warcalling >> ECLiPSE

[zada.]

[w]arcalling
war: active hostility or contention; conflict

looking at my own reflection
when suddenly it changes
violently it changes
there is no turning back now
you've woken up the demon in me

38 moons.
eclipse.
warrior.

looks:
Massive. No word defines Warcalling's body size better. A handsome, broad head rests atop his stocky neck and wide shoulders, topped with large, swiveling ears, always alert and listening. In front of his short muzzle is an ashy colored nose, surrounded by long, translucent whiskers, which quiver with every rumbling breath he takes. Warcalling's deep set orbs appear to go on forever, if that makes sense. Wide and slanted down ever so slightly, they are an olive green color, lined with soot black. Below his elongated body, stone hard with muscle, are four long, bulky legs, ending with paws about the size of golf balls, which are tipped with strong, thick claws. These claws aren't needle sharp, as most cats' are. These he keeps a bit dull, and uses them not for puncturing, but for scraping and digging at earth, and if necessary, flesh.

Warcalling's pelt is a dense forest of white and gray fur. His paws, legs, flank, tail, and the majority of his muzzle are all white. A blanket of gray settles over his wide back, and stretches across his ears, then creating a mask around his eyes. One miniature dot speckles each side of his nose. Across his white belly are two lengthy scars that stretch from right below his the ends of his ribcage to the square middle of his stomach. These battle marks are an ugly reminder of a blood stained night that occurred only about a moon after Warcalling earned his warrior name. He definitely has his share of less noticeable scars spread across his body, but they are mostly covered with his healthy, thick fur.

actions:
The clan comes first. That is the oldest memory locked in Warcalling's head. The tom learned to accept this at a young age, and is seen as a picture perfect clan cat; never does he feed himself before he feeds the clan, never does he doubt Starclan, never does he break the warrior code in some other foolish way. His disciplined, emotionally strong, and intelligent traits are on his side while demanding situations are played out. When his cool head and smooth words don't help him get out of danger, his gargantuan size and physical power is next in line. His clan mates never fail to describe him as the "traditional" cat. Hah. How little they know about the real Warcalling. Nobody is perfect - everybody has their secrets absolutely nobody can know or hear about.

An almost unnatural feeling of rage wells up in Warcalling while attending gatherings that he usually attends every full moon. His hatred toward other clans is sickly - enough for him to be kicked out of his own clan. Moons of dealing with others taking his clan's territory has caused a murderous emotion to overcome him.

Feelings of overwhelming anger is one of the only things Warcalling cannot control. He deals with misery in quiet and relaxing ways. When happiness floods through his system, it is no secret. The usually contained and mature cat is suddenly thoroughly strange and giddy. But when a blinding anger strikes...Warcalling is dangerous. One burning question remains: How long will Warcalling manage to hold it in?

past:
kithood
The she-cat responsible for Warcalling's existence was called Frecklefur. Unremarkable, plain, and tired, Frecklefur was known only as a queen who delivered the most litters. Very few of her kits know who all of their relatives are, and none know who the fathers were. Frecklefur, a calico who got her name because of the many random specks of brown, black, and auburn that spread across her pelt, a canvas of white, was a no-nonsence, strict mother to all of her kits, starting at her first litter many, many moons ago. When Warkit and his litter mates were born, Frecklefur vowed not to have another litter. She was getting old, and was producing smaller litters (half of which came out of her were dead). The ones who arrived in the outside world alive were weak and sickly. Warkit was in a litter of five. Two were still-borns, and Gingerkit died the first night. From the day he opened his eyes, Warkit was the rebellious one of the two surviving kits, while Meekkit was, for lack of a better word, meek.
"Shush, Warkit."
"For the love of Starclan, sit down, Warkit!"
"Behave, Warkit!"
"No, Warkit."
That was the basis of Frecklefur and Warkit's relationship. Hers and Meekkits was a little better, but only because Meekkit rarely spoke. Frecklefur died when her two youngest kits were five moons old, and almost ready to begin their apprenticeship. Sure, it was a melancholy time for the young kit, but only because of his young heart and mind.
apprenticeship
Warkit was thrown into a much rougher lifestyle when he began his apprenticeship with his mentor, who was a grumpy, but very skilled and knowledgeable senior warrior named Rockheart. Used to the love and sympathy from his clan mates after his mother's death, the soft kit wasn't ready for the harsh words Rockheart had no trouble spitting out. Warpaw's apprenticeship was most definitely the most crucial time in the tom's life. When he was nine moons old, he had an insane growth spurt. At twelve moons, he was nearly as big as the largest cat in the clan. Warpaw matured greatly within the first couple moons of his training. No longer was he known as the irritating, loud mouth of the clan. He began to speak with much more dignity and quiet power. He felt himself growing and everything around him shrinking. And he was enjoying it.
earlier warrior days
When Warpaw became Warcalling, his pride swelled, and his maturity disappeared. It took more than a couple deflating moments for the young warrior to wise up. He grew to be an intelligent, well liked cat, while Meekpaw, his sister, was still an apprentice. She was still week, still small, still a nobody. Warcalling was scared for her, thinking she was going to become another Frecklefur. Then...she was gone. Greencough hit her, and it hit her hard. Her weak immune system couldn't take it, and she gave in quickly. Warcalling instantly hated himself for inwardly thinking he was the better kit of the two. This was the breaking point of his life. He lost a lot of his good reputation with harsh words and rude comments. But in the end, Warcalling looks at it as yet another experience to ready him for rough times ahead.

in character:
Dehydrated leaves cracked and crunched under Sombersong's delicate paws, breaking the eerie silence that never failed to enfold Tall Oaks. Her alert ears picked up the sound of tiny, scattering paws several times, but the young she-cat didn't bother to open her mouth and scent the mouse amidst the sickening smell of burnt plants and old ash. No, she was patrolling the border. Things had been annoyingly dull for quite some time now. Grumpy, Sombersong huffed, and decided she might as well try hunting, since there was quite obviously nothing better to do. Standing up on her haunches, she scraped her front claws against the rough bark of a blackened, half-dead tree, then hopped up onto one of the low branches.

With new-leaf came the birth of baby birds. The warrior had already scented newly hatched birds. After climbing up a few more branches, she began to hear the pitiful squeaking of the hatchlings begging for food. The mother was obviously out looking for whatever food she could scavenge. The featherless things that sat in the neat nest made from sticks and the down that queens used on their kits' nests were quite literally newborns. White shards of broken shell lay scattered across the sticks, poking the bird's sensitives skins. Sombersong killed all of them with one quick blow, picked them up, and dropped them down to the ground.

As she climbed down the tree, she heard leaves cracking, as a signal of another animals approaching. Sombersong smelled another cat. She dropped down to the earth, and calmly dug a hole, then dropped the birds in it, so she could retrieve them when she had finished her hunting. She decided to await the arrival of the other cat, and sat down, licked the bottom of her paw, and casually flicked it across her ear. "Hello," she purred.

relationships/kin:
Frecklefur
Meekpaw

[/size][/blockquote]
painting portraits of ghosts.

[SHADE. :D]

Nice biography. (:

Accepted!

[zada.]

Thanks. (: