Rascal - DeathClan [OLD]

[Moor]

Name: Rascal

Prefix Meaning: This is what her mother called her and all her siblings, instead of proper names. Therefore, when she struck out on her own, she figured she might as well go by it.

Age: 40 moons

Rank: Warrior

Clan: Deathclan


Description: Most of Rascal's fur is white as snow, when clean. Unfortunately, she doesn't much care for the state of her fur, and doesn't take pains to clean it. For that reason, it is often dirty, and pretty lack-luster. Much closer to the color of her fluffy tail and the two light gray patches at the top of her head, around her ears. Those are naturally an ashy gray, and not affected much by her contentment to live in filth. The only time one could catch her pelt at its finest would directly after she has felt the need to pass the time somehow, and out of boredom groomed it. She won't allow anyone else to even touch her fur, for any reason. But yes, her fur is as soft as it looks. The dirt that clings to it makes it a little rougher than it should be, but in reality her pelt is probably the softest of the clan. The fur along her tail is longer than the fur that clings to her body, and mats much more easily because of that.

Besides for dirt, she proudly sports the blood from her enemies, wherever it should happen to land. These stains are fainter, and fur nearby cleaner, than would be expected of such an ill-kept cat. But facts are facts. The blood she will clean from her fur, but reasons for that will be explained later on. Along with the blood, she carries scars, from various clashes with other cats in her life, but she pays them no mind. She figures that they are visible enough that she doesn't have to show them off, criss-crossing her back and sides. One very deep wound left a line across her cheek long ago, and it still hasn't completely healed.

Rascal is neither big nor small, long-legged nor cursed to walk on nubby things. She doesn't walk with a strut, nor does she curl in timidly to hide herself. She's just your average sized cat. With some hidden rippling muscle. Because yes, she is very, very strong. She may not seem so at first glance, but that's only because she doesn't show off her muscle. After a little gazing, one will find it, all right, before being promptly attacked and questioned as to why the long stare. Her claws are long and sharp, but not as smooth as when she was young. After so many battles it can well be imagined that she's run them raw, and that they are now ragged, and honestly, all the more terrifying.


Personality: Rascal is indifferent to almost everything the world throws at her. She doesn't care what other cats think of her, nor does she have anything to prove, to anyone. She isn't theatrical in the least, but totally logical and reward-driven. Not for just any reward, either, but the reward she likes the best. But looking past that reward for a minute, the only other things she cares about in life is that no one looks at her to closely, or for too long. It's not that she's vain (one glance at her pelt and one can say that she sure isn't) or self-conscious (there hasn't been a trace of worry in her in dozens of moons), but she just doesn't like when cats look at her for too long without reason. And instead of asking questions, she'll attack.

That's because she is so completely an attack-first-ask-questions-later kind of she-cat that it almost comes to a fault. She'll attack anyone, sparing no cat if she thinks there is a reason to attack them. While typically she reserves only the clan rats and whoever else she is ordered to attack for slaughter, too much provoking will turn her against any cat in Deathclan. Yeah, any. She doesn't make divisions between who is too important to try and kill. She'd just as soon attempt to spill Fading's blood as the smallest youngster's.

And by whatever there is in the sky, how she hates kits! She can't stand them. They bug her. Let me make this very clear: Kits and youngsters are not safe around Rascal. She'll think nothing more than 'Hey, that thing annoys me' before trying to kill a kit. It's just her way. They're so easy to kill, their meat is the softest, and their blood is so sweet...

Ah, yes, that reward. Blood. She loves it. She'll lick it off her own fur if too much time passes without fresh blood. She's just crazy for it! Blood, and young cat meat, are the two things that simply make her world go round. These two cravings, always clawing at her stomach despite how much "fresh-kill" she fills herself, are the reasons why she could never live with a proper clan. Grown cat meat she considers a delicacy, too, but not nearly as satisfying as the young stuff. Yeah, she's a cannibal.

But she doesn't like other cats to know it. It's her best-kept secret. She plays it off as just a Deathclan thing, enjoying the sight, and taste, of blood. When asks, she just says she likes to see all that red running out of a body at her claws. She figures her "clan" understands all that. They don't know the real reason she is always so eager to fight, the real reason why so much dirt can collect on her pelt, but blood stains are gone almost as quickly as they are attained. They don't realize that any kit in the clan would be in grave danger should they catch her while she's hungry, or annoy her too much. She hides it... but it is difficult.


History: Rascal came upon her cat-eating ways honestly, as hard as that is to believe. She was born to a group much like Deathclan, a loosely formed alliance of loners, with no real rules, except for one: No eating other cats of the group. Also, they lived in kittypet-ville, out on the streets, alley cats with no real home, but that's not as important. The important part is that this was a group of cats who ate other cats in order to survive, but they weren't allowed to eat each other.

Talk about a dilemma.

Well, there actually was another rule to the group: Only toms were allowed to run with them. She-cats were permitted only if carrying the kits of one of the toms, and the kits were protected until four moons of age, at which point the she-cat and her she-cat kits were promptly kicked out. And then they became fair game.

So Rascal grew up in this group, and was fed cat meat and blood by whoever managed to track down an alley cat and kill it. Occasionally the group would come across some she-kits they had abandoned, and she was in for quite a treat whenever that happened. It developed in her a keen taste for young cat meat, one that would stay with her into her adulthood.

At four moons, her mother took her and her sister, and ran away in the night. The older cat had been anxiously keeping track, as the days passed and the moon overhead waxed and waned, waiting until the last possible night to leave. She had known the dynamics of the group, and knew also that it wasn't even nearing big enough for what she called The Cleansing to take place. That meant that she and all the she-cats of the neighborhood were still in trouble. She decided that the best thing to do with her kits was to leave them in the forest, with one of the clans.

After some searching for exactly the right place and work on her mother's part, Rascal found a home in Deathclan. Because her mother refused to stay, the young she-cat had to figure out how to hunt and live pretty much by herself. At the time, she could remember her old life, and felt almost betrayed by her mother that she should have to leave it. She started spending more time by herself, and when she was around the others, she stayed pretty much silent. With the mindset of a pouting kit who is sure the wrongs done to her means she can never feel anything but disinterest again, along with the habituation of lawlessness that occurred through living with Deathclan, added on top of her distaste for her new life, her conviction that she could never be bothered to care about anything ever again was really a self-fulfilling prophecy.

She did spend her time with one other cat, though, and that was her sister. At least, they spent a little bit of time together. She had always considered herself the stronger of the pair, and made herself adapt to eating creatures other than cats. Her sister, on the other hand, just couldn't stand it, and after three moons gave up on it, and starved. Not one to miss an opportunity to feed on cat meat, and also having already started to cut herself off from any emotional attachments to anything but those of blood and cat meat, she ate her sister's body at seven moons old.

For the rest of her life, she has served as a loyal member of Deathclan, if only to be able to hang around a group of cats and have a head's up to the death of one of them. She became an especially accomplished fighter, always among the first to jump at an opportunity for blood. Her brain has been rather completely shut off from most of her emotions, from so much concentrated effort to do so, however it is possible that something could still trigger something deep inside of her. Life has been life, dull as usual, in the absence of battles. In the absence of blood.

Picture:

[Fia]

Creepy little thing! XD She's great, Moor, but d'you think you could add a bit to her history, telling us how she wound up so... indifferent to everything? Was she just born that way, did it develop early on, ir did it come about when she was abandoned in DeathClan? Also, maybe just add in a bit about what's been going on for the past thirty-something moons? Even just to acknowledge that nothing much has happened, if that's the case. Other than that, she's just wonderfully disturbing. XD

[Moor]

Alright, got it fixed! =)

[Fia]

Awesome, thanks. =] Your bio has been ACCEPTED and will now be moved to the appropriate board. Have fun with her gruesomeness! XD