Post by momo on Aug 21, 2008 4:05:30 GMT -5
"you are reading a razor-production!
please leave all love letters, in the fruit basket
to your very left, and don't forget to,
scoop up some awesome."
[/size][/blockquote]
Name:
London.
Definition:
lon-don, a big city in england.
Gender:
Tom.
Age:
Twenty-three moons.
Clan:
None.
Rank:
Kittypet.
Looks:
Is there really any stage higher, than perfection? A state of infinite Godliness that could elope up higher than the stars themselves? Such things where only but dreams upon the lips of the mortal world. Every one wanted to be better than they where, improve their aspects. It was a point of the inevitable, really - for the sake, no one could be 'completely' perfect. Even with chemicals pumped into their faces and fat dysfunctionally ripped off. Yes, you could have a flashy collar - but you needed a body that could equally take on the shines of the diamonds. For London, there most certainly couldn't ever be any-one as perfect as himself. So vainly calling himself, 'An epitome of magnificence' he lives up to the point of it. Or well, at least he believes so.
If you cut into that delicately furred shell, past lines of fine relaxed muscle and gentle sinew - it's far from unlikely that the blood running through his veins would be blue. Architecture of elegance, he is a creature crafted with good poise. Of course, the entirety of his blood-line had been of pure pedigree. From his great great Grand-father down-wards, the breeding chain he was developed of was never allowed to be tainted with anything but the finest - and if it ever was, well. The offspring most definitely would be 'taken care of', to say the very least. No exceptions. Going back, yes, he is a pure bred, blue-point Siamese - and, if he may say so himself, one of the damn finest. To hell with Lassie, he had a better structure than her anyways... pff, and what sort of creature rolled around in hay and dirt for a living? Tch! Certainly not himself.
Brought up all his life upon a satin pillow, London was always a well looked after cat. From the gentle prickle of his whiskers to the trimming of his claws, the dear humans whom kept him always kept him finely groomed. With his breed too, he damn well expected it. The Siamese where precious cats - in his eyes - to keep, and so they should be treated like royalty. Hah, though he was royalty. He was London. With a forever lofty, pompous like air about him - it's hard not too see him with a lightly sneering look upon that delicate smug. For he learnt from a young age, how to properly groom himself. How to rid clumps of dirt here, ( if ever they dared to appear ) or a certain dampness of the fur there. He knew, that he needed to keep himself clean - not to do the dirty unless in a designated place. And with these built in instincts, anything under the line of that most certainly did disgust him.
Shying away from the darker colouring, the thick silken strands of his coat blossom into that of a smooth cream and white tainted structure. Mixing in almost with a slight tri-color throughout his muzzle and tail, where the faint three – cream, white and mocha brown meet, he has a multiple essence of shading going on throughout. Like the general weight of his body, his head is lightened - taking on a beautiful like craft too it. From the tips of those soft, smooth ears to the very curve of that flattening, elegant muzzle it's pretty to look at in basic shape... plus, with no muttly transmogrification's to him, that Siamese essence is always there. The basic coloring of his head isn't too distinct from the rest of his coat, with a faint – dust beige brown spinkling across his muzzle and around his eyes, a distinct heart like dip cuts through the annual cream-whites. Still, with the simple cream taking on both a place in his under-coat as well as over, there is quite a few evident places where the same color-scheme is put forth.
Another color change occurs, from the point upon his chest, as the white merges lightly in with brown, from around the mid point on his left leg, colors slide into mocha before they are 'rounded off with a socks of a darker like brown. The same coloring structure matches on his right leg also, minus a touch of black that rises mid-ankle. Concentrating again, on his body - after the white comes another cross-section of tan-brown before the final 'petticoat' of black-brown. With ending frills of brown and tan upon his flank and tail, he takes quite a stunning look upon himself. His fur is relatively short, as it's always been kept - not ridiculously over-grown like he's some sort of walking scruffbag. It was some-what kind of his owners, before they crawled off to die to give his coat a light trimming down too - for the sake when it did grow. It fell nicely.
London would be, most likely - quite a skinny looking creature without his fur. He's naturally rather a slim bodied, in itself, for his annual weight of what, around 7-9 lbs. His legs are elegantly long, in a nice proportion to that sleek, lithe body, shying him away from the general look of a barrel with legs. Even with his pampered, poochy life - he got exercise, he didn't just sit at home like some depressed fat woman, eating chocolates and laughing snobbishly. He developed a light lining of sinew under that groom-a-day ohmai coat of his, and got himself strengthened. With a naturally graceful - again, pompously airy - walk too, it's a surprise his hips don't sway while he moves. He sees himself higher up than any-one else, and acts it too. Yes, he's a handsome kittypuss, and hot damn, he knows it.
To round it all off, London harbours a dear pair of deep, vast cerulean eyes. Looking oh-so charming at first, these babies can't half give some cutting looks. Usually in the middle of being rolled, they are quite the expressive pair. Rimmed in black, he holds a close to perfect eye-sight, this to match a good sense of smell and hearing. He's a beast of good health, and with his pickiness generally isn't one prone to catching nasty diseases. Hah, so yes, safe babies from this one - if he ever managed to find a female worthy enough. The only other notable thing about dear Londy, would have to be his darling collar. Oh my yes, when your owners where filfthy stinking rich - which nothing better to do than make sure their lawns where perfect... London was a cat who was incredibly pampered. How pampered, you ask? Well try to picture owners who spend, three hundred and eighty thousand dollars on a collar.
Got that picture? Good.
In shops now... The pretty heart-shaped diamond that hangs from the sparkling Chéri collar tells your cat that she's your darling! At over 2.7 carats, this diamond will leave no doubt in your cat's mind that he's your little “chéri”. Accompanying the heart pendant are five brilliant-shaped diamonds of over 1 carat each. Chéri continues to sparkle with a further 630 hand-set, high-quality diamonds, totalling over 25 carats in all of precious stones. The brilliant white luster of platinum - a rare and pure metal - ignites the true radiance of the diamonds, while 18K white-gold provides strength to make this precious piece last a lifetime. Exquisite ostrich leather – one of the most expensive leathers in the world – brings a classic elegance to the collar, while also providing flexibility and durability. Crafted with extreme precision and attention to detail, Chéri belongs to the family of the world's most exquisite and expensive cat collars... And baby, London has it. Jealous yet?
[ yes, I am aware that chéri collars are dog collars.
shh, they’re cat ones now. ]
Actions:» witty.
» sharp tongued.
» sneering.
» snobbish.
» pompous.
» lofty.
» intelligent.
» picky.
» narcissistic.
» eloquent.
» user of big words.
» a thesaurus eater.
London overall, isn’t exactly know to be the most pleasant tom in the universe, this just to put it forward before anything has even begun. He doesn’t twirl around in a cape of daisies and openly sing out to the heavens about how good life is, whistling to the birds and giggling with the pixies. To start it off simply, with his views upon the world, London is not the sort of cat that’ll easily accept anything that floats by. He’s a cat that’ll argue, a cat that’ll rebel and of course, he’s a cat that won’t hesitate to take some sort of action if his own wishes aren’t met. As for instance, the largest hindrance he finds in life, would have to be the ‘sweet’ population of idiot filth ( a.k.a forest beasts and mongerels ) that storm the world – producing disgusting children and soiling a line of generations of perfection. He cannot stand them quite simply, and if it was classed as racist, certainly he’d have been taken away already.
The male alone has such a high disgust for putty's like that, no doubt if pushed far enough would gladly kill if needed, or at least wound pretty bad. He finds them as the specks of dirt straining through the structure of his own perfect world, and it frightens him to death to think that maybe, just maybe he could end up like such. It’s a weakness of him really, if you shouted at him that he had a brain leech or something crazy like that, he – though he wouldn’t appear it – would mentally have a small freak out before turning back and throwing something sharp in your face. If it was up to him all in all, he’d have each and every poor, idiot anti-social fool stabbed their kittens eaten by dogs. Yes, very pleasant. Most certainly, if he could be compared to any flower, London would most like score one hundred percent worthy of being a rose. He looks so beautiful to the eye, though does have a sweet lace of thorns.
You need to handle him right – get into his good books, to save yourself really and if you make the mistake of sliding into his bad books well, bye bye babe. As it was said, he isn’t the most pleasant man in the world, oh no, he’s just f**k**g downright evil at times. It’s not a bad thing to be when you look so good though, you still get to look classy while you spew venom out at those who appose. He’s from a very high class family; he was raised to be a narcissistic, evil b****rd. Yes and he’s really not the sort of boy you’d like to bring home and meet your parents, in the cat world of course. Oh but no, that’s not because he’s got no charm, goodness no, it’s probably just because he’d scorch them alive at every hint of fault. No, Londy is just not the best of toms to catch in a foul mood, because surely, at the slightest hint of a bad joke, he’d most likely sneer in your face then stab you with some close pointed object– this and still, have his owners bill your family for straining his Persian rug.
He’s not the best of kittys to mess with either; he’s the sort that’ll smoothly build up grudges and tend not to forget them so really, if you get yourself kicked from his good books, tough on you. God help you also, if you are the first to receive the sharp end of his wit. The male has a barbed tongue and oh how he loves to used to it too its greatest ability. He takes his own rather sick delight in breaking others weaker than him down when he feels like it. As soon as he gets the scent of a stain of defenselessness, he’ll pounce and catch it harshly between his jaws. To him, if they’re not worthy of himself, it doesn’t matter how you treat them, those no significance deserve to be played with too; they’re nothing but pawns in his own minds eye. With cruel sneering words dripping with sarcasm, he can always manage to get his words across with a natural born ease. He’s sadistic, his teasing, and his own precious forms of mind will always be to him, better than everything else.
He’s got a lust for power and does all he can to get it, such as all the connections he holds, the minions that follow him – they’re all just lovely little pieces to his own self righteous puzzle. He’s a puppeteer, pure and simple, and he likes to think that he has control of the stings that pull and tug at how society flows; taking what he wants at whatever price he can achieve it. It’s not all disgusting though, he at least does it classily, no one is barely aware of it half the time – but of course, that’s the beauty of it. But still, all can’t really be so dark in the land of the London can it? Well indeed if it was, it would be quite a strange sight why he’s so very adored. London can be, when he wants to, be quite a darling cat to be around. Down to the very core, London will always manage to ooze a few laves of charm. Pretty litle leg rubs and sparkling gazes.
Oh and that purr. How innocent he looks to the foolish twolegs that keep him. Mommies' little Prince, he is. Having the busybody, inheritance wreaking hag isn't so terrible in cases. With nothing better to do than spoil her dear show-cat rotten in a jealousy conflict between her and her husband, it wasn't too bad a lift for him, to say the very least. Sheeba catfood, a silver dish - with his, oh lord, very name encrusted on. And that collar, oh he's sweet, precious collar. Yes, he kept the charming act, as long as he got what he wanted. If not, well, welcome to a lang of yowls and kitty-tantrums. Tweety-pie wouldn't have lasted five minutes with HIM around. Stpuid, dithering little canary. If he was in the place of that wretched cat, he'd have shot the bird and eaten it longg ago.
Past:
How very simple do you want it? He was purchased from the pedigree breeding trade with loving arms from his current kittypet owner upon the 5th of Decmber, a weeks weeks after his budding mother had given birth to him. A dear young kitten he'd been, the lightest colored out the bunch. His two sisters, Bellé and Noir ( noh-are, yes, what an odd name for a cream cat - never mind, they must have thought it personally sounded a bit posh ). Lucinda had been delighted to keep up with the fashion. Behind pearl necklaces, flamboyant dresses and over the top spiralling blonde hairdo's she'd finally gotten a piece of finish her collection. With the loving gaze of Harold at her side, well, that had been no stopping her when he'd paid that wealthy sum of monies out to get what she so desired. Little Princess always did get what she want, and this forth flowed onto her precious little bundle of joy, that was London. Unable to concieve a child herself, well, the feline seemed to go to her head slightly.
London, brought up from a kitten always had a generous life. Spoilt rotten and bent into the ways of his spiteful owners, he'd grown quite a lofty air about himself. Carrying himself with poise and elegance. With a profound discust for most things that moved, he took nothing but quality - having been forced into the habit of taking it. His owners would never offer him dirt, so why should he take it from any-other such person? Personally, he wouldn't tolerate such idiocy. And thus refused half the time to socialize with that thought. He beleived he was bigger, better. And that showed so much later on within his life, the arrogence he help himself with. It practically oozed from every paw. Though, it didn't mean he never made contact. He had his own personal circle of kitty friends. He just disliked intruders on his life. He couldn't just accept everything willy-nilly, now could he?
It begun at a young age and thus-forth spanned out deep into the future. As a growing male cat at that, he's prime within his youths, and most certainly would perfer in thus curling up within his plush, velveteen cat-bed rather than under the harsh brittle bite of the damn, nasty ground outside. He'd listened and heard of the Clan-cats, certainly wanted nothing more to do with it. To hell with the tales of old she-cats, they where all idiots anyways. His life wasn't too much of an exciting one, at least to the ears of cats hungry for stories. He'd been a show cat - still is - won himself some trophys, flattered audiences. Before he'd came home and simply fell asleep after his fine catfood was pretty much spoon-fed to him. Well, of course not so much literally but - well, you know what I mean. Proud cat, he was. Wouldn't accept no for an answer.
In Character:
The eerie streams of breaking sunlight struggled idly over the jagged points that made up the mountains, casting thick, bloody shadows out over the quivering grounds below. The pallid contrast of his very fur seemed sickly cadaverous against the new forming spreads of petrified pinks that where set rife, creeping almost feverishly about his gently rising body. Slackly he watched, unfocused eyes trailing almost haunted along the sloping sunsets. The clouds seemed stained alone with blood. Blinking, he turned his head to the left, giving his shoulder a small half-hearted lick. The dark times, most surely would pass, like they always did. The breakings of a new dawn with filter, and peace would set into the hearts of those around once more. Toils would be forgotten, Clan life would continue, all evils would be driven away. Via the root of deadly fires or snapping dogs, things always resolved themselves.
StarClan had not left them yet. Casting an almost haunted look upwards, he stared blankly into the dithering clouds, searching deep for the first new speckles of silverpelt, breaking into the skies. The dim, absent twinkles from up above seemed caked away, lost in the drowning fields of orangey blues and reds. Forcing a soft sigh, he pushed forth a slow exhale. Minus all the past optimism he'd just forth carried, he could help to wonder to himself. Would the day ever come where a kit could have a sweet nights rest, without been plagued by the outworldy demons that stalked the place? The dead, supposedly where left to rest, their decaying corpses inanimate and lifeless under the thick layers of peat and soil - theirs souls thrown out, open winged to flutter into a final resting place. Left at peace within StarClan's binds, or locked into the monstrous hells of DeathClan, they all ended up somewhere.
The only question that was left in all, was did they really sleep unbothered? Whos right was it to say that these, these creatures had been surely damned, when it came to the likes of DeathClan? The passionate hatred and brutality of the cats within, surely could overwhelm, if put to a test? His ears flicked, swiveling, almost paranoid at the delicate crunches of the under-growth, giving forth the silent message of a mouse near by. Paying no attention, he gave a small, solemn smile, those soft eyes gazing downwards. Flexing his claws, he pushed idly at the soil beneath his feet, disturbing the soft, crumbly surfaces before he stopped. Realities harsh, lifely rules paid no heed to such seemingly stupid accusations. But inside, he couldn't help but shudder at the thought. All was entirely possible. Trailing his tongue absently over those drying lips, he shifted uncomfortably before a low rumble within his stomach sounded. Wishing for a moment he'd paid attention to the foolish little woodland creature, he gazed back into the crawling shadows that lead his pathway home. Perhaps there was a mouse or two left within the stores.
Codewords:
Painting Portraits of Death.
