Post by Solace on Jul 1, 2012 22:53:51 GMT -5
Trickpaw
male | river | six moons | apprentice
Appearance
[/blockquote][/blockquote]If humans were to classify him by breed, Trickpaw would be an American Shorthair cat. His fur color is black, and his eyes are a bright, dusty shade of blue. In all honesty, the color is like one you would get looking up at the sky on a cold winter's day. His tail is only slightly longer than is normal, and the added length is hardly noticeable. His pawpads and claws are black, and his nose is a matching color. His fur is short and very suitable for swimming, despite his apparent reluctance to do so sometimes. In the matter of the apprentice’s build, he is small, light, and moves quickly when he wants to.
Personality
Trickpaw has a very strong pacifist nature and, while he knows how to fight, he is very stubborn about doing so. He would much rather be hunting and serving the clan in other ways than violence. He is very sensitive about being objectified and can become strongly paranoid if someone probes him too deeply about his past. He is gentle and timid most of the time, and has a very abundant fear and hatred of rogues. It takes a long time to get him to open up about anything, and is very content with keeping everything in. He is protective of the cats he grows close to as well.
History
[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]I do not have a name.
I am known only as a number.
Number Seven.
There were eight who were born there. Eight who suffered there. Seven who stayed there. One who escaped there.
They were kittens. Born only to be slaughtered for a war they did not start. Born only to die for the sin and pride of evil.
They had no names. To their parents, they were numbers. Numbered one to eight, from oldest to youngest, regardless of litters or age of their sires. They were raised as soldiers; they were raised as victors...
They were raised as killers.
The purity of childhood was dashed as soon as those souls left the womb. Ripped from their mothers’ sides when they were barely weaned, shown battle when they could barely see, and forced to fight when they could barely walked. The training was brutal, the teachers were monsters, and the kittens were but victims. Victims who were born into this life. Victims who could not save themselves. Victims who were killed for pride.
Such was the way in the Tribe of the Rift.I am both terrified and comforted every time the sun rises.
The sky is stained red, like blood on a battlefield...
But then it turns blue, like the egg of a robin.
“Two...you have to get up.” a small voice whispered.
“But Seven...” the tabby kitten known as Two meowed.
“I know...but One says that it’s time to get up.” Seven told her, nudging her shoulder, “Come on...”
Two sighed, standing up to stretch. Her ribs showed clearly from underneath her dull brown pelt. As she followed Seven out of the bush they slept under, the smaller kitten could see just how depleted she looked; ragged fur, a stumbling gait, torn ears...the only thing that didn’t seem ruined was her eyes. A fierce, shining color of blue that harkened a bolder spirit than her appearance showed. Seven admired this about Two, and also about One. While the rest of them seemed ready to die on their paws at any moment, One and Two kept them going, assuring them that there would be a way out of this mess. They were the oldest and the wisest...although some thought their wisdom was only grief in brave clothing.
“It’s hard...” Two murmured, “But we’ll be alright. Keep your head up, Seven, and don’t let what they tell you get to you. Trust me...they only tell lies.”
Seven did trust her. He had no one but her, One, and the other Numbers to trust. The adult cats that lived in the Tribe were all monsters, both above and below the surface. All they did was hurt the Numbers; they called it making them tough and they would forget about the wounds later...but the wounds were real. The pain was real. And the inescapable truth was that the adult cats inflicted this upon them.
Seven shook his small head, dispelling those thoughts. Thinking about it would only worsen the pain later, he knew, so he tried to assure himself that everything would get better eventually.
Very soon, Two and Seven pushed through another bush and were greeted with the sight of adult Rift cats fighting brutally, encircled by bloodthirsty onlookers. They were used to the sight and the sounds of battle, so they veered left and pushed through another bush. This time, they saw their fellow kittens sitting around, talking quietly amongst themselves.
“Hey Seven, Two.” Number Four said, drawing the attention of the others. Seven and Two walked forward a bit, coming to sit beside their friends. Two nodded in greeting but Seven was looking around worriedly, only flicking his tail slightly in response.
“H-Has there been any sign of Raker or Sarengo?” he asked.
The others shook their head, watching him worriedly. Despite being the second-youngest, Seven was the smallest out of all of them. This made him the target of “heightened training.” To all of the Numbers, though, that “training” was nothing more than torture.
“No. Don’t worry, Seven.” One told him, beckoning the smaller kit close. Seven shuffled over nervously and leaned against One’s shoulder, feeling the oldest kitten’s tail wrap around him comfortingly.
“I think Sarengo’s out on patrol…” Five murmured, his brown eyes downcast, “And Raker…I haven’t seen him.”
“If Sarengo’s on patrol again, does that mean that the Chaos is gone?” Eight asked hopefully, twitching her light brown tail.
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Six muttered crossly, “Sarengo’s wound healed up, remember? The patrol’s he’s on is probably an ambush patrol…”
Seven sighed. He wasn’t sure why the Tribe of the Rift and the Tribe of Chaos fought so much. After all, they were both rebel-rogue groups that broke from the clans; he didn’t understand why they had to fight if they had such common roots…
Soon two Rift warriors, Mange and Ratfur, came to retrieve the Numbers. They were escorted through the filthy camp towards the Ring, where their daily survival practice was held. The Ring was little more than a wide circle marked by bones that sat in a corner of the Rift camp. Every morning, the kittens were set against each other and whatever available warriors there were in the Tribe in a game of “Survivor.” Basically, if you get hit in the Ring, you’re out and subject to more “heightened training.”
Each of the Numbers had their own technique for surviving. Whether it was turning strengths or weaknesses on their attackers or avoiding being hit and waiting for an opening, or just plain avoiding being hit, they usually did alright.
The Ring was soon alive with screeching, warring cats and Seven dodged in between each of the bodies, his light green eyes wide and reflecting the blood of the Tribe warriors as they went for each other’s throats. Many of them were hit multiple times, but not until they were right on the brink of death did they leave the Ring. Even in his five-moon-old mind, he was disgusted at their cowardice. Not only disgusted, but terrified as he saw what his future would become. How long would it be until he became like them? Killing for nothing more than the sake of killing…for the sake of feeling someone else’s blood on his paws…
His heart heavy with his doomed future, Seven almost didn’t see when Raker, a scarred, ferocious ginger tom came at him with fire dancing in his eyes. When he saw him coming, Raker was already too close for Seven to run away. His eyes wide, Seven’s muscles locked up and he shut his eyes, waiting for the claws to strike him..
Raker suddenly yowled in pain. Seven’s eyes burst open to see the other Numbers repeatedly attacking Raker, forcing him out of the Ring. The battling cats around them stopped to watch the spectacle and eventually Raker was forced out of the Ring and backed away, hissing madly at the Numbers who stayed in. One and Two hissed back and Raker transitioned his gaze to Seven. Raker smiled cruelly and turned around, walking away as if nothing had happened.
The other Numbers walked towards Seven and helped him to his paws. The small tabby cat felt his muscles relax and he smiled weakly at his friends.
“Thanks…” he murmured.
“Of course.” One said, “For some reason, Raker seems to be going after you, specifically. Watch out for yourself, okay?”
Seven nodded. “Right.”
“Good job, kittens.” one of the warriors said from behind them, “But you’ll need to do even better than good if you want to survive here.”
The other kittens looked away but One glared defiantly up at him, “I thought you were on patrol, Sarengo.”
Sarengo smirked, showing hideous yellow teeth, “Ended early. Chaos didn’t have a chance.”
One huffed and turned his back on Sarengo, walking back into the ranks of the Numbers. Sarengo smirked and turned away as well, striding through the dissolving fight as the warriors went back to their business.
“Two, come on.” One muttered once she was close enough, “Let’s go.”
Two seemed surprised but nodded, getting up to follow him.
Three looked up, surprised, and darted after, asking, “Where’re you going?”
“We’ll be back soon.” One assured him, “Don’t worry about it.”
The other kittens broke into worried murmuring as One and Two disappeared into the camp, but Three, being the third oldest, stepped up to quiet their fears.
“We’ll be alright,” he told them, “One and Two have never given us a reason to doubt them. We’ll be fine until they get back.”
Four was about to say something when he suddenly coughed terribly and stumbled backwards, bumping into Six. She continued coughing for a while, tears running out of her eyes and the others rushed to her side, concerned.
“Are you okay, Four?” Three asked, nosing her ear. It took a few seconds, but Four finally stopped coughing and looked weakly up at them, shaking slightly.
“I-I’m fine, Three…t-the camp’s just really dusty, that’s all.” She murmured.
“You were fine this morning…are you sick? Do you need to see the Healer?” Three asked her.
Four shook her head, more insistently this time, “No. I’m fine.”
Six’s yellow eyes flared with rage and - grief?- and he spat, “It starts…”
All eyes turned to him.
“What starts?” Seven asked, if a little hesitantly.
“We’re starting to die, that’s what.” Six hissed, “We all knew it was coming, and it’s starting now.”
“You don’t know that!” Eight protested. Six rounded on her.
“And neither do you! Four’s sick already! We barely survive every single day! One and Two know it’s happening so they want to get away from us and better their chances of survival!” the black tabby spat.
“That’s enough, Six!” Three exclaimed, standing up to his full height, “One and Two will be back soon! They have not given up on us and they aren’t deserting us! Stop scaring everyone with your tales, already!”
Six glared at him but looked away, ending the conversation. Three went around to soothe everyone’s fears but Seven sat away from the group, detached, his mind whirling with thoughts.
That night, the air in the Numbers’ den was tainted with coughing. Seven listened to it for a long time, knowing Four was suffering, but having no way of comforting her. Eventually, his tired eyes closed and he fell into dreamless slumber.
The mornings are a strain on everyone.
It’s getting harder to get everyone up…
But Four doesn’t seem to be moving.
T
he next morning, the Numbers were somber and silent. Four’s sickness had struck her damaged core quickly and she had slept coughing. But the sleep was one she would never rise from; their number had fallen to seven.
Mange and Raker took her body out to the Deathyard, a section of the territory in the middle of a burnt grassland where all Rift cats were buried. They had given the Numbers a chance to say goodbye, and Seven noticed that Six had a very hard time letting go. Only then did he realize that Six had loved her.
Seven felt strangely isolated from the grieving Numbers. He himself grieved terribly, but when he counted who remained, he counted seven kittens. Seven. His number. He didn’t understand why that felt so…damning.
Eight had become seven. Was Six’s prediction coming true? Were they all going to die here? A hopeless feeling started welling up inside of him but he shook his head, trying to stifle it. He didn’t want to think like that. Thinking like that meant he was accepting his apparent inescapable demise without a fight…and that scared him.
Standing up, he made his way unsteadily over to where the other Numbers were sitting. They were huddled together, as usual, but they seemed aloof from each other. They were looking in separate directions, soaking in their own thoughts and grievances. Like he always would, Seven made his way over to One and sat beside him, needing his comfort.
One wrapped his tail around Seven and sighed. He looked down at his friend and said, “…it feels like I let her down.”
Seven tilted his head to the side and shook his head slowly, “Don’t…she was sick, and you aren’t a Healer…you couldn’t have done anything.”
One chuckled, but it was hollow and forced.
“Somehow that only makes me feel worse…”
The rest of that day carried on in silence. It was as if the Numbers were enclosed in a giant bubble, not quite muting the sounds of the Tribe, but quieting them considerably. It was almost as if the other Tribe cats saw this bubble as well, for they kept their distance from the grieving cats. The bubble kept their own silence, whispers, and hesitant thoughts inside, protected from the judgment of others.
Who would die next?
Were they all going to die from sickness? Or would some of them suffer a more noble demise – battle? Defending each other?
Where the others thought of how they would prefer to die, weighing the chances of a noble death, Seven found himself questioning those thoughts.
Was there even such a thing as a noble death? Here, in this place?
Watching the merciless fighting going on around him, outside of this protective bubble, the only answer that surfaced was no.
We are more terrified of death than ever.
We all want to survive. After all, who doesn’t?
But I am beginning to wonder who actually will.
(Rushing to finish here D:)
After Four's demise, Death seemed to follow at the heels of the Numbers more than ever. Their eyes seemed to open to the many ways they could, and did die.
Six and Eight died on patrol, when an ambush of Chaos Tribe cats attacked and they were unable to defend themselves. Three died in the Ring, when four senior warriors teamed up on him and ended him. Five died of illness, the same one that had taken Four away.
Seven's mind was close to cracking under the grief, and One and Two were not much better. Two became stiff and irritable, and One descended into depression. He became aloof and distant, dealing with the thought of failing his friends. Seven tried comforting many times, but One refused to listen to him.
One night, the three remaining Numbers convened in their den. Seven felt like he was being cornered by parents, especially in the way that his two older friends were looking at him.
“Seven, do you remember that day when Two and I left camp?” One asked, though his voice was hollow.
Seven nodded.
“There's a way out of camp. It's by the back end of camp, behind a screen of bushes. Go there tonight, and get out.” Two said seriously.
Seven looked at her, confused. “What are you—”
“Don't worry about it.” One said. “Just go. You'll know the right time to.”
That night, chaos ensued. Literally. Chaos Tribe cats stormed into the sleeping camp and attacked the dens, pulling warriors out and killing them instantaneously. Loud yowling and screams tore through the night and Seven, remembering what One and Two had told him, rushed for the exit they had told him about.
On his way there, he saw them battling a Chaos warrior between them. He hid in the shadows, watching the fight. In the end, all three had sustained fatal damage. The unnamed warrior stumbled off into darkness and Seven ran to his friends' sides.
“Seven...you should have been gone by now!” One exclaimed, though he was cut off by pained coughing.
“I-I...”
“Go, Seven! You're the only one left. Go!” Two urged, poking his paws with her nose.
“I-I don't want to leave you...” Seven murmured.
“Just go. We'll be fine.” One assured him. Seven knew it was a boldfaced lie, but he forced himself to turn around and run. Behind him, the noise of the camp faded and he kept running.
When he came to a river, he settled on the bank and looked for a way across. He found some stepping stones and jumped over them into unknown territory. Wherever he was, it smelled strongly of cats.
He wandered for a while, drinking heavily from the stream and trying to hunt for prey. But sadly, the Rift had only taught him fighting and strategy, despite his strongly pacifist nature.
One evening while he was traveling deeper into the territory, he was caught by surprise by an intimidating she-cat, who pinned him down and demanded his identity. Looking up into her eyes, Seven wasn't sure what to say. The tradition of naming kits for Numbers was a strictly rogue-tribe thing, and he could tell this was a clan cat. As if his scent of dead cats and blood wasn't enough of a giveaway, sharing his Number would be far worse.
But...he was a smart cat. Maybe he could find a way to trick her...?
Wait...trick! That worked!
“M-My name's...” he struggled to say this, “...Trick.”
“Trick?” she echoed. She affixed the scared tom underneath her and said, “Well, Trick, I am Arrowstar, leader of RiverClan.”
“Trick” felt his heart stop. RiverClan? He had been taught that the clans were cruel and vicious killers! ...Then again...the Tribe wasn't much better. His eyes betraying a hint of fear, he looked up at her, at a loss for words.
Arrowstar stared back and eventually said, “Would you like to join RiverClan?”
(Meep. LAZY ENDING IS LAZY D: I'm so sorry ;~
