Post by fierceclaw on Jan 22, 2009 22:45:45 GMT -5
-Above the Surface-
Name: Fierceclaw
Alias:: The Slayer
Definition: [Fierce] menacingly wild, savage, or hostile; furiously eager or intense. [Claw] a sharp, usually curved, nail on the foot of an animal.
Gender: Male
Age: 25 moons
Clan: Loner
Rank: N/A
Looks:
{*}Physical Build - Fierceclaw's stature is unintemidatingly small -- pretty much deception in the act, right there. But whether that little-man physique comes from genetics or a lack of vital nutrients as a kit is isn't really all that clear, probably a combo meal. But whatever the reason, Fierceclaw stands at an older apprentice's height, it's almost cute. HOWEVER, he's a speedy little devil...and that "early-teen" height backs up n' adds to that point pretty darn well. And hard-worked, well toned muscles ripple smoothly beneath his pelt with each step and movement. His claws and fangs aren't special or particularly eye-catching or what not, though he IS kinda' a clean freak, and you won't see them say...blood stained. Or whatever it is the bad-guys are going for these days. But hey, it's not the weapons you wield, it's HOW you wield them that makes the difference, right?
Well, at least, that's what THIS phool'd tell you.
{*}Fur and Pelt - His pelt is thick and soft, as apposed to gleaming and wiry, which is plain evidence supporting the idea that he was born and raised in the merciless climates in the high altitude mountains. It's kinda' huskyish, or spikey even. Heh, it ALMOST gives the illusion that he's actually BIGGER than your adverage needle-point. Bwahaha. Don't push this cat in the water though, he might deflate a little...and then you'd have one grumpy kitty-cat on your hands. But he is definetly NOT fluffy! And if you DO by some chance make that false assumption, please...keep your thoughts to yourself. Especially if you enjoy having all your limbs. But anyhoo, his fur is ebony black, jet, darker than a shadow on a moonless night, with no imperfections or markings to break that purity. Though, while genetic markings may not break that so called "purity", several scars are embedded in his underbelly and chest (more or less hidden by that thick fur, but hey, doesn't mean they're not there). Vicious scars with memorable horror lining each one, and the pads of his paws are fiercely worse to a point that it's surprising that they weren't distorted.
{*} Eyes - Ah yes, those eyes are what most cats remember him by. Don't worry, they're not freaky or anything. Not breaking any certain rules here *cough*. But let's cut to some details here. They make it hard for Fierceclaw to ever pretend to be someone he's not - undercover buis'. But judging by his personality, why would he ever want to do such a degrading thing? Pff, what could POSSIBLY be better than being FIERCECLAW? Dude, this kitty doesn't even joke like that... A patch of emerald green masks a spot hanging off his left iris, highly contrasting against his otherwise mystic blue hues. That patch of discolor runs in his family lines; a dominant trait in the royal Haliskan blood. And yes, royalty. So horah for being better than the rest of you! But you'll read about that later, providing you don't fall asleep between now and then.
{*}Facial Features - Fierceclaw's face is just as dark as the rest of his lean body. His ears have a small indention just before their tips, giving them an almost horn-like apearance. His whiskers are black, and a handsomely framed face accents his unnatural eyes. Er...well...a face that maybe, possibly COULD be considered handsome if not for the otherworldly ruthlessness that glows like dying embers along his deception-lined maw. Deep, yah?
Actions:
{*}The Overview{*}
Alrighteh then...serious time. Little Mr. Idiot's personality reflects his name, plus sooo many levels of crazy depth that we wouldn't possibly be able to cover in one bio: He's fierce, and his claws have claimed the lives of many; guilty n' innocent, it really doesn't matter much. But the thing about that, is his distorted little noodle-brain doesn't allow him to see how that's "wrong". He was trained and taught that love and mercy were all bogus philosophies, all false remedy that keeps the heads of the weak above water. Brainwashed, you phoolz. And from all the losses he's suffored...and with no one to tell him otherwise, no one to show him the truth, Fierceclaw believed it. I mean, sh, wouldn't you?
Raised literally to intolerate (is that even a word?) the weak and consider everyone else a threat and competition, born with the generational curse of a murderer, there was never a light to break through this endless pit of darkness for Fierceclaw, the prince of Haliska. He's cunning and ruthless in battle, accomplishing more battle skill than most cats would like to phathom. But then, very few cats have ever even, or even thought to experience the trauma of the grueling training this cat has been through. Haliskan cats inparticular, really.
Now, really, the only thing that makes Fierceclaw any different from any other kitty (besides that training, 'coarse) is that bottomless supply of determination. Seriously, it's rediculous sometimes. This guy will push him until his bones crack for the things he believes are important, and...heh...really, that's the only reason he is still alive today, the only reason that folk-lore of this ruthless young ruler roams tamelessly through the whispering forests and peaks of his far off homeland. Unfortunately, the things he believes are important is nothing more but one: strength. Nothing else ever mattered in Haliska after all, and although that vigor was birthed through his burning lust for revenge, he knows....or well, THINKS he knows how to control it. And although this terrible quality is a positive for him, it is also his downfall. Fierceclaw isn't a quitter, and if he was ever against someone better, fighting for whatever stupid idea or selfish gains or wild dreams that never seem to die, chances are, Fierceclaw isn't going to back down unless he considers it in his best interest. Which is rare because of that coc.ky little attitude, especially when it comes to battles. That's HIS department after all, you don't beat Mr. Determined at his own game. And if you do, well, you better hope it's worth it.
The small cat's heart seems pretty much out of reach, as if it were never even there. Sick amusement has replaced what would've been a comic personality. And the darkness that haunts his soul seems like it has permanently sank into every fiber of his being. The damage is, indeed, pretty permanent....what they did to him back there....See, Fierceclaw was used to only one kind of cat: Selfish. But hey, if nobody else cares for you, you HAVE to care for yourself, right? Especially in Haliska, or else you were classified as a commoner and constantly ordered around or bullied for the self-fullfillment of all the "higher ranking" insecure cats, or you were, well, dead or exiled. Pretty harsh, but their system was effective. Think of the Spartens! Except....cute and...NOT fuzzy!
But that was the kind of life Fiereclaw was used to, until it all began to fade into a sort of concealed depression after he had traveled so long. And even though the cats he knew respectfully despised him...if that makes sense...things got pretty darn lonely out on your own. Never before did he need anyone, never. And he knew that because no one ever helped him, it was his own drive that preserved his life. Maybe it was just that Fierceclaw had no one else to order around, no slaves or prisoners to take out his frustration, to make hurt like he hurt. Maybe it was because the fear he saw reflecting in the eyes of his observers that knew him, the sight that he'd bled and worked so hard to see, was gone. And with it, his reason for life. Or what HE believed was his reason for life, what he based it around. Maybe that was it. But at any rate, everything began to lose it's luster in his mismatched eyes.
But despite all this negativity. Fierceclaw is born a leader, or, a leader similar to what you'd expect from a Tigerstar-ISH type of guy, and he's pretty tactical. At one time he ruled, he won battles, lead his "kingdom" to victories. He'd been merciless, ruthless, heartless...Just like they had always wanted him to be. All such opposite qualities have been everything but ripped out of this cat along with his "innocents". Some believe he never had any at all - devil spawn or something. You know how rumors can get pretty crazy. Probably came from some Haliskan prisoner, or survivors of the clans that kingdom demolished. Though, most things about him only Fierceclaw knows, but he's locked all doors. So good luck with that.
{*}Let's talk Belief{*}
Pfff, Fierceclaw was never taught to believe in such "Ghost Stories" as Starclan and Warrior Ancestors that still watch over their meat-bag relatives. It could be used to instill fear into warriors during battle, and that simply wouldn't be acceptable for a Haliskan cat. It was all a bogus idea to him, for a while at least, that was all just meant to give hope to those who were incapable of finding it on their own. Thus, undeserving of such a pleasure. But after the battle with Faviere`, and after seeing the impossible unfold before his eyes, boy now, Fierceclaw's a believer! Well...to a certain extent anyway. If they DO exist, he reasons, then he hates their guts for what they did. For stealing not only his birthright, but what he worked and toiled so hard for all his life, not understanding that the thing he worked for was really what we'd call a little "infamous".
{*}Relationships{*}
N/A
Past:
Fierceclaw...
It was a name that had sent shivers down the spine of even the most battle hardened warriors, guards, commoners, loners...A name that, at one time, had been feared on grounds far beyond his land. A name that stood for death and destruction, pain and loss. One that stole hope and courage, and severed bravery and faith. Once upon a time, Fierceclaw WAS horror.
But that was then...
Born to kill and raised to hate, and bred to conquer and bring the demise of all those who did not submit to Haliska, Fierceclaw's hailed "Kingdom", this cat never had a say in what he was to become. It was kill or be killed, hunt or starve. They turned him into what they wanted him to be, and the price of becoming anything "less" was simple n' sweet death. That's a pretty picture, huh? This was a place of story and rumor; these were the cats who haunted the dreams of all kits, toms and she-cats who heard their horrid tales. A place of blood and murder. Classified as the closest thing to hell you could get in this side of the cat world.
Love between mates was a hard thing to come by, especially in royalty, and Fierceclaw's bloodlines had been so-called "pruned to perfection". The perfect ruler....or so they said. From the age of 3 1/2 moons, Fierceclaw and his litter were under a heavy curse of expectations and fear that they didn't understand. Thrown into fierce training, there was no protection from their father or any other royalty, no overseer to make sure things were fair. The kits were at their "adoring" kingdom's mercy. And even the common folk were allowed to take their tear at the kits while they were still too young to understand, to weak to take revenge.
Grueling training on extreme, even insane levels. The pads on their paws were slit and torn over and over, reopened again and again until they were automatically trained to be agile on their feet. They were held under water, until they learned how to cleverly coordinate their fighting methods while conserving oxygen and fending off fear; and to ready their bodies for the insane brutality in battle that their kingdom was known for. Very sparingly were they taught how to defend themselves beyond the dead-level basics. It was all trial and error for this "lucky" litter so they would know their stuff. They WERE trained to hunt, however punished if they failed to catch a certain amount of pray over the large territory within a certain amount of days. And punishment in Haliska...well...isn't cleaning an elder's den.
One by one, Fierceclaw watched as his litter-mates fell. One sister died of infection from her many wounds, despite the advanced medicine that the Haliskan medicine cats had treated her with. His brother, too haughty to back down, was killed by an infuriated overseer. An accident yes, the common cats were forbidden to actually kill their superior blood, only harden them up. After all, it was their king's kits, and the torment they put them through was at their own risk anyway because the one surviving kitten could easily take revenge...and boy, did he ever.
After moons and moons of more trouble than most cats would endure in a lifetime, Fierceclaw learned....learned what his father had been trying to teach him all along. That if he did not kill, he would be killed. If he did not hunt, he'd starve. If he did not take authority, he would be taken authority over. The strong survived, the weak were either placed under that higher power, or they were killed in the cruel sport Fierceclaw's twisted morals now loved so obsessively. It was as simple as that, elders included. Fierceclaw learned that such fantasies like these words called "love" and "mercy" only existed in the hearts of innocent kittens, and in the minds of faint-hearted fools. He learned the HARD way that compassion and love resulted in pain in the end. And after seeing his mother, the queen, killed by the ONE cat in a higher position than she was, and every one of the kits he'd known from birth trained to the very brink of death, and the one she-cat who'd been....different from the rest. Fierceclaw's heart was hardened. And he was ultimately turned into the murderer that his birthright so desired him to be.
Those cats who put him through such horrors were very much remembered. Their sneering smiles and jokes and insults, their natural weapons ranking down his soft ebony pelt. Yeah, he remembered, but they weren't for very long...if you catch my drift. He ultimately overthrew his father, the old tabby meeting with the same fate, and took his control over his kingdom. The ambition that had driven him from the beginning. The lust for revenge, and the gnawing desire to take HIS turn to be in power, to be the one who was feared had finally come true in his reality. At last, at very long last, Fierceclaw ruled, and he ruled with the ferocity of a fight dog.
However, one faithful battle with a neighboring clan, a soft, peaceful kingdom. Even calling themselves after the native word for Hope: Faviere`, the young king met his match. Their belief in some....heavenly thing. Some....supernatural power that came from above. The light, the love, the peace. Coming against all the darkness, the hatred, and the brutality of Haliska. Faviere` was smart, however, and gathered together all the other neighboring territories for the battle held their own land.
It was certainly a battle to remember, in the lush grasslands of Faviere`. Hundreds of warriors lined up against each other, otherworldly fire showing in their eyes. A battle that literally lasted on and off for days between the shifts of ranks, the meadow forever called the "Meadow of Loss" due to all the casualties on both sides, all the blood, and definitely, all the hate...
Fierceclaw saw who was winning this one, and no matter how many more cats he forced into battle, no matter how well trained and professional his army, something.....something was keeping him from what he so desired most: Victory. He wanted to see them burn. And in battle himself, the prince punished them, fighting with all the vengeance and the hatred that most wouldn't think a cat could hold without losing control of himself. In a way, Fierceclaw had long since lost control. But the demonic wit remained.
However, that "demonic wit" cost him 2/3 of his army, and Faviere` was still pouring in soldiers who never seemed to fade. And so Fierceclaw did what any noble cat, Haliskan native, would do in this situation.
He ran away.
Yar, how very noble, right? And ever since that night, Fierceclaw has lived the cursed life of a loner. His mockingly short rule and command over so many lived on only in his dreams and fantasies. The things that his twisted mind had been trained to think were the GOOD things in life were taken away from him, like a rug yanked from under his feet, all the things he'd worked so hard for...
Many other outlanders knew who he was, even though he had traveled so far from his birth ground, and he rarely had any scuffles unless it was caused by pure desire for the old days. Though Fierceclaw remained somewhat content, holding out for what he hoped were better days.
But as the days grew to weeks, and weeks to moons, Fierceclaw's blood lust and ambition began to slowly eb away. The very things that had kept him alive through all those moons of training....they were sorta...falling out of sight. Until the once glorious prince was dwindling almost to the "all washed up" stage. There was nothing left. Just a scrap of living breathing fur and muscle, and just those intimidating eyes. Fierceclaw lost interest in all that had once intrigued him. In his hunts, in his fights, in everything. Everything that Fierceclaw had known was gone now anyways. There was no one, not even enemies. Just...vast emptiness of loner lands....until one day...
In Character:
Thick obscurity...
The moon rose high above the treetops and grasslands of Skyclan territory, hanging like a ghostly globe among the specks of heavenly light known as stars. The sky was so beautiful at this time, in this place. Free from the pollution of nearby two-leg "mountains" and cloudless in the cool fall night.
Back to earth, the silhouettes of blade-like grass and boulders underneath the fiery canopy of a few trees were darkened against the dew-soaked ground, shadows dancing in the gentle breeze. A single cat sat pirched on the boulder next to the willow overlooking the pond before him. The stars, shimmering brilliantly on the water's ripples, reflected in the darkened, mismatched eyes of the handsome tom as he lay unmoving with his head rested on his paws and his glare fixed on the water.
They say this place reflected Starclan's presence, a place to think and be at peace with the all-powerful, all-loving clan in Heaven. A place for clan cats to seek their warrior ancestors and feel them near. This cat, however...contained a much different story...
"Haha! What's the matter little prince? Watch this boys, here comes the begs."
The wind blew mercilessly in the skin bitting cold as a mouthful of blood fell from a young cat's mouth along with a thin, sharp tooth, very young, seeping into the sand at the edge of the river that ran through the village. He let out a grunt-like cry as he heard his tormentor draw near again, and pain exploded into his stomach like fire as the bob-cat halfbreed's claws sent the kitten skidding.
The pain was never ending, burning through his every limb like a hot stake had been driven through his spine, causing his nerves to go haywire. Pain. It was all he now knew, all he ever thought existed, alongside false hope and hypocrisy. He'd learned to love it, to cherish it. It couldn't be vanquished, so why not? But despite the overwhelming amount of anguish, the 8 moon old, trembling with the strain, pulled himself back onto his paws and staggered until his legs were spread wide in a way that would prevent him from falling over. Water dripped from his fore-head along with the blood even though the temperature was well below 30 degrees F, and his eyes burned with tears that he fought. Humiliating tears that he hated..he couldn't cry...he couldn't take the teasing. And he couldn't back down now...but he just couldn't fight this any longer. His body refused to move, a blanket of deep wounds embedded into his muscle and patches of ebony fur littering the clearing.
"I'll...n-never...beg..." The young prince panted, his voice broken with pain but he struggled to keep with the venom.
"Never? Oh, well let's just see..."
Fierceclaw flinched visibly on the coolness of the boulder beneath him, closing his eyes as he recalled the result of this, "scuffle". The pain was consuming, controling...yet caressing in a way when it was all you knew. It would've been too much for the young cat to handle if it hadn't been for the one emotion that overcame the physical torment. The one emotion that had always kept his head above water: determination. Vengeful vigor.
That fire that had burned so brightly in the place Fierceclaw's heart had once been was now dying slowly, reduced to a glowing ember that could be blown off effortlessly by a breeze, if ever that breeze should come. There was nothing to live for, nothing to achieve. Not since that night...that terrible night when everything he'd ever worked for was stripped. Fierceclaw had given up everything to gain his rightful rank as ruler, and as fate would have it, even that was snatched from under his paws, leaving him with nothing but the annoying breath that kept him in this world.
Why was he here?
That was the first time he'd really asked himself that question. What was Skyclan to him? Fierceclaw would've been the first to think up a game-plan to overthrow this tiny excuse for a clan and tried to regain a kingdom. But Fierceclaw wasn't Fierceclaw anymore...it seemed those "friendly demons" he thought he once controlled had turned on him. It was all just a joke...it always had been. Just one....big joke.
Relationships/Kin: N/A
Other: None
Codewords: Painting Portraits of Ghosts
