Post by Lark on Jan 23, 2011 2:47:42 GMT -7
Name: Lark
Age: 32 moons
Gender: Female
Clan/Group/etc.: None
Rank: None
Current Status: Dreaming.
Special Abilities: Lark has a strange ability, of sorts. For about three weeks, she has been visited by peculiar dreams of shadowy cats. What she dosen't know, is she is recieving faint echoes of the past; if she sleeps anywhere where a particularly important event- battle, death, birth, et.c- happened, she will recieve a vision of what happened there and why. These pictures will (hopefully) become clearer in the long term, and will be guided by her ancestor. {pm will be sent, if it hasn't already been
}
Strengths: Lark, despite being small, is very flighty. Her speed and agility are her biggest assests, and she uses it to he advantage in battles, easily skirting around larger, more powerful cats. She is also a good jumper, and enjoys climbing trees. She is smart more than clever, but has a good sense of logic and tactics.
Weaknesses: Lark is not a strong cat. Her wirey frame is built for quick, speedy assaults, not barreling into a fight. When fighting, she has to be exceptionally careful not to get pinned, otherwise she will most likely be unable to get up again, and cannot shiftlarge weights. Her overly down-to-earth nature makes her very blunt, with a tendency to speak her mind most of the time.
Appearance:
Lark is slightly smaller than the average cat, with a petite frame overlayed by a shaggy tabby-striped coat. Her legs, short as they are, are slim and delicate, and are only very lightly muscled. She has wide paws with tough black pads and a long tail that stretches out behind her.
Her pelt is longer than a short-haired cat, it is thick and serves to bulk out her skinny outline and protect her from the bitterness of leaf-bare. The texture is rough and shaggy on her back, sides and tail, but the texture of her belly-fur is quite different; soft and downy like ird's feathers. The hairs become longer and thicker on her tail han on the rest of her.
The pattern of her coat consists of a dark chocolate smeared with even darker stripes that weave across her pelt, and band around her tail. This styles repeats itself except on her chin, chest and belly, where the downy fur mentioned earlier is coloured a soft cream.
Her face, like most wide cats, and is tufted with fur on her cheeks. There are faint stripes present also, and the characteristic 'M' shape on many tabbies. Two sprays of white and grey whiskers jut from her muzzle, and she has a rose-pink nose, topped with a pair of two frost-blue eyes.
Personality:
Lark is very down-to-earth. Her speech is careful and controlled, with soft, slightly sad tones; and it is this that best describes the she-cat. A strong believer in logic, she questions everything, and is very observant, always backing up her words with careully chosen evidence if needed. Organisation is a key part of her life, as well as strategy; she never goes anywhere without planning exactly what she is going to do first. However, when her logic goes wrong, she becomes incredibly worried, seeing enemys at every turn, and struggling to get her life into balance once again. Many who meet her get the impression of a lost soul, concentrating on every step in order to stay on track.
Possesed of a quiet intelligence and wit, she knows a great deal about many things; and if she dosen't, she wants to know. However, a great mistrust of strangers and lack of sleep due to mysterious nightmares can make her extremely hostile to anyone who crosses her path.
Biography:
It was in the heart of leafbare, when the snow lay thick upon the ground, that in a hollow buried within the roots of a willow, a she-cat gave birth to a tiny kit. At first, the mother's reaction was pure blissful relief; to have one kit brn at this time of the year was a miricale in itself. But as the kit lay eerily still on the ground, and did not respond to any nudging towards her mother, Carmen realised something was terribly wrong.
'Shard!' she cried out desparately, and the tomcat ran in, spotting the prone kit and crying out angrily, 'Are all our litters to be cursed in this way?' After listening to the silent chest of the newborn, he shook his head in angry sadness, picked up the tiny bundle and both mother and father slowly walked ouside, bodies pressed together for non-existent comfort.
Just as Shard bent to lower his burden, a tiny squeak issued from his tighly clamped jaws. Vision blurred by grief brightened suddenly as he straightened up to silently show the wriggling kit to its mother.
'She's alive?' Carmen whispered. 'But you heard no heartbeat.'
'I don't know how.' Shard said solemnly. 'But yes, she's alive.'
With gentle, careful movements, Carmen, took her from Shard's jaws. As the couple's tails twined in the air, Shard said to his queen, 'I think we should call her Lark.' Carmen looks at her mate questioningly, and he replies, 'Because, I think this kit will soar higher than both of us.'
And in a way, Shard was right. From the moment Lark opened her frost-blue eyes, it was apparent she was very different from her parents. With a very inquisitive streak, she spent much of her time studying her surroundings with close interest. Her mother and father taught her to fight and hunt at the age of six moons, as was tradition in the area, and she grew up strong and heathly, close to her parents in both body and mind, but there was always something they always kept from her. Whenever Lark asked about her unusual name, they told her it was due to the feathery texture of her fur, and would distract her from asking any more questions.
Lark was about twenty-five moons old when her mother died.
To this day, no-one but Fate knows how it happened; a strange lump formed in her belly almost overnight, and by nightfall, the she-cat was dead. The brutal swiftness of her demise shook Shard and Lark to their cores, and the next few weeks were spent in hollow silence as the ghost of the she-cat walked through their minds. They had all been very close, and they both blamed themselves for not watching out for her, not looking out for her more closeley. Eventually, they began to speak to each other more often, but mostly is was grunts, murmers, and a few simple sentences.
Six moons later, and the second tradgedy occured. Lark and her father had begun talking again; the sickness, although not forgotten, was no longerfresh in their minds, and they joked and talked as they made their way down a winding trail. Shard was getting old; he must have been at least sixty-five moons, and his stiff joints and slower reactions meant he was no longer the heathly young warrior he once was. Lark was that warrior now; her pelt shone with the energy of youth, and there was a sping in her step as they travelled.
They had been walking for about twenty minutes, when he came.
A large, long-haired tom skulked across a branch above them, and dropped down suddenly, startling the two cats. 'Well, well, well.' he sneered, looking down at them both. 'Thought you'd tresspass in my territory? Think again.' With lightning speed, he slashed down at Lark's ace, a blow narrowley dodged by the young she-cat, and pins Shard, biting down hard on his neck. Only when blood starts pouring from the wound, does the massive tabby stop, throw off Lark's smaller frame as she rips his back fur apart, desparate to save her remaining family, and sink into the shadows of the tightly furled bracken.
'Shard...' One look at the eder tells Lark he is dying. A steady stream of blood is flowing from his torn throat, and he makes peculiar rasping growls as he struggles to speak.
'No...no...please...just rest...everything will be fine...please...'
Lark casts her eyes around wildly, trying to find something, anything that will aid her father, but he manages to speak, coughing up blood.
'No...Lark...listen...to me.' He coughs more blood, and continues, 'Remember...named you Lark...snow...death...soar...'
'Shh.' Lark whisperes desparately, but Shard's eyes close, and death beckons as he whispers, 'No...matter. Fly high...my Lark.' His body stills, and he moves no more.
Then the nightmares began. Lark moved from place to place after that, drifting silent and brooding across the vast landscape. But it seemed, that wherever she settled, whether it be in a forest clearing, or a small brook running through the trees, by the new Twoleg nests, or even between the roots of a huge willow tree cracked with age, the dreams follow; dreams of shadows that flicker at the edges of her mind, dread, and joy, horror and happiness, and a cat that seems oddly familliar prowling just out of reach. Eventually, she has settled under the willow tree, plauged by nightmares of the past.
Family:
Father - Shard
Mother - Carmen
Siblings - None
Mate - None
Kits - None
Friends:
None...yet.
Enemies:
A large, tabby rouge, who killed Shard.
Other Relationships:
Age: 32 moons
Gender: Female
Clan/Group/etc.: None
Rank: None
Current Status: Dreaming.
Special Abilities: Lark has a strange ability, of sorts. For about three weeks, she has been visited by peculiar dreams of shadowy cats. What she dosen't know, is she is recieving faint echoes of the past; if she sleeps anywhere where a particularly important event- battle, death, birth, et.c- happened, she will recieve a vision of what happened there and why. These pictures will (hopefully) become clearer in the long term, and will be guided by her ancestor. {pm will be sent, if it hasn't already been
}Strengths: Lark, despite being small, is very flighty. Her speed and agility are her biggest assests, and she uses it to he advantage in battles, easily skirting around larger, more powerful cats. She is also a good jumper, and enjoys climbing trees. She is smart more than clever, but has a good sense of logic and tactics.
Weaknesses: Lark is not a strong cat. Her wirey frame is built for quick, speedy assaults, not barreling into a fight. When fighting, she has to be exceptionally careful not to get pinned, otherwise she will most likely be unable to get up again, and cannot shiftlarge weights. Her overly down-to-earth nature makes her very blunt, with a tendency to speak her mind most of the time.
Appearance:
Lark is slightly smaller than the average cat, with a petite frame overlayed by a shaggy tabby-striped coat. Her legs, short as they are, are slim and delicate, and are only very lightly muscled. She has wide paws with tough black pads and a long tail that stretches out behind her.
Her pelt is longer than a short-haired cat, it is thick and serves to bulk out her skinny outline and protect her from the bitterness of leaf-bare. The texture is rough and shaggy on her back, sides and tail, but the texture of her belly-fur is quite different; soft and downy like ird's feathers. The hairs become longer and thicker on her tail han on the rest of her.
The pattern of her coat consists of a dark chocolate smeared with even darker stripes that weave across her pelt, and band around her tail. This styles repeats itself except on her chin, chest and belly, where the downy fur mentioned earlier is coloured a soft cream.
Her face, like most wide cats, and is tufted with fur on her cheeks. There are faint stripes present also, and the characteristic 'M' shape on many tabbies. Two sprays of white and grey whiskers jut from her muzzle, and she has a rose-pink nose, topped with a pair of two frost-blue eyes.
Personality:
Lark is very down-to-earth. Her speech is careful and controlled, with soft, slightly sad tones; and it is this that best describes the she-cat. A strong believer in logic, she questions everything, and is very observant, always backing up her words with careully chosen evidence if needed. Organisation is a key part of her life, as well as strategy; she never goes anywhere without planning exactly what she is going to do first. However, when her logic goes wrong, she becomes incredibly worried, seeing enemys at every turn, and struggling to get her life into balance once again. Many who meet her get the impression of a lost soul, concentrating on every step in order to stay on track.
Possesed of a quiet intelligence and wit, she knows a great deal about many things; and if she dosen't, she wants to know. However, a great mistrust of strangers and lack of sleep due to mysterious nightmares can make her extremely hostile to anyone who crosses her path.
Biography:
It was in the heart of leafbare, when the snow lay thick upon the ground, that in a hollow buried within the roots of a willow, a she-cat gave birth to a tiny kit. At first, the mother's reaction was pure blissful relief; to have one kit brn at this time of the year was a miricale in itself. But as the kit lay eerily still on the ground, and did not respond to any nudging towards her mother, Carmen realised something was terribly wrong.
'Shard!' she cried out desparately, and the tomcat ran in, spotting the prone kit and crying out angrily, 'Are all our litters to be cursed in this way?' After listening to the silent chest of the newborn, he shook his head in angry sadness, picked up the tiny bundle and both mother and father slowly walked ouside, bodies pressed together for non-existent comfort.
Just as Shard bent to lower his burden, a tiny squeak issued from his tighly clamped jaws. Vision blurred by grief brightened suddenly as he straightened up to silently show the wriggling kit to its mother.
'She's alive?' Carmen whispered. 'But you heard no heartbeat.'
'I don't know how.' Shard said solemnly. 'But yes, she's alive.'
With gentle, careful movements, Carmen, took her from Shard's jaws. As the couple's tails twined in the air, Shard said to his queen, 'I think we should call her Lark.' Carmen looks at her mate questioningly, and he replies, 'Because, I think this kit will soar higher than both of us.'
And in a way, Shard was right. From the moment Lark opened her frost-blue eyes, it was apparent she was very different from her parents. With a very inquisitive streak, she spent much of her time studying her surroundings with close interest. Her mother and father taught her to fight and hunt at the age of six moons, as was tradition in the area, and she grew up strong and heathly, close to her parents in both body and mind, but there was always something they always kept from her. Whenever Lark asked about her unusual name, they told her it was due to the feathery texture of her fur, and would distract her from asking any more questions.
Lark was about twenty-five moons old when her mother died.
To this day, no-one but Fate knows how it happened; a strange lump formed in her belly almost overnight, and by nightfall, the she-cat was dead. The brutal swiftness of her demise shook Shard and Lark to their cores, and the next few weeks were spent in hollow silence as the ghost of the she-cat walked through their minds. They had all been very close, and they both blamed themselves for not watching out for her, not looking out for her more closeley. Eventually, they began to speak to each other more often, but mostly is was grunts, murmers, and a few simple sentences.
Six moons later, and the second tradgedy occured. Lark and her father had begun talking again; the sickness, although not forgotten, was no longerfresh in their minds, and they joked and talked as they made their way down a winding trail. Shard was getting old; he must have been at least sixty-five moons, and his stiff joints and slower reactions meant he was no longer the heathly young warrior he once was. Lark was that warrior now; her pelt shone with the energy of youth, and there was a sping in her step as they travelled.
They had been walking for about twenty minutes, when he came.
A large, long-haired tom skulked across a branch above them, and dropped down suddenly, startling the two cats. 'Well, well, well.' he sneered, looking down at them both. 'Thought you'd tresspass in my territory? Think again.' With lightning speed, he slashed down at Lark's ace, a blow narrowley dodged by the young she-cat, and pins Shard, biting down hard on his neck. Only when blood starts pouring from the wound, does the massive tabby stop, throw off Lark's smaller frame as she rips his back fur apart, desparate to save her remaining family, and sink into the shadows of the tightly furled bracken.
'Shard...' One look at the eder tells Lark he is dying. A steady stream of blood is flowing from his torn throat, and he makes peculiar rasping growls as he struggles to speak.
'No...no...please...just rest...everything will be fine...please...'
Lark casts her eyes around wildly, trying to find something, anything that will aid her father, but he manages to speak, coughing up blood.
'No...Lark...listen...to me.' He coughs more blood, and continues, 'Remember...named you Lark...snow...death...soar...'
'Shh.' Lark whisperes desparately, but Shard's eyes close, and death beckons as he whispers, 'No...matter. Fly high...my Lark.' His body stills, and he moves no more.
Then the nightmares began. Lark moved from place to place after that, drifting silent and brooding across the vast landscape. But it seemed, that wherever she settled, whether it be in a forest clearing, or a small brook running through the trees, by the new Twoleg nests, or even between the roots of a huge willow tree cracked with age, the dreams follow; dreams of shadows that flicker at the edges of her mind, dread, and joy, horror and happiness, and a cat that seems oddly familliar prowling just out of reach. Eventually, she has settled under the willow tree, plauged by nightmares of the past.
Family:
Father - Shard
Mother - Carmen
Siblings - None
Mate - None
Kits - None
Friends:
None...yet.
Enemies:
A large, tabby rouge, who killed Shard.
Other Relationships:
