Blackstorm {roar}

[Remi]

About my Character: [/b]

Name: Blackstorm … (D=)?

Rank: Warrior!

Gender: Tom

Age: 35 moons
Clan: JayClan

Beliefs: Yes, Blackstorm believes in Starclan; however, he secretly believes that only the strongest of warriors can enter the fabled afterlife. A lazy, cowardly or overly ambitious cat should not gain the rite of passage into the glorious light of Starclan over an obedient warrior who fights neck and tooth to protect his clan. The storm was a great calamity, but Blackstorm’s faith in Starclan itself being involved with the outside world is rather weak. After all…how can something dreamed to be so far away cause anything to happen?

Mentor/Apprentice: (None at the moment, but feel free to dump a little bundle of kitten-joy on him. No seriously.) His mentor was Graymouse who was killed in the storm.

Kin: His father was never known-probably a rogue who slipped away in the dead of night (This COULD be Nightpelt‘s father just to make it more laughable. XD Only if Kassie wants a brother from another mother.) His mother was an elder named Bluestream; however, she was too slow and weak to survive the powerful storm. Any siblings he has are either dead or unknown.

Mate: None. (THE BACHELOR RETURNS.)

Appearance: Well first off (if you couldn’t guess from context clues), Blackstorm is a large, black tom. His fur is a relatively short length, though it isn’t tightly stretched over his skin and it does tend to fluff out on his tail and towards his haunches; This especially occurs if the weather is rainy or humid. He has large paws that conceal strong, white claws- a favored weapon considered more valuable than his teeth (although they can cause a nasty wound as a well). Long, pale whiskers adjourn his scruffy face; Aside from his claws, fangs and pale yellow eyes (when they are showing), his whiskers are the only continuously pale feature about him. Of course if he rests within a warm sunbeam, the thinner, fluffier areas of Blackstorm’s fur appears brown. Even though his tail is relatively short, Blackstorm's body is long and built for strength. Muscles ripple under his pelt when he somberly strolls through camp.

Personality: Blackstorm could be described as a stick-in-the-mud or ‘a grumpy old badger’ simply because he is not the kind of cat you would have a grand old time with. He is rather strict on following clan rules and regulations, and if he happens to see a younger member who is slacking in their duties, he won’t think twice to cuff the perpetrator over their ears and give a prompt hiss. Aside from his occasional hostility, Blackstorm is a rather quiet warrior and will not hesitate to lend his assistance to border or hunting patrols. With his particular belief in Starclan, Blackstorm always wants to be where the action or battles are taking place. Unfortunately he does not always gain the right to a clan fight and his unwavering loyalty to his leader often gets in the way of his battle-hardy urges. After the storm there are less and less skirmishes between the clans as each tries to rebuild itself. Because of the lack of fighting, Blackstorm usually skulks around the camp and keeps very vigil on hunting patrols as if he wants danger to find him. If a foreign cat-smell finds its way to his soot-colored nose, he is quick on his large paws to investigate.

History: From the moment he was brought into the world, a squealing wet bundle, Blackstorm was born to be a warrior. Larger than any of his litter mates at the time, he was able to crawl and nudge blindly in the dark world behind his eyelids towards a much larger warmth. The only other signs of life were high-pitched squeaks and the sound of heavy breathing and before he could reach the tantalizing heat that he longed for, something rough ran over the length of his tiny body; it chased the wet feeling away as it caused him to fall onto his belly, squealing in protest and fright. Then when all seemed lost, he was pushed towards the heat until his forehead rested against a soft, warm belly while the sound of another outraged squeak sounded behind him.

He was a weak and useless thing then, but from his mother’s milk he was able to grow stronger until his pale eyes opened for the first time and he was able to understand the things he could not when he was a blind, shivering rat-of-a-creature. Blackstorm had been ’bully’ of the litter, simply because he was one of the largest kits there and he certainly used that factor to his advantage in wrestling matches. Because he was able to win at playful skirmishes so much, the black kit began to approve of the idea of becoming a warrior.

His decision was final one day when he was close to becoming 6 moons-old and ready for apprenticeship; it was the day a dark thunderstorm appeared on the horizon and a strong wind shook the tall trees violently. Bolts of lightning seemed frequent and the explosive thunder dominated the black air. Curious at his age, Blackstorm had ventured out of his burrow right before the storm struck the camp. He had been after a small field mouse that had caught his eye, but when the rain began to pelt hard onto his body, he realized his mistake and began to wander around blindly in the heavy rain, yowling for help. The rain had taken away his sight and the thunder paralyzed him...how could he run with a ferocious beast roaring at him from somewhere in the curtains of rain? He would have surely perished if he had not been so close to the leader’s burrow. Strong jaws had closed around the scruff of his neck and he was hauled to safety by the leader… HIS leader.

From that day forward he was determined to pay such fearlessness back to his leader and clan and to do that he would have to be studious and unwavering.

As an apprentice, he was less troublesome than most; although any murmurings of some far off clan fight would send him springing to his paws, his mentor would good heartedly trip him up, laugh and say ’You’re just an apprentice, little kit. Don’t be getting mouse-brained ideas now.’ and that would be that. His mentor would always laugh at his over eagerness to be thrust into a fight, as the old gray tom was always seeking out ways to get put into hunting duty instead of the roar of battle. They were two opposites, his mentor had mused while Blackstorm (Blackpaw then) silently steamed but obeyed his orders to get new bedding for the elders. He had always silently grudged against his mentor who had put him through the silliest tasks, tasks that seemed to be not crucial to becoming a warrior; however, it would seem that those silly tasks proved true and Blackpaw soon became of age to receive his warrior name, Blackstorm.

He would never realize how much the goofy mentor meant to him until the fierce storm ravaged Jayclan, taking with it the lives of many brave elders, warriors, apprentices and even helpless, vulnerable kits. Like his mother, Blackstorm’s mentor had become an elder and had perished by her side (as the two seemed to grow founder of each other in the days leading up to the violent weather.)

Everything seemed to happen so fast and Blackstorm didn’t have time to mull it over or to yowl in loss because the storm would surely sweep him up; what kind of death would that be? Surely not a noble enough death to please Starclan! The storm was a thief come to steal the others chances to get into Starclan and Blackstorm would not have his chance filched like the last squirrel in the fresh kill pile.

Taking off into the night, he helped to nudge others along and even stooped to pick up a fallen, wailing kit between his jaws like his leader had. Ignoring any pain inflicted from falling debris he bolted…and any smart enough cat would surely follow.



Picture:

Roleplay Example:


The kit (*Can be a character you guys can make up and have!*) between his jaws wiggled and squealed as he darted through the dark woods that were wailing as well. The wind tore through the thick limbs just as easily as he could bite a mouse’s head off; smaller limbs, acorns and rocks were a common sight as they pelted his back and urged him forward.

Even though the pads of his paws were cut and stinging as they bled, even though his heart felt as if it would burst out of his furry chest, Blackstorm ran.

What was happening?! He wanted to yowl to the sky as if it held the answers he sought, but if he did such a thing then the kit would fall and he wasn’t too sure that he would muster up his strength and turn around for the useless flailing thing. Where was he even going? He didn’t have time to think about direction and he was sure that no one else was caring either. The black tom had already crossed into Paleclan territory and past an abandoned Paleclan camp. Everything was empty and there was certainly no place to hide; Bluestream and Graymouse had met their fate in the collapsed elder’s den…there was no way he was going to risk suffering the same fate.

As he remembered the sudden deaths of his mother and mentor, Blackstorm bit down harder on the kit’s scruff and it cried out only to bat him on his muzzle. Loosening the powerful grip he had on the wriggling creature, Blackstorm pushed on away from the camp while the storm loomed after him at a slower pace as if it had changed its deadly course.

He would not mourn until he found his leader and the clan.[/font]