Post by Thyme on Aug 25, 2010 22:07:08 GMT -5
Name: Marshfoot
Gender: Tom
Age: 42 moons
Clan: ShadowClan
Rank: Medicine Cat
Love Interest: Not allowed
Kin:
Father – unknown
Mother – Lucy, loner (NPC)
Brother – Longstripe, deceased (NPC)
Sister – Grasstail (NPC)
Description:
Marshfoot is without a doubt a proud cat; proud of his position, of his Clan, of his accomplishments; and he portrays himself in a way that reflects this fierce pride. He practically flourishes respect with every step, and isn’t afraid to enforce it. His tail is often held erect or at least parallel to the ground, his ears pricking forward, and his head high and still. After years of holding this position, his unmistakable gait and pose is a common and instantly recognizable site through camp, and is learned quickly by the Clan’s kits as well as any newcomers.
His pelt is best described as a smoky-black, and is quite the muddy mix of various dark tones. It has enough color to fill up a Twilight Zone episode, which, although not a vibrant assortment, certainly has class. Indeed, one might almost expect him to be the sort who might find tipping one’s hat to be an entertaining hobby. He carries himself with the practiced ease of a professional millionaire philanthropist without the generosity. Darker areas where his fur draws closest to being black are evident on his head as well as his legs, and his tail, thick and long, has faint tabby markings. His stomach is the lightest, being a soft grey-white color, and has darker spotting.
Dark amber almond-shaped eyes peer confidently from a broad, angled head. One of his ears, his left, is tattered and chewed from a previous ThunderClan encounter. He bears various other scars scattered across his body, the most noticeable is the thick slash on his left shoulder. His muzzle is also slightly longer than normal through some odd, hidden trait that wasn’t apparent in his mother. It could have been something in his father’s genetics, but that is impossible to figure out do to the unknown identity of his father.
Personality:
As I have more than made note of in the previous section, and as something that I will probably state again, Marshfoot features an unmatchable sense of pride. This is mildly a self-pride, but more so a pride for his position. He is perfectly happy to be a medicine cat; as he can act like any rough-nosed warrior, freely wander around “collecting herbs”, and has his own den to boot. However, he does have a deep envy for the Clan leaders. Yes, all of them, not just ShadowClan’s. It is not the position he craves, but the lives. He would never want to run a Clan, Marshfoot has watched and seen how quickly leaders age; he’s seen the difficulties they’ve faced from disloyal Clans, angry neighbors, and harsh seasons. He has no desire whatsoever to take on these responsibilities. Call him cowardly, envious, or just plain greedy, but the truth is that Marshfoot would give half his whiskers and his better ear to claim nine lives of his own. This outrageous, ambitious, and secret wish is something that seems to eat away at his conscience, reminding him every now and again that he could never actually receive his yearning.
Marshfoot is a cat that you do not want to get in the way of. He knows what he’s doing, he knows the best way to get things done, and he won’t allow another cat to sway his decisions. Try and suggest a different remedy for whitecough and he’ll claw your ears off, cool as you please, before finally rejecting your idea. Then, depending on how badly you’re bleeding, he might offer you something to sooth the pain, because by this point you’ve likely learned your lesson and won’t try again. So yes, he does feel a sense of duty to his Clanmates, although he may not like them. By no means does he feel a respect for any of them, except maybe Rainstar. He views himself as more of an individual on the side instead of a warrior tightly-woven into Clan life, and in this, he does see freedom.
He has a particular mixture of herbs that he himself takes on a regular basis. He claims that it is to help his prematurely arthritic joints, and to calm his highly active mind. Whether or not this is true is something that is debated, but never pursued. He’s certain that since he’s told them once they clearly don’t believe him, and he refuses to waste his time pushing a pointless cause. Therefore, he lets them talk, and continues to cheerfully chew his herbs. The exact herbs in the mixture are unknown, and it’s likely that he changes them around occasionally to experiment and find a better concoction. Whatever it is, he keeps a large, constant supply of all his seasonal herbs, even ensuring large portions of dried catmint throughout leaf-bare.
A highly intelligent and creative cat, Marshfoot also has no problems sharing his tales of bravado with his patients. Luckily, he doesn’t often feel the need to relate what most of the Clan believes to be tall tales. And if asked, he certainly won’t tell, as he doesn’t respond to requests, often replying that he is nothing like a songbird; needing more than a little nudge to begin chattering freely. Instead, he’ll visit and revisit his stories in his head, perfecting them until ready to convey what he always claims to be true.
History:
About 40 moons ago a heavily pregnant loner stumbled into the ShadowClan camp. She was weak, undernourished, and close to giving birth. The ShadowClan leader at the time, acknowledging this, grudgingly allowed her to stay at least for a brief time. She was housed in a cluster of tall, boggy reeds just outside the nursery, as the Clan queens were uncertain of the newcomer. Sure enough, the loner, named Lucy, gave birth within a few days, and although she was still very frail at the time, managed to deliver three healthy kits. There was one grey tom, a shadowy black tom, and a little tabby girl. They were left unnamed for a little over a moon before one of the Clan’s queens stepped in and demanded them to be given names. Lucy responded indifferently with a tired shrug, replying that the Clan queen could name them if she really wanted. The queen was surprised that a cat wouldn’t want to name her own kits, but went ahead and did so, naming them following the Clan’s traditional methods. She named them Longkit, Grasskit, and Marshkit, although their late naming and possibly their rogue origins resulted in no actual ceremony.
Because she was not a Clan cat, the queens curiously asked her about who the father might be. They did in part to find out if there were any rogues in the area to be concerned about, but mostly this was in order to get their teeth in a bit of fresh gossip. To their disappointment, Lucy claimed, rather believably, that she didn’t know just who the father might be, as she had seen quite a few recently. It could have been any of them, and Lucy tiredly stood by her story, insisting that she didn’t know for sure which tom had fathered the kits.
When the kits were around two moons old and weaned Lucy left, leaving them in the paws of the Clan. Although a trace of her scent lingered on ShadowClan territory for a brief time afterward, she quickly disappeared from the forest. Longkit, Grasskit, and Marshkit grew up fostered by the kind ShadowClan queens, and it was decided that they would be trained as ShadowClan warriors like any other Clan-born cat. At this age, the three kits weren’t even sure what to make of the whole situation, only that their mother was gone. During the nights they slept alongside their adopted brothers and sisters in the nursery, where the queens were more than welcoming. They would hear the queens whispering amongst themselves, and if the kits knew it was their disowning mother they were talking about, they never said anything or asked questions. The kits simply accepted where they were, tussling playfully with the other ShadowClan kits, admiring the senior warriors, sharing aspirations to be great warriors, deputies, and leaders.
Upon reaching six moons the kits received their apprentice names and mentors. Marshpaw was assigned to Reedfur, a snarky, demanding older she-cat. At first the new apprentice resented his mentor, for she pushed him harder than what seemed fair, especially compared to his siblings’ considerably more relaxed mentors. Each evening he would return to the apprentice’s den exhausted from a day of difficult tasks, watch his siblings chatter happily away, and then fall into a restful sleep. His anger smoldered for several moons as he went through his training in a constant state of unhappiness. It was only as he stood to face the rest of the Clan as the newly named Marshfoot that he saw Reedfur watching him with a pleased, proud, and loving expression. At first look he was confused – no way could his prickly mentor have the capacity to even feel that way – but he realized that she truly was proud of him. In that moment, he understood her entirely, and also discovered, to his surprise, that he had a deep respect for her.
As a warrior, Marshfoot found that he had more time than he knew what to do with. In order to pass the monotony that were days, he spent much of it thinking up stories of which he was the hero. The warrior would wander around the woods, gazing out across the borders, mostly working through his stories to perfect them. It was on one of these strolls that he discovered a sweet, irresistible smell coming from just over the ThunderClan border. His curiosity was greater than his common sense and he soon found himself falling into a state of bliss unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Forgetting everything with a flick of a tail, he let himself sink into the moment. It didn’t seem like very long before a heavy swat to his head shocked him out of his delight. Stunned, Marshfoot scrambled to his feet, but was hauled back down by an angry ThunderClan patrol. He clawed at his attackers; three bulky cats; but tempers were short, and mercy even shorter. When he managed to flee back across the border, he was bleeding from multiple scratches and bite wounds. One ear had been mangled and his shoulder had a deep cut. Limping and stinging with pain, the tom made it back to camp where he lived in the medicine cat’s den for about a quarter moon. Throughout his treatment he couldn’t help but think of the delicious feeling that came with that sweet herb; it was a lurking thought in his mind.
When the current medicine cat requested a new apprentice, Marshfoot wasn’t the first to volunteer. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to give up his life as a warrior and devote himself to learning an entirely new field. The herb resurfaced in his mind, gently tugging him in a different direction, and he had no choice but to follow. The medicine cat claimed to receive a sign from StarClan approving the choice, and just like that, Marshfoot began a whole new journey. After only four moons as an apprentice the medicine cat died, leaving Marshfoot as the lone healer for the Clan. Overwhelmed with his new responsibilities, Marshfoot again returned to the woods, leaving camp for long periods. With the border dispute going on, ShadowClan needed it’s medicine cat more than ever, and many cats began to doubt his ability. No cat said anything to him directly until his brother; Longstripe accosted him in his den and told him to get himself in shape. They couldn’t have a useless medicine cat, he insisted. Marshfoot straightened up after that, and spent most of his time in his den, experimenting with different herbs and roots to create better medicines.
While ShadowClan and ThunderClan squabbled fiercely over territories, Marshfoot lost his brother, Longstripe, in the constant battles. He and his remaining sibling, Grasstail, mourned together over their dead kin. Their sorrow was short-lived as Mudstar ordered the warriors of the Clan into battle again and again. Countless other lives were cut short throughout this time, leaving Marshfoot in a constantly sullen state; irritable and short-tempered. He dutifully cared for his Clan, as per his orders. When the battles died down, and he shuttled the last cat out of his den, his mood returned to the proud, snarky attitude he’d unknowingly adopted from his mentor. He has been relatively pleasant since then, or at the very least tolerable to be around for short periods.
Other: Nothing I can think of.
Roleplay Example:
“Marshfoot, I need to talk to you.” Longstripe’s voice echoed slightly in the den as he peered into the shadows. “Marshfoot?” he asked again, stepping further inside. The grey tom’s ears flicked forward as he heard a soft shuffling, and a smile crossed his face when he saw the dark figure of his brother appear.
“Yes?” Marshfoot meowed rather gruffly, not nearly so eager to see his brother. The fur on his shoulders bristled, but in a tired, irritated manner, not as an aggressive stance. Clearly the tom was stressed, and this knowledge bothered Longstripe. His brother sighed and sat down in the entrance of the cave. Marshfoot paused where he was, hesitant, waiting for his brother to speak. He was unsure of what this was all about, but was more than keen on ending this discussion before it started.
Longstripe mulled over his choice of words. Sure, he’d played the whole scene out in his head before, but now, when the time came for confrontation, his mind had gone blank. “Well, you know how we’ve been having these border troubles.” He began slowly, drawing out the ‘well’ as his voice flew up and down in pitch. “Mudstar has been jumping at every chance to send us into battle and quite frankly, you’re not fulfilling your role. I know this was just dumped on you, but you have to do better. Doing anything would be better at this point.” The tom concluded, his voice finishing firmly, but his golden eyes pleading.
Marshfoot’s ears flattened against his head as his brother continued, anger flaring up deep in his chest. “You think I’m not a good medicine cat?” he growled, nostrils flaring. “Do you think you could do better? Great StarClan, you’re supposed to support me. You’re my brother!” His long tail lashed indignantly behind him. He could hardly retain his fury at feeling betrayed by his own kin. How could Longstripe call him a poor medicine cat? Didn’t he realize how difficult this was? Wait. Marshfoot blinked in realization, confusion flickering over his face. Ears flattened again, this time in shame, although his fur still rose stiffly above his shoulders. His tail drooped and he finally succumbed to the truth in his brother’s words, sinking to the floor of the den. Paws splayed on the ground and the tom lay still, cheek resting on the cool stone. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled softly, muzzle pressing into the ground. He suddenly felt too tired to even move, much less look at his brother, who simply watched him go through these motions.
A warm, gentle gust of air carrying the solid, comforting scent of his brother; the second scent he’d known in the world. This was the scent he’d instantly recognize, the only one he’d feel safe with if he was completely blinded and lost in the dark. Although his mother’s was long forgotten, he clung dearly to what little connections he had. His brother’s shape pressed against his side, comforting him in a way he didn’t think could anymore. Surely such simple reassuring methods were meant to only work on kits. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, just lay there and let his brother help him finish the journey he thought he’d been sentenced to make alone. It was such a lonely existence, one he assumed he’d been doomed to live as until StarClan came to claim him. Now he could see that he was not alone, not in all aspects, not completely.
A long period lapsed in the quiet, fragrant cave. Marshfoot felt his brother’s tongue rasp gently over his mangled ear with all the kindness of a queen with her kit. He closed his eyes.
“Thank you.” He murmured.
