Scarred - DeathClan [OLD]

[Moor]

((Dang it. So, I had this all written out and everything before I realized that the deputy's name is Scar, which is super close. But I can't think of any other names... Do you have a suggestion, or can I keep it?))


Name: Scarred

Prefix Meaning: She was scarred at a very, very, very young age. She still caries marks.

Age: 10 moons

Rank: Warrior (youngster? not really a kit)

Clan: Deathclan


Description: She was not given her name in the traditional pattern of the parents going off of what she looks like. No, she does not look like a giant scar, and she wasn't born with scars already on her body. She doesn't even have gray fur, suggesting any sort of resemblance. Rather, she is full of brilliant colors that offer so much more in the way of names than what she was finally saddled with. She could have been given a name much more feminine, such as Ginger, or a name more terrifying, such as Burning. She has thought of changing her name to one of these several times, but has already turned them away.

What are these brilliant colors, then, that defy her name? Thick fur of bright ginger, banded by a deeper, darker orange. Paws, belly, and throat that are as perfectly white as a dove. Stunningly deep green eyes that are only rivaled by the luscious green-leaf grass after a rainstorm. Lithe and petite figure, slender as any cat could hope to be. She grooms herself often, and doesn't like to get her paws bloody. She could have been beautiful, if only...

If only one eye weren't permanently held shut due to the long, prominent scar that reaches from the top of her head, across it, and to her cheek. If only the top half of her tail still belonged to her. If only she still had five ivory claws in each paw, rather than only four. If only the long, gray line down her neck would fade. If only her left ear came to a perfect point, instead of the raggedy mess that has been left behind. If only, if only, if only, her father hadn't been so cruel...

Her voice hasn't lost its song, and her step hasn't lost is spring. On the contrary, they were never there to begin with. When the first thing you know is pain and fear, those two things that define young cats don't even have a chance to develop. Her voice is quiet and fearful, and she dares speak only few words in front of cats she doesn't know. Her step is cautious and light, and always ready to bolt. Such is her life.

Her pelt is scarred.


Personality: Scarred lives in eternal fear and paranoia. Cat that are bigger than her scare her. Cats that are older than her scare her. Cats that are toms scare her. Cats with amber eyes scare her. Cats with all of those features combine scare the living hell out of her. Where does this fear stem from? One cat: her father.

Her father, whom she will not ever say the name of ever again, was a massive cat. That was one characteristic that she remembered quite well. And she, at the time she last saw him, was tiny. She's much smaller than most cats her age, and so she always thought that her mother much have been pretty small as well for there to be such an incredible difference between her and her dad. He had bright amber eyes, and those eyes are her latest memory of him.

Not only is she just plain afraid of any cat that meets any of those criteria, she is also paranoid that they are out to get her. She will never trust anyone completely, but to these cats, she will never give even the slightest amount of legitimate trust. In her mind, every words one of these cats says to justify their actions is a lie, a guise for an ulterior motive, just a claim that might put their selfish acts in an acceptable light.

And besides for those two defining parts of her personality, Scarred also lives in utter sadness. She can't find joy in the world. To her, nothing in life is worth it. There is literally no reason that she keeps on as she does, except for a withering loyalty to the one cat she owes life to. She is in a scary place, both in the physical realm, and in her mental realm as well. She has no friends, and no memory of ever having any. When she is alone, she is prone to crying. The words, "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger" don't apply to her, for she has been pushed so near the brink that she is still hanging there, just waiting for the inevitable to come to pass.

Her heart is scarred.


History: Blood and a howl of anguish welcomed her into this world. A cat was in pain nearby her, but she didn't know. She just searched for milk, driven by the instincts of a newborn kit, and settled down only when she tasted the sweet liquid in her mouth. The howling continued, and she didn't notice when it stopped, for she had dropped off to sleep, nuzzled up next to her mother.

When she woke again, the smell of her mother was gone. A new smell filled her senses, but it was a good scent, and made her feel safe. The next two weeks of her life, she knew only this one scent, as well as another that occasionally came by. Later in life, she would only vaguely remember this she-cat, who had saved her life, and was to do so again in the future. When she opened her eyes at two weeks, she was the first cat she saw, dull white with tired, light green eyes. Not mother, but close enough. She was happy.

In the next week of her life, she came to meet the other cat that she had been smelling, a smaller, glossier black she-cat with light blue eyes and a soft, gentle voice. She didn't understand it at the time, but together the two had been caring for her, and for what reason? No other than that they had found her out alone in nearby territory, cuddled up to the corpse of a dead cat. At three weeks, she started understanding what they were saying to each other, although they didn't speak often within her hearing.

The honeymoon period of her life came crashing to a stop, though, as soon as a large ginger tabby appeared on the scene one day. He carried the smell of her mother, which instilled a sudden trust in the kit at once. It was slightly different, but she could clearly make out the similarities between them. Their scents were altogether different than the two cats that had raised her these three weeks, and so she immediately stumbled over to him. He took one whiff of her, and his amber eyes alighted with anger.

"You!" His voice was thunderous. "You killed her! You killed her, you worthless piece of fox dung! I'll leave you scarred. Scarred, you piece of filth, for murdering her! Scarred, scarred, scarred, scarred, scarred!" he roared at her, and before she could do more than cringe, his claws were unsheathed and he was ready to set into her. Hurt and sadness at the death of his mate had turned to anger, hate, and mania towards the one she had died birthing, and he held nothing back. Each time he yelled the word scarred, he punctuated it with his claws. The poor kit didn't stand a chance as one light gray claw cut across her eye, digging so deep that it hit bone in some places. The pain from that first strike alone caused her to pass out, which she would later count as a blessing, once she would see what other horrible things he had done to her.

She should have died that night.

The white she-cat had spent all night tending to her, relying on quick instincts and precise paws to do all she could. Even she, though, thought that the attempt was futile. In the end, living was a miracle. An unexplained occurrence that nobody could reason through. Once she finally woke up, after two days of the assumption that breath would soon leave her, the she-cat could only look at her with sadness. "I can do nothing more for you, child, except tell you what happened, and return you home."

She explained to her what happened that night. According to the account, her father had made all of mutilations that she would live the rest of her life with. The black and the white cats had fought him while he was at it, but couldn't pull him off until he had done considerable damage. Furious, he had turned his aggression on them. The black cat was dead. The white one was hurt, but because the tom was so tired, she was eventually able to chase him off before tending to the injured kit. "Oh, Scarred..." she had murmured at last, sympathy bright in her eyes. That last word was said with such an intonation as to make it into a name, and the one that she would carry with her for the rest of her life.

The white she-cat had been the one to tell her where Deathclan was, and set her in the right direction. After all, Scarred belonged to the clan. Her father and mother were both part of it, she was told, as she would be able to recognize by scent. Scarred left, sad, but determined to do as she was told.

It wasn't long, away from the only cat that had showed her tenderness, until she grew afraid of every shadow and sound. She had found Deathclan quickly, and they had recognized the scent on her pelt, albeit it faint, but she didn't feel safe. They all smelled too much like her father. They were all big and scary. Some had amber eyes, which reminded her of the eyes that had stared into hers so shortly before she fainted. She kept to herself and out of the way, but she was always afraid.

As the moons went on, nothing got better. She couldn't make friends in a clan like Deathclan. After watching them interact with each other, she came to believe that cats only lived to manipulate others, and obtain all that they wanted. They were selfish, and she didn't like it. So Scarred vowed to herself that she would never become them. These beliefs slowly turned into paranoia, and later on her pathetic situation created ultimate sadness in her life. What has become of that white she-cat with the tired blue eyes? Where is her father, and will he ever return? To the latter question, she doesn't really want to know the answer to. Whenever the former comes up, she cries.

Her life is scarred.


Picture:

((If I wanted to let the white she-cat loner and her father be possibly played by other role-players, where would I put that? In adoptions, or mini-plots, or what?))

[Fia]

Brilliant bio! Her name's fine, the coincidence would probably amuse Scar (creepy ol' amber-eyed beastie that he is). She could be either a youngster or a 'warrior', depending on how she views herself/is viewed by the Clan. If you wanted the white she-cat and her father played by others, you could ask in the "Looking for a..." board, though I guess the Miniplot board wouldn't be entirely inappropriate, either. =]

Anyhow, your bio has been ACCEPTED and will now be moved to the appropriate board. Have fun with the poor little thing!