Post by Hawthorn on Jan 12, 2011 0:58:37 GMT -7
Name: Hawthorn
Age: 22 moons
Gender: Male
Clan/Group/etc.: Loner
Rank: None
Current Status: Trying to hold his own
Special Abilities: None
Strengths:
Ability to assess--Is able to create worthy, well-defined goals, and intuitively plays with the steps and needs of bringing goals into reality. Learns quickly, able to grasp complex ideas and situations well.
Spiritually sensitive--Has come to recognize and trust the influence of at least one of his warrior ancestors, although he is largely unaware of his heritage.
Fighting style--Flexible, takes advantage of his ability to find potential openings, as well as the power he can bring to bear in blows.
Sturdy--Has strong bones and a promising athletic build which he has been developing even during his time among the two-legs nests. His dense fur protects him against harsh weather, and makes his form that much more intimidating to potential challengers.
Idealistic confidence--Holds strongly to the belief that it is possible to make a good life for many, to create equitable opportunities, to reach the potential for harmony and joy. Believes that his choices can make a difference. Determined to be of service.
Weaknesses:
Perfectionist--Challenges himself to live up to high standards, and very rarely finds his own efforts to be enough. Does not want to ask others for help for himself, because he would hate to be a drain on their strength. This is not to mention that is difficult for him to consider what he actually needs.
Overload--When wound up by stress, Hawthorn tends to go into a state where he loses the ability to see the larger picture. This may be manifest in his making sudden irrational mistakes, obsessing over unimportant details, or indulging his cravings for sensation to the extreme.
Sensitive--Has a great deal of empathy, needs to feel useful and trusted, so he finds it very difficult to handle emotional conflict and criticism. In situations like this, he is likely to become agitated, dismissing ideas simply because they rub him the wrong way rather than considering them carefully. If the conflict is not resolved quickly or fairly, his agitation builds up internally and may trigger his intense temper.
Routine--Great reluctance to carry out mundane details that do not seem to contribute to his vision.
Appearance:
Hawthorn’s shapely head is made memorable by the distinctive band of coloring running down to his nose, half dark, half crème. He has both tufted ears and long whiskers, in keeping with the rest of his coat, which is dense and shaggy. For the most part, his fur alternates between broad bands of reddish brown, the subdued coloring of autumn leaves, and dark brown, becoming even darker down his flanks and into the fur of his tapering tail, while the fur of his throat and chest echo the crème on his nose. His eyes are almond shaped, jade green and bright. While he is youthful, and unscarred, cats tend to pause at the idea of taking him on in a fight unless they are supremely confident in their own abilities.
Personality:
Hawthorn has a curious mixture of confidence and reserve. Warm and amiable to most cats, he is genuinely concerned for their well-being. He enjoys pushing himself to explore possibilities, working through challenges quietly, persistently, and resiliently, encouraging the best in others so that he can help to bring about happiness. However, he is difficult to get to know well. He very sweetly maintains his guard. When he is at his most focused, he can seem very distant, although he would be surprised if cats thought he was expressing this intentionally. Hawthorn hates getting angry. This is not to be mistaken for lack of assertiveness.
Biography:
Hawthorn lived his kithood in the prey-filled, safe haven of the fields outside of the two-legs nests. His mother was attentive to him, and to his brother Ryespark and sister Wrenflight, though Hawthorn worried her at times by going missing. On these occasions he could be found, usually in one of his namesake trees, uncannily still and staring off into a distance only he could see. Wren once asked him why, but all he would mew was that he thought some thing was searching for him. Ryespark found this idea both inexplicable and unsettling, and had sought to break the tension by pulling both of his siblings into a mock-fight. After that, Hawthorn would simply come back to himself from the still times with a shudder.
Palestep raised the three kits on stories of cats who had long since walked into the stars. She urged them to become strong enough, like the heroes, to take care of themselves. She also taught them that they were to find the way to live well, so that the stars would accept them in turn when they passed on. Hawthorn took the stories to heart. The three kits promised each other that in seasons to come they would be ready to prowl even the wildlands unafraid. To this end, they pushed themselves to master the subtleties of stalking prey, and tested their fighting styles against each other, imagining the kind of creatures they might encounter.
However, when adventure came to them, it was like nothing they had imagined.
In that new-leaf, Hawthorn had taken to padding the edges of the field, only half-seriously taking in impressions of both the two-legged nesting grounds and the outskirts of the forest. Nothing seemed to have changed much, although occasionally, he would scent small groups of two-leggers, along with the bitter, sharp smell of their burning sticks. The last group he scented, he had managed to approach unseen. They stood together, looking out over the fields, a strange yellow metal shape with three legs between them. Hawthorn watched for some time, but as all they did was look, and then leave, packing up the metal stick box to take with them, he could only put down their brief presence to curiosity, much like his own. Being young, he soon found other matters to occupy his thoughts and attention. Still, a restless feeling worried the back of his mind. When he slept, a half-familiar cat flitted through the shadows of his dreams, sometimes in the fields, sometimes among the paths of the two-legged settlement he had explored.
Deep in a dream, the restlessness finally seized him. After chasing the flitting shape with no success, he climbed out onto an empty rooftop overlooking a mass of lights, and yowled the one name that felt right.
“You asked for me.” The cat that padded up beside him was both amused and solemn, powerful and insubstantial. Her fur glinted with a red tinge that might have been reflected from the lights below, but no, Hawthorn knew somehow that she was creating the light herself.
Hawthorn lowered his head. “I was never certain. I believed…”
“Enough to act. Remember that.” Roanflare held his eyes for a long moment. “You have the chance to act, if you will believe me. You can no longer remain where you are certain. Take courage, take heart, and believe that there is life beyond destruction.”
Hawthorn felt rooted to the spot. “There is so much I…destruction?”
Roanflare did not touch him, but her compassion filled his dream. “And life beyond. Bear up, Hawthorn. The danger comes now!”
He woke, his muscles tensed to send him tearing away. The sky was dark blue and grey. Dawn would be coming soon. All seemed quiet, still and calm. Hawthorn forced himself to take deep breaths. Danger comes. Nothing to see yet, which would make things difficult. For a moment he let himself feel the elation that would keep welling up in spite of what he knew he would have to do. There was more out there than what he had known. A hero cat had come to visit his dreams, he was watched over. His choices mattered. Choice. He had to move quickly.
Fighting to be brave, and calm, he woke his family one at a time, told them to make for the two-legs nests. They had questions, to be sure. He reminded Wren that they were longing for adventure, convinced Ryespark with brief mention of their thoughts about two-legs, their monsters and his absolute seriousness, as well as with a cuff about the ears. It was hardest with Palestep. She trusted him, but as her steady kit. Her eyes widened as Hawthorn told her about his dream, and that he believed that her stories were passed down for a reason.
His family heading for the edges of the field and the sky taking on a paler blue in the distance, Hawthorn felt his heart sink for a moment. He had come to know many of the cats in the field. Even with his family, it had seemed to take so long to convince them that they had to get away. Still, he had to try. He took off, stumbling slightly as he realized that he could not choose between cats any more. He would simply have to try to reach as many as he could find. He gave a crooked cat grin, suddenly glad that he had not been prone to pranks and tweaking the whiskers of grown cats. Their chances were better. Perhaps they would believe him.
That day became absolutely dream-like to Hawthorn, though he would not actually have the dream sleep for a long while to come, as restless as he was. When deep sleep returned, the faces of cats he had met, or worse, the cats he had not found in time, came to flit through the darkness of his dreams as Roanflare had. He had crouched with a friend, hiding from the watchful eyes of two-legs carrying thunderclaws, as he thought of them afterwards, as more two-legs unwound long snakelike attachments coming from their monster, quiet as yet. When they pulled down covers over their faces, the two cats bolted for the edge of the field, fleeing the scent of something sickly, harsh and wrong that drowned all familiarity as it filled the air. The last thing he could remember was creeping into a garden hedge before he simply stopped thinking. He did not move again until dusk.
Hawthorn grew towards maturity among the two-legs nests, driving himself to distraction learning to find and catch the elusive city prey, making an uneasy sort of truce with the feral cats who roamed the streets around the place he came to choose as hunting ground and resting place, watching the inscrutable two-legs from high places, wondering about their habits, fending off over-curious dogs. Somewhere among the nesting grounds, Palestep, Ryespark and Wrenflight were living strong lives, and so would he. Hawthorn told himself he was happy. Really, he was. He snatched times to appreciate what was good, and beautiful, even in the middle of the grit and straight, straight edges of the places the two-legs had made for themselves. He was competent and respected.
Still, in recent days the feeling that there is something more to be found has been coming back to his mind. He has left his usual hunting grounds, and looks for Roanflare in his dreams. Change is coming, but this time, he is glad of it.
Family:
Father - Camber
Mother - Palestep
Siblings - Ryespark, Wrenflight
Mate - None
Kits - None
Friends:
Mentor -
Enemies:
Other Relationships:
Age: 22 moons
Gender: Male
Clan/Group/etc.: Loner
Rank: None
Current Status: Trying to hold his own
Special Abilities: None
Strengths:
Ability to assess--Is able to create worthy, well-defined goals, and intuitively plays with the steps and needs of bringing goals into reality. Learns quickly, able to grasp complex ideas and situations well.
Spiritually sensitive--Has come to recognize and trust the influence of at least one of his warrior ancestors, although he is largely unaware of his heritage.
Fighting style--Flexible, takes advantage of his ability to find potential openings, as well as the power he can bring to bear in blows.
Sturdy--Has strong bones and a promising athletic build which he has been developing even during his time among the two-legs nests. His dense fur protects him against harsh weather, and makes his form that much more intimidating to potential challengers.
Idealistic confidence--Holds strongly to the belief that it is possible to make a good life for many, to create equitable opportunities, to reach the potential for harmony and joy. Believes that his choices can make a difference. Determined to be of service.
Weaknesses:
Perfectionist--Challenges himself to live up to high standards, and very rarely finds his own efforts to be enough. Does not want to ask others for help for himself, because he would hate to be a drain on their strength. This is not to mention that is difficult for him to consider what he actually needs.
Overload--When wound up by stress, Hawthorn tends to go into a state where he loses the ability to see the larger picture. This may be manifest in his making sudden irrational mistakes, obsessing over unimportant details, or indulging his cravings for sensation to the extreme.
Sensitive--Has a great deal of empathy, needs to feel useful and trusted, so he finds it very difficult to handle emotional conflict and criticism. In situations like this, he is likely to become agitated, dismissing ideas simply because they rub him the wrong way rather than considering them carefully. If the conflict is not resolved quickly or fairly, his agitation builds up internally and may trigger his intense temper.
Routine--Great reluctance to carry out mundane details that do not seem to contribute to his vision.
Appearance:
Hawthorn’s shapely head is made memorable by the distinctive band of coloring running down to his nose, half dark, half crème. He has both tufted ears and long whiskers, in keeping with the rest of his coat, which is dense and shaggy. For the most part, his fur alternates between broad bands of reddish brown, the subdued coloring of autumn leaves, and dark brown, becoming even darker down his flanks and into the fur of his tapering tail, while the fur of his throat and chest echo the crème on his nose. His eyes are almond shaped, jade green and bright. While he is youthful, and unscarred, cats tend to pause at the idea of taking him on in a fight unless they are supremely confident in their own abilities.
Personality:
Hawthorn has a curious mixture of confidence and reserve. Warm and amiable to most cats, he is genuinely concerned for their well-being. He enjoys pushing himself to explore possibilities, working through challenges quietly, persistently, and resiliently, encouraging the best in others so that he can help to bring about happiness. However, he is difficult to get to know well. He very sweetly maintains his guard. When he is at his most focused, he can seem very distant, although he would be surprised if cats thought he was expressing this intentionally. Hawthorn hates getting angry. This is not to be mistaken for lack of assertiveness.
Biography:
Hawthorn lived his kithood in the prey-filled, safe haven of the fields outside of the two-legs nests. His mother was attentive to him, and to his brother Ryespark and sister Wrenflight, though Hawthorn worried her at times by going missing. On these occasions he could be found, usually in one of his namesake trees, uncannily still and staring off into a distance only he could see. Wren once asked him why, but all he would mew was that he thought some thing was searching for him. Ryespark found this idea both inexplicable and unsettling, and had sought to break the tension by pulling both of his siblings into a mock-fight. After that, Hawthorn would simply come back to himself from the still times with a shudder.
Palestep raised the three kits on stories of cats who had long since walked into the stars. She urged them to become strong enough, like the heroes, to take care of themselves. She also taught them that they were to find the way to live well, so that the stars would accept them in turn when they passed on. Hawthorn took the stories to heart. The three kits promised each other that in seasons to come they would be ready to prowl even the wildlands unafraid. To this end, they pushed themselves to master the subtleties of stalking prey, and tested their fighting styles against each other, imagining the kind of creatures they might encounter.
However, when adventure came to them, it was like nothing they had imagined.
In that new-leaf, Hawthorn had taken to padding the edges of the field, only half-seriously taking in impressions of both the two-legged nesting grounds and the outskirts of the forest. Nothing seemed to have changed much, although occasionally, he would scent small groups of two-leggers, along with the bitter, sharp smell of their burning sticks. The last group he scented, he had managed to approach unseen. They stood together, looking out over the fields, a strange yellow metal shape with three legs between them. Hawthorn watched for some time, but as all they did was look, and then leave, packing up the metal stick box to take with them, he could only put down their brief presence to curiosity, much like his own. Being young, he soon found other matters to occupy his thoughts and attention. Still, a restless feeling worried the back of his mind. When he slept, a half-familiar cat flitted through the shadows of his dreams, sometimes in the fields, sometimes among the paths of the two-legged settlement he had explored.
Deep in a dream, the restlessness finally seized him. After chasing the flitting shape with no success, he climbed out onto an empty rooftop overlooking a mass of lights, and yowled the one name that felt right.
“You asked for me.” The cat that padded up beside him was both amused and solemn, powerful and insubstantial. Her fur glinted with a red tinge that might have been reflected from the lights below, but no, Hawthorn knew somehow that she was creating the light herself.
Hawthorn lowered his head. “I was never certain. I believed…”
“Enough to act. Remember that.” Roanflare held his eyes for a long moment. “You have the chance to act, if you will believe me. You can no longer remain where you are certain. Take courage, take heart, and believe that there is life beyond destruction.”
Hawthorn felt rooted to the spot. “There is so much I…destruction?”
Roanflare did not touch him, but her compassion filled his dream. “And life beyond. Bear up, Hawthorn. The danger comes now!”
He woke, his muscles tensed to send him tearing away. The sky was dark blue and grey. Dawn would be coming soon. All seemed quiet, still and calm. Hawthorn forced himself to take deep breaths. Danger comes. Nothing to see yet, which would make things difficult. For a moment he let himself feel the elation that would keep welling up in spite of what he knew he would have to do. There was more out there than what he had known. A hero cat had come to visit his dreams, he was watched over. His choices mattered. Choice. He had to move quickly.
Fighting to be brave, and calm, he woke his family one at a time, told them to make for the two-legs nests. They had questions, to be sure. He reminded Wren that they were longing for adventure, convinced Ryespark with brief mention of their thoughts about two-legs, their monsters and his absolute seriousness, as well as with a cuff about the ears. It was hardest with Palestep. She trusted him, but as her steady kit. Her eyes widened as Hawthorn told her about his dream, and that he believed that her stories were passed down for a reason.
His family heading for the edges of the field and the sky taking on a paler blue in the distance, Hawthorn felt his heart sink for a moment. He had come to know many of the cats in the field. Even with his family, it had seemed to take so long to convince them that they had to get away. Still, he had to try. He took off, stumbling slightly as he realized that he could not choose between cats any more. He would simply have to try to reach as many as he could find. He gave a crooked cat grin, suddenly glad that he had not been prone to pranks and tweaking the whiskers of grown cats. Their chances were better. Perhaps they would believe him.
That day became absolutely dream-like to Hawthorn, though he would not actually have the dream sleep for a long while to come, as restless as he was. When deep sleep returned, the faces of cats he had met, or worse, the cats he had not found in time, came to flit through the darkness of his dreams as Roanflare had. He had crouched with a friend, hiding from the watchful eyes of two-legs carrying thunderclaws, as he thought of them afterwards, as more two-legs unwound long snakelike attachments coming from their monster, quiet as yet. When they pulled down covers over their faces, the two cats bolted for the edge of the field, fleeing the scent of something sickly, harsh and wrong that drowned all familiarity as it filled the air. The last thing he could remember was creeping into a garden hedge before he simply stopped thinking. He did not move again until dusk.
Hawthorn grew towards maturity among the two-legs nests, driving himself to distraction learning to find and catch the elusive city prey, making an uneasy sort of truce with the feral cats who roamed the streets around the place he came to choose as hunting ground and resting place, watching the inscrutable two-legs from high places, wondering about their habits, fending off over-curious dogs. Somewhere among the nesting grounds, Palestep, Ryespark and Wrenflight were living strong lives, and so would he. Hawthorn told himself he was happy. Really, he was. He snatched times to appreciate what was good, and beautiful, even in the middle of the grit and straight, straight edges of the places the two-legs had made for themselves. He was competent and respected.
Still, in recent days the feeling that there is something more to be found has been coming back to his mind. He has left his usual hunting grounds, and looks for Roanflare in his dreams. Change is coming, but this time, he is glad of it.
Family:
Father - Camber
Mother - Palestep
Siblings - Ryespark, Wrenflight
Mate - None
Kits - None
Friends:
Mentor -
Enemies:
Other Relationships: