Post by lunar on Jun 29, 2009 20:27:19 GMT -5
Name: Zealheart
Age: 38 Moons
Gender: Tom
Desired Position: Warrior
Short Description:
Age: 38 Moons
Gender: Tom
Desired Position: Warrior
Short Description:
Handsome white tom with gold eyes.Description:
Zealheart is the picture of aristocracy. His regal looking figure stands strong as if Starclan knew his fate and painted him to look just how he does. Molded as if from Diana’s flesh, he appears luminescent, slinking through the forest and moving with a liquid grace. His dainty paws are careful not to touch upon the woodland floor to announce his arrival. Prey are unaware of his milky fur coming closer and closer to them from the shelter of the dirt around him. His motions are ghostly. In the cloak of Silverpelt he slinks through as if a phantom amongst the living. True, he may be at disadvantage with his ivory peltage in the flourished time of greenleaf but makes up for it when leafbare hits. When the rabbits are nestled deep within their burrows and scarce to find, he manages to turn up a few and with his vanishing act of conjuring up food that seemed accessible only by a magician, he returns to camp with the rabbit in his jaws. His beautiful coat shimmers when he walks, and muscles from his strengthened limbs shifted beneath the brilliant attire.Personality:
His claws and fangs are weapons given to him by the heritage of Spottedclan. His agile movements like that a ballet dancer on the stage make him hard to get a hold of. Not even the sticky digits of loner cats can claim his sleek figure. His brilliant tactics often disarm his opponents, making them susceptible to his own blood shedding battle cry. His fangs are curved, and with his will and high tolerance of pain, he hangs on to his prey. In this time he can take several blows. A rabbit can scratch at his sensitive underbelly but when he thinks of the kits starved in the nursery he holds on until the hare ceases its movement and dies. His most powerful weapon, however, is his tail. Unlike most cats, he uses his long tail as his main onslaught. His curling balance is used to properly evade any enemy offense as he maneuvers it into a type of defensive motion. Then, with another piece of wisdom, he turns his body again to collide into another body in a harmless tackle. After all, Zealheart doesn’t approve of killing.
It’s his eyes that capture the most attention. Several cats whisper about it, the she-cats especially. They talk about how they are so golden they came from the sun. They compare his eyes to the light in Silverpelt and the fallen warriors that look down upon them. If he hears of this, he disregards it with a modest protest. Though, these beautiful bronzed irises contain a dimness within them… as if some bereavement still lays in his heart.
Zeal… The definition itself means, “Enthusiastic devotion to a cause, ideal, or goal and tireless diligence in its furtherance”. Heart… This is more difficultly defined. The meaning of heart can be that of the anatomy structure. It is the organ within us that pumps life throughout our bodies, determining if we live or die based on its will. Heart is also renowned as being a spiritual core in our souls. You hear of “heartbreak” all the time. What does it mean? Surely your heart is not broken. For in its destruction one would befall cardiac arrest. Though, how can your core be broken? Would you not be shattered with it? Yes. The heart has many branches of meanings and phrases. In this sense, however, it stands for being the gentle murmur, the sweet song, the fragrance of the beautiful rose of one cat in particular…Experience:
Growing up bearing an insight far beyond his years, even rivaling that of the elders’ and medicine cats’, Zealheart took this wisdom with him throughout the path of his life. Moving in a stride along the trodden road, he walked the boulevard with his eyes witnessing the pain of others’ all around him. The agony of mortality, the mourning of death, the decomposing sickness of revenge, the flames of abhorrence, the terror of the silhouettes, the wails of loneliness… But despite these horrid atrocities, he has perceived the joys and vibrant beams of sunshine that always pierce through those dawning storm clouds. He has seen the love between a she-cat and her mate. The birth of a queen to her first litter of kits, a miracle given to each cat only by the hand of Starclan, brings a warming glow into his chest. Each time he watched the loving tongue of the new mother bathe her kit he could not help but let tears enter the pockets of his eyes. When he saw a warrior, frozen by terror before, jump into to defend one of his / her’s closest friends, that is what he admired.
Regardless of all of this wisdom of the gifts and sins of each path of life, he does little to voice it. You can hear the other cat’s sometimes whisper that he is like a tree. He stands proud, defiant, almost intimidating by his strength, but falls silent like the birch coating of the trunk. It is rare to catch a few words from him of what troubles him. Zealheart refrains from bearing his thoughts to the clan or his kin mates. In this sense, he appears almost cold though would love nothing more to assist those in need of his guidance.
Zealheart loathes fighting. Do not get the wrong idea, for he is a splendid fighter. His agile body coils and is so sudden that it appears almost like water. His imaginative mind concocts new positions to uproot his enemies. In their loss of balance he strikes, his empathy holding him back from doing anything fatal to their bodies. Several tactics he holds to himself, not even the most persistent of apprentice can encourage him to expose the nude figure of his strategies. However, warfare is frowned upon by himself. He believes in vocal exchange to solve a confrontation. Sadly, not all cats think as he does and because of that the pain and bloodshed continues.
A romantic at heart, his silent, soft nature attracts many of the she-cats towards him. Though, in his own fear of growing too close to anyone, he will distance himself. The space between himself and his clan members often puts stress and inquiries his way. Would he dare commit treason against his family? Only his dearest friends know that he would never do such a thing, but others cannot help but question the tomcat’s motives and thought process.
Loyalty. This is a virtue he is gifted with. Even to the death he will defend his clan. Several times his loyalty has been questioned and wounded. Still, when one receives pain it only makes them stronger. Emotional scars never heal; this is the same for Zealheart. He uses his aguish to make himself a resilient individual. His patience towards others in his clan, despite their analytical glances, is something to be respected. Even when insulted he reacts with a calm and collective expression. His replies are always soft and render the other cat into a puzzling silence. Sometimes he will even offer them a quiet purr and say nothing.
Mysterious as he is, there is no doubt that Zealheart remains devoted and valiant for his clan. So answer me this… Is Zealheart deserving enough of the name he was given? For does zeal not sum him up? Or is there something more to this feline that meets the eye?
“I love you… I love you, Mourningrose… I love you…”Picture:
Those were the last words she would hear from her dear mate. Heavy with his kits, her pregnant body heaved as she tried so desperately to see out the nursery. The beautiful silhouette of her lover disappeared through the entrance to the camp. His ebonite pelt, splotched with a random kiss of the purity of white, remained etched in her mind. His eyes, a perfect shade of cerulean as if he still remained a kit, looked back at her as he whispered those words over and over into her tympanums.
Mourningrose was struggling with her birth, wishing for the warriors to return. The current medicine cat licked her behind her ears, desperate to help her through it as he spat orders to his apprentice. Her vision was beginning to fade and she lost her grip on consciousness…
The beautiful calico sat in a valley of crimson petals. Roses… Oh her favorite flower! She had met her love there. She had been just an apprentice, bearing the pain of infatuation for the noble cat that was now dubbed warrior. His lovely pelt glistened in the moonlight as he perched in the sea of scarlet-kissed petals. The half moon gave her just enough light to catch those azure optics look down at her. Her heart leaped as she stumbled over her clumsy, young paws. Terrified, embarrassed, and infuriated at her own body’s stubbornness, she gave a light whimper. But the tom didn’t laugh. He came by her side, helping her up and grooming her fur gently. The dirt fell from her eventually and she was lulled into a trance by each compassionate stroke of his muscular tongue.
Out of that valley she fled, back to a more frightening memory. Mourningpaw shivered as she watched the fighting around her. Crouching low, she felt herself frozen. All of her training, her vow as an apprentice, her loyalty to her clan… it left her. She was terrified to move. She was petrified in the midst of the clashing bodies. A scream jerked her eyes upwards. The she-cat’s heart lurched as she witnessed an enemy cat hurling down towards her, the claws unsheathed and glistening as they caught the lunar light. Then a body struck the opposing feline away. It was him!
He saved her several times that night. She remembered how he’d dragged his body back to the camp, his limbs tattered and his flesh shredded. She licked him several times, confessing her crush to him as the medicine cat tended to his wounds. That night she got her warrior name, though she didn’t deserve such a thing. Just as she was dubbed, he arrived from the medicine cat’s den, beaming at her proudly. He mouthed the three words she had whispered to him prior to the ceremony. And their love flourished from there.
Now, as she was brought back to the medicine cat’s den, she found herself yearning to find her lover again. With a strong push she freed her litter. It consisted of a meager two. One kit, a small little female was cleaned gently by her tongue and guided to her milk-filled tit. Another was larger, a tom kit with his eyes glued shut by the birth. He sniffed for his mother, soon being bathed with her rough tongue. She purred affectionately for him.
The joy wasn’t to last. That night, during a fierce battle, her loving mate lost his life. The noble Eveningpelt now ran with Starclan with only his sired daughter and son to carry out his lineage.
To cheer up the queen, the medicine cat apprentice asked her of that of their names. Looking down upon the smaller kit, she smiled at her daughter, licking over the white nose and chin while the gray color surrounded her little white pads. Poppykit. When asked of the still-suckling little male she felt her eyes melt warmly. Mourningrose ran her tongue gently across her son’s face, hearing his quiet purr as the warm milk ran down his throat. His name was in honor of her lost love, for before he had gone they’d discussed the names for their son. Zealkit was to honor that conversation, and she was soon to find that he was far more like his father than she assumed.
~*~
“Zealkit! Get back into this nursery, now!” His mother’s caterwaul rang over the camp. Poppykit was standing beside her, a curious look upon her face as her brother walked back into the shelter to be scolded. His fur was coated with dirt and mud. That was what he got for tussling with a skilled apprentice, his mother mewed firmly. Poppykit purred with amusement as her brother was bathed. When freed from her tongue, Zealkit pounced upon his younger sister. She was a very sickly kit, small and weak. But with her brother as her knight she was never in any real danger. That is, until a day would change their life.
Zealkit and Poppykit were returning from listening to one of the elder’s stories. It was then that a foreign scent made him freeze. Crouching beside his sister, he looked around the camp for any sign of danger. He could be a rowdy kitten at times, almost too much for all the cats put together, but he knew when to be serious. Poppykit froze under him, protected by his frame. What smelt so strange? The camp was vacant for upon the full moon they fled to the gathering. It was unguarded, to put it simply.
A snarl rose from the air. Bursting through the entrance a rouge she-cat arched her back and turned to face the two small kits. She bared her teeth menacingly, launching towards them. Zealkit pushed his sister out of the way, taking the blow for her. Being knocked to the ground he felt himself immobile for a moment. The scream of his sister snapped his eyes apart to stare in horror as the she-cat began to assault his dearest sibling. With a menacing yowl he launched upon the rouge, raking his little claws along her back. He was nearly six moons and his skills were impressive for his age. Being thrown from her back, he quickly regained his balance and spat out at her menacingly. Thanks to him stalling her with his agile escapes and movements, the warriors returned to chase her out.
Her sharp wail outside the camp’s walls confirmed her demise and Zealkit was showered with compliments for his brave act.
A moon of waiting passed him by slowly. Finally, the night had come. Standing at the foot of that rock with his sister, he gazed up at the noble leader of his clan. The ceremony took place where they were both awarded with their apprentice names: Poppypaw and Zealpaw. Poppypaw was given to a quiet, elderly warrior. He was not yet old enough to join the elders of the clan but was certainly pushing that time. All the same, he would take good care of Poppypaw. Zealpaw’s mentor was a very exquisite she-cat. Lakelily touched noses with him, her kind eyes filling with affection for her little apprentice.
Zealpaw’s training was detailed and long. Lakelily was impressed to find how much her apprentice seemed to encourage her training. He caught onto things rather quickly and in only a moon’s time she had taught him nearly everything in her arsenal. Still, he demanded more. His mind sunk in her tales of battles and how he was invited to dine over a shrew with her. He soon became her shadow, hardly leaving her side as they exited the camp.
After a hard day’s work of gathering food, Lakelily insisted that Zealpaw take a break for the night and rest. His obedience always surprised her as she watched him pick up a mouse and carry it to the Elders’ den to relax and listen to their war stories. That night would be disrupted as the clan suddenly burst into electricity. They were under attack!
Clashing with the enemy clan, Zealpaw wasted no time to fight beside Lakelily. Though she appeared tired, she fought with the strength of Starclan. He wouldn’t doubt that she would bring down a dog in her fury; he let strength inspire his courage. The battle soon came to an end as the rival clan was chased away from their camp with insulting spits following them.
Terror clutched his chest as he saw his mentor’s body lying limply upon the ground. Pushing past the crowd of cats, he stared at his mentor’s face. One of the enemy cats had broken the warrior code and had bitten through her throat. She was gone. Everyone was surprised when Zealpaw seemed to quietly mourn over her body. Normally, apprentices were stricken with grief and wailed for their lost teachers, but he simply bowed his head and tenderly shared tongues with her for the last time. Inside, his mental anguish ripped him apart. He had truly loved her…
Through the time of Leafbare and following into Newleaf, Zealpaw underwent a metamorphosis apparent in the reward of his warrior name. Zealheart now roamed through the forest, his broad shoulders and handsome face attracting the attention of his fellow she-cats though he ignored them. Poppypaw was still an apprentice, for her new mentor – for old Honeyclaw had died during Leafbare – insisted that she was still too weak to be promoted. Despite being apprentice and warrior, Zealheart and Poppypaw remained the best of friends. She would playfully bat at her brother, eating with him and sharing tongues in the evening.
Fate would beat down Zealheart once more. Another battle rang out as apprentice and warrior rushed into the war. Through a throng of bodies he spotted Poppypaw’s unusual coloration in the midst of the fighting. Jumping into the sea of claws and fangs, he moved to defend her. An attack caught him off-guard and, forced to struggle for his very life, he soon freed himself. He had lost sight of Poppypaw but had no time to look for her as another cat lunged for him.
He knew they were losing. They must retreat! Just as he was following the order to run, he heard a familiar wail in the mass of bodies. Rushing past two feuding cats, he came upon his sister’s dead body. A young warrior stood over her. He looked terrified at what he had done, but it had been an accident. Poppypaw had tripped and her neck had broken as she hit the boulder behind her. Too stunned to react, the warrior just stared at Zealheart. The tom didn’t attack him but simply looked down at his sister’s lifeless body. He caressed her fur with his tongue, picking her up by the scruff of the neck and moving away from the fight.
Cats from both sides froze, watching him as he moved through the middle of the battle to make his leave. An enemy warrior, a very beautiful looking she-cat, approached him to guide him out of their territory and back to his own camp. No one would count this as treason, for Zealheart was suffering greatly over the death of his sister.
That night no one more than her brother mourned her so heartily. Their mother had fallen ill and was unable to attend her daughter’s funeral. He prayed to Starclan to protect her and with a final lick he watched as her body was buried.
Moons passed and Zealheart suffered many losses throughout that time. Mourningrose died from her sickness, and one of his best friends had left the clan to follow his heart and mate who belonged to that of no clan but was rouge. Zealheart took each of these in stride, muted in his tears but never voicing his suffering. Even his apprentices couldn’t pierce the shield he put around himself. Zealheart grew more and more remote and is now left in a mysterious fog.
But every fog may be pierced with a beam of sunlight. In this light he would continue through life and in the warming glow he would learn to become a hero to the cats around him...
Other:
None! :3
