Post by hotsoup on Jul 14, 2008 12:00:52 GMT -8
Name: Claws
Age: Unknown, even by him. Its too long ago to know, and no one keeps track. Old, very old.
Gender: Tom
Rank: Rogue
Appearance: His long, chocolate brown pelt hangs over a skeletal frame.Long skinny legs don't look strong enough to hold him up, but they serve him well. His tail is adorned with auburn plumage, grand, waving fur, tones range from blonde to brunette. His small paws barely seem worthy of the claws that reside there. Long, curved machetes, they seem so flexible as they curl round and straighten out as he moves. His namesakes are magnificent, but frightening.
A long pointed face holds many features. Starting from the top, huge, striped, bat-like ears pick up almost any sound, even the very breath of a mouse a few tree-lengths away. Blood like eyes with pupils like black holes are ravenous and hold the churning depths of madness. Long white whiskers protrude from his scarred muzzle, a few missing and most bent. A long nose is alo scarred, as is much of his face.
Voice: Like fingernails scraping down a blackboard, his rasping voice is quiet and has a starved quality to it, like it isn't used enough. Most of his speech is interrupted by rasping breathes and savage laughter and cackles that seem to be almost a second way of breathing to him.
He talks in riddles, rhymes third person and present tense most of the time, which sometimes confuses those he chooses to talk to.
Battle: Most cats don't see him fight, and those that do barely remember. It all seems like a blur as he darts round, cackling and swiping at his opponents. It seems strange the way he moves, like a broken movie. Stopping... And starting... And stopping... but always repeating itself.
Personality: No cats have ever got through to him to learn anything about him. Totally untrusting, he prefers to be alone and with his own thoughts. He tends to talk to himself mostly, and attack anyone that comes close. Not what you'd call a friendly chap.
But most cats just think hes mad. Which... maybe he is. Talking to himself, attacking other cats, refusing to talk or do anything sometimes, he's definately not normal.
History: Claws discovered himself really. As far back as memories stretch, its all been the same. Wandering alone in the forest, catching what he can from wherever he can. He never had any regards for anything to do with any other cat.
But the loneliness overtook him and his sanity. Barely a cat ever saw him, but he always saw them. But he never talked, and without his mother to guide him, he never learned how to interact with others. It was many, many moons before he managed to grasped how to put together words in order to get himself understood.
Many cats often jeered if they ever saw a brown shape flit past them. He learned to hate every passer by, every stranger, every soul that ever comes near. He even hates the prey, hissing at it and ripping at it as he makes a kill.
But his quiet and tormented life is all about to change. With Resistances and Clans fighting against BloodGang, and with sides pressing against each other, all threatens to get him caught in the middle.
The first thing he remembers is his claws, which gave him his namesake as soon as he learnt what it meant. Claws.
Family: All unknown. His mother, father, siblings, friends, and any kin are lost in time.
SW: The world spun as he turned. Breath of the wind whispered in his ear, telling him its secrets. Sounds of pacing carried themselves to him circling round his ears. He snapped at them, and he heard them scurry inward so they could circle around inside for ever more.
He paused for a second, listening to the chatter that the sounds were still telling him. Murmering a reply, his eyes searched the forest until they pin-pointed the shape of a cat.
His harsh voice screeched out softly, like the call of quicksand.
"Claws hears the sound of a stranger, does it realise the awaiting danger?" He stepped forward and hissed softly, his crooked teeth bared in a lopsided kind of smile. "Little chance of escape, they shall die with their mouths agape."
The cat was now staring at him, rooted to the spot. It smelt of the territory, most likely a young cat of these so called 'Clans'. "Be gone, small one." It turned tail and ran back. He stared after them with his bloodshot eyes, then listened as their voices came running.
"When the cavalry comes running, the way I run is stunning." He cackled to himself at his little joke, then melted away.
Other: Hes a bit of a nutter... most cats don't like him because hes mean, snappy and crazy.