoleg family, who moved away the next season, taking Dove and her gentle spirit beyond her family’s reach.
Smoke had a little more edge than her sister, and thrived under her mother’s focus, learning herbs, their uses, and their locations with speed and accuracy. She took leave of her mother at around a year old and began roaming the forest, finding herbs, storing them around the woods and streams, and helping sick and injured cats as she came across them, ever-drifting and unfettered by territory restrictions. She met with her mother occasionally, who had begun to pine for her lost daughter, and after another few seasons, retreated into twoleg territory with the promise of bringing her daughter home. Smoke hasn’t seen her since, but she knows her mother well – in all likelihood, she found a twoleg family to care for her and is taking a well-deserved retirement from a life of service. Smoke continued with her roving life, and was happy in it. She slept where and when she pleased, and everywhere she went she was a welcome surprise – she knew many cats vaguely, by name or sight, and had an uncanny ability to arrive just as she was needed.
But as the forest began to buzz with the rumor of the clans rising again, Smoke grew suspicious. Sure, uniting the cats of the forest was a fine idea, but the clans had fallen for a reason. And these weren’t a bloodline of noble warriors. They were loners, desperate and loyal only to themselves, clinging to the edge of survival and feeding off the tales of glory days long passed. But she also knew that large numbers of cats together could easily spread disease, and clans would mean rivalry and war, and devoted herself to making sure the clans have the medical expertise they need – though their ideals of loyalty and rivalry seem foreign to her.
from nettlestripe on DD
Despite the recent bout of bad weather, the day had dawned with a weak sunlight streaming through the sky, as if it had forgotten how to shine. Nettlestripe had taken the dawn patrol, and reveled in the warmth of the sun. It had coaxed billowing steam from the waterlogged earth, and now the air was thick and muggy with moisture from the ground. A haze seemed to hang upon the territory, heavy with heat, and the flies were out, buzzing loudly and biting mercilessly. Still, the hardships were worth it for the sun, which was lightly obscured by a gauze of high, pearly clouds as Nettlestripe picked his way toward the lake, pale gray coat seeming thicker than usual, puffy from the humidity. His neat black stripes had gone smudged, but he didn’t mind much.
Patrols and guarding were Nettlestripe’s strong suits. He knew this well, and had thoroughly enjoyed the morning’s jaunt. But it wasn’t enough. Something wrapped around the marrow of his bones buzzed – today was a day to move, to work, to push his body. He needed it, after cramped and rainy days. So as soon as he arrived in the open, he pushed out a final breath and rocketed forward, keeping a good distance from the water, hoping not to scare any prey that lurked there. A rabbit burst from its warren beneath a hillock on the cropped grass, and he gave chase, legs thundering, breath coming short and fast as he fixed his amber eyes on the flashing tail before him. The warren apparently had two entrances, because once again the long-eared brown shape disappeared beneath the ground. Nettlestripe nosed at the entrance, savoring the warm, rich scent of the rabbit. He stood very still, so he could hear its heartbeat pulsing in the fur of his ears, so fast he feared it would burst. There was a scrabbling beneath the ground, and the rabbit retreated beyond his senses.
With a sigh, Nettlestripe backed away and stepped lightly toward the water. This was one of the most open places in ThunderClan territory, Nettlestripe hoped the prey was as eager as he was to enjoy the sun while it lasted. A few smooth stones dotted the shore, and on top of one, Nettlestripe spotted a vole. It was thinner than it should be, for Greenleaf, but freshkill was freshkill, and the Clan needed it badly. The most recent bout of storms seemed to be the worst yet, and the more it rained, the harder it was to find prey. One skinny vole wasn’t much, but it was enough. The grey tabby dropped into a crouch, creeping gently forward, trying to keep quiet. All ThunderClan cats hunted, that was a given. But his skills were… Less impressive than they could have been. His bulk didn’t do him many favors, nor did his natural inclination to make noise. But Nettlestripe made every effort to remain silent and weightless, just as his mentor had taught him, and he inched forward. Finally, the vole froze, and Nettlestripe knew he had only one chance. He sprang forward, claws outstretched, at the fleeing prey.
In the nick of time, the vole flattened itself into a crevice, and Nettlestripe landed hard, flipping over and into the pool with a splash. He surfaced, spitting, shocked by how cold the pond was, and churned his legs. The water was shallow, and his feet sank into soft mud. Cursing loudly – no longer bothering to worry about prey – Nettlestripe clambered ashore and over the stones, dropping to lie on the grass, staring forlornly at the mud caking his white paws, and hearing – over the sound of his own still-heavy breathing – the scrabble of the vole’s paws as it hurried away.
gypsy
this template was made by dannimarie for darkened skies stealing is not tolerated and will be reported.