Post by Feather on Nov 3, 2007 20:26:59 GMT -5
Name: Slate
Gender: She-cat
Clan: Rogue
Rank: Highly respected she-cat
Age: About 23 moons.
Short Description: Sleek and slender slate grey, and smokey white point she-cat, with dangerous dull hazel optics.
Appearance: This she-cat isn't necissarily the most stunning of them all. In fact, some many consider her quite dull and blank by just looking at her. In plain daylight anyways.
Her coat is a ruffled grey. Underneath you can see points of black, seeing many layers of colors in her coat. The hairs are the color of dust and slime in rogue terms, not being a very appealing color. Some compare her to the silverness of a mountain lion in the winter, a gray outline above the rest. Just like the shining moonlight, it takes on a bluish tint at it's primes. If there were less feral spectators involved, she could possibly, for once, be considered beautiful.
Other than that her face is slightly circular, with a sharp chin. Her eyes are round, but have curved tips on the edge like almonds. On the corners of her eyes she has slight tan streaks, small, yet noticable, for they contrast well with her murky hazel eyes, which have no impressive name to them, other than muddy, natural earth.
Starting from 'neath her nose is a what appears to be a fairly straight pattern, with a blended border, of dirty white. No part of her is graceful, nor silky or pearl. In other words, she carries the definate appearance of a mutted rogue, though not seen as a very femine feline.
The bottom of her tail appears to have been dipped violently into an oil spill. It splashes little ways up her long tail.
Her body is nice and slender. Slate is very small, but her long body makes up for it. It also comes with lithe paws, and a long tail, perfect for balancing along trails that need to be crept upon, stalking the enemy. Or prey.
Personality: Just like her looks, Slate is very much like a tom. She is very aggressive, and quick to temper at anyone that gets in her way, and is easy to pick a fight with. This has made her social standards along the rogues rise, whereas with anyone else, she is hostile and feral, with an invisible sign following her that reads; "Warning: Keep Away!"
While the toms consider them one of their own, the females who are more prissy and well kept, the queens, leave her discarded in the shadows. Often the toms foolishly confuse them as a another stud, and encourage her to breed with them. So no, she has no offspring, and probably never will.
That is, unless someone special comes along.
She is cunning and sly, like most of the rogues, with one difference. Slate has a precise stratiegy to everything, an intelligence that is compared among the Clans. She chooses warm meat over poisoned, and perfers to hunt, not scavenge like her low down relatives.
There was never a part in her destiny proclaiming kits. Yes, she did indeed fool around and mate early on with the other young cats, exploring their youths, but never luckily got pregnant. After all, she was 'Slate', a name fit for a tom, not a queen. Though deep inside she wondered about love, kits, and family. Loyalty, and honesty, unlike her childhood barrings.
History: Slate was born into the rough and recless world of the rogues. Her litter was the size of three, with a mother as foul as the sewer waters upon which she was born. No desire did she hold for these kits, only for her mate which gave her these curses.
The mother simply just left the kits to sit and die after about six weeks, once her mate saw that it was appropriate. For he didn't care for them either, but he saw potiential in one or two of them, his eldest boys to become legends perhaps.
Their names were Slate, Slade, and Slash. Whichever one who survived would carry on the clear name of their parents and ancestory.
Over the years the siblings fought and warred, eventually, in a secret never to be told, Slate won out of intelligence and cunning strength.
RP Sample:
Caked blood froze still in it's merciless rivers trailing from her muzzle, that had previously threathened to seemingly drain out her very soul. The air seemed to drop by the degrees and turn the nasiating smell and feel permentant, just another burden in this world of mass hate. Was she even alive? It was doubtful, for she felt as if she feel short of Hell on her way down.
Not only was she dying from the crimson stained trail that marked her every footstep and heavy labored drag, but she felt on the edge of oblivian, in an icebox gasping for lost breath. It stug her lungs like swarms of yellow jackets, and no words, nor voice came to sing out her sorrow into the already mourning winds.
Towering trees at least kept some of the turbulent whips from her newly sliced skin. Shards of metal were lodged deep into her muscle, something that would leave the tissue permently damaged. If she wasn't already deceased, lost into the spiritual world of enternity, then there was no way she would escape from that destiny.
Anything soon anyways.
Losing her last stamina of the she-wolf's legended endurance, she dragged herself into some starved vegitation on the ground. She lay exhausted, begging for the air to keep her heart continuing those vitial beats and praying for death to take her away peacefully.
To another, she was dead. Barely inches of pelt remained, the rest a steaming muscle ripped from two-leg creation. A helicopter. On her face was nothing, but singed fur and cut after slash in her delicate face.
Her emerald eyes held a silent plead for help.
{Taken from another RP site, Enternal Promise; Sirian}
Gender: She-cat
Clan: Rogue
Rank: Highly respected she-cat
Age: About 23 moons.
Short Description: Sleek and slender slate grey, and smokey white point she-cat, with dangerous dull hazel optics.
Appearance: This she-cat isn't necissarily the most stunning of them all. In fact, some many consider her quite dull and blank by just looking at her. In plain daylight anyways.
Her coat is a ruffled grey. Underneath you can see points of black, seeing many layers of colors in her coat. The hairs are the color of dust and slime in rogue terms, not being a very appealing color. Some compare her to the silverness of a mountain lion in the winter, a gray outline above the rest. Just like the shining moonlight, it takes on a bluish tint at it's primes. If there were less feral spectators involved, she could possibly, for once, be considered beautiful.
Other than that her face is slightly circular, with a sharp chin. Her eyes are round, but have curved tips on the edge like almonds. On the corners of her eyes she has slight tan streaks, small, yet noticable, for they contrast well with her murky hazel eyes, which have no impressive name to them, other than muddy, natural earth.
Starting from 'neath her nose is a what appears to be a fairly straight pattern, with a blended border, of dirty white. No part of her is graceful, nor silky or pearl. In other words, she carries the definate appearance of a mutted rogue, though not seen as a very femine feline.
The bottom of her tail appears to have been dipped violently into an oil spill. It splashes little ways up her long tail.
Her body is nice and slender. Slate is very small, but her long body makes up for it. It also comes with lithe paws, and a long tail, perfect for balancing along trails that need to be crept upon, stalking the enemy. Or prey.
Personality: Just like her looks, Slate is very much like a tom. She is very aggressive, and quick to temper at anyone that gets in her way, and is easy to pick a fight with. This has made her social standards along the rogues rise, whereas with anyone else, she is hostile and feral, with an invisible sign following her that reads; "Warning: Keep Away!"
While the toms consider them one of their own, the females who are more prissy and well kept, the queens, leave her discarded in the shadows. Often the toms foolishly confuse them as a another stud, and encourage her to breed with them. So no, she has no offspring, and probably never will.
That is, unless someone special comes along.
She is cunning and sly, like most of the rogues, with one difference. Slate has a precise stratiegy to everything, an intelligence that is compared among the Clans. She chooses warm meat over poisoned, and perfers to hunt, not scavenge like her low down relatives.
There was never a part in her destiny proclaiming kits. Yes, she did indeed fool around and mate early on with the other young cats, exploring their youths, but never luckily got pregnant. After all, she was 'Slate', a name fit for a tom, not a queen. Though deep inside she wondered about love, kits, and family. Loyalty, and honesty, unlike her childhood barrings.
History: Slate was born into the rough and recless world of the rogues. Her litter was the size of three, with a mother as foul as the sewer waters upon which she was born. No desire did she hold for these kits, only for her mate which gave her these curses.
The mother simply just left the kits to sit and die after about six weeks, once her mate saw that it was appropriate. For he didn't care for them either, but he saw potiential in one or two of them, his eldest boys to become legends perhaps.
Their names were Slate, Slade, and Slash. Whichever one who survived would carry on the clear name of their parents and ancestory.
Over the years the siblings fought and warred, eventually, in a secret never to be told, Slate won out of intelligence and cunning strength.
RP Sample:
Caked blood froze still in it's merciless rivers trailing from her muzzle, that had previously threathened to seemingly drain out her very soul. The air seemed to drop by the degrees and turn the nasiating smell and feel permentant, just another burden in this world of mass hate. Was she even alive? It was doubtful, for she felt as if she feel short of Hell on her way down.
Not only was she dying from the crimson stained trail that marked her every footstep and heavy labored drag, but she felt on the edge of oblivian, in an icebox gasping for lost breath. It stug her lungs like swarms of yellow jackets, and no words, nor voice came to sing out her sorrow into the already mourning winds.
Towering trees at least kept some of the turbulent whips from her newly sliced skin. Shards of metal were lodged deep into her muscle, something that would leave the tissue permently damaged. If she wasn't already deceased, lost into the spiritual world of enternity, then there was no way she would escape from that destiny.
Anything soon anyways.
Losing her last stamina of the she-wolf's legended endurance, she dragged herself into some starved vegitation on the ground. She lay exhausted, begging for the air to keep her heart continuing those vitial beats and praying for death to take her away peacefully.
To another, she was dead. Barely inches of pelt remained, the rest a steaming muscle ripped from two-leg creation. A helicopter. On her face was nothing, but singed fur and cut after slash in her delicate face.
Her emerald eyes held a silent plead for help.
{Taken from another RP site, Enternal Promise; Sirian}