Post by charlie on Nov 19, 2009 20:18:42 GMT -5
GENERAL
Name: Timberpelt
Name Explanation: Prefix - Given for his sturdy built and bark-colored pelt.
Suffix - Used in tandem with his prefix to denote the color of his fur.
Gender: Tom
Age: 45 moons (Just under four years.)
Clan: ThunderClan
Rank: Warrior
APPEARANCE
Body Type: Muscular, Athletic
Fur: A mix of greys and browns, darkening almost to black along his spine. Occasional flecks of white.
Eyes: Pale yellow
Markings: Brief black stripes at his shoulders and around his eyes.
Overall: i438.photobucket.com/albums/qq109/xa_theme_for_murderx/Xwildcat-1.jpg
Timberpelt is, quite frankly, enormous; broad-shouldered and chested with a powerful, vice-like muzzle and long, viciously curved porcelain fangs. His claws are black as pitch and quite long, weapons more than tools, and his cunning yellow eyes are those of a predator, always watching, assessing, examining, looking for an opening or a weakness. All who see that look feel compelled to hold their head and tail high, to put on a powerful facade, if only not to give him leave to strike. They feel the need to look strong, and watch their back.
His pelt is a myriad of earthy colors; browns and grays mixed and splashed across the majority of his body, tawny ears missing nicks in places, and russet-heather snout jawed with creamy-white, which flows down across his broad chest and shaggy underbelly. Black stripes lash his hackles, and his spine is slightly darker than the rest of him. He is missing two toes on his back right leg, and his body is spattered with a variety of battle-scars, which he wears as badges of honor.
PERSONALITY
Positive Traits: Tenacious, strong-willed, powerful, skilled in battle, high tolerance for pain, humorously satirical, steadfast, brave, amazing stamina.
Flaws: Impatient, lack of agility, undiplomatic, judgmental, one-track mind, harsh, intolerant, stubborn.
Fears: Peace, defeat, drowning.
Quirks: Can't stand inactivity, always has to be doing something. Doesn't seem to sleep much.
Ideals: He values strength, above all things. Strength, and the ability to persevere.
Overall: Timberpelt has only one thing on his mind at all times; battle. The gargantuan tom was born for it, and only ever feels truly alive in the rush of a fight. He fights with everything he has, always, and has only one wish in life; to find someone worthy of giving him a challenge, head-on, claw-to-claw. He hasn't a scrap of ambition in his body, with no wish to advance in rank; he has a sort of distant loyalty towards his Clan, but when the fighting starts, all bets are off. The only thing that matters then is that he finds the strongest cat the enemy has on their side, and takes them down. He gets fidgety in times of peace and inactivity, always seeming to pitting his strength to one task or another.
Despite his gruff, caustic attitude, Timberpelt can be somewhat likable. If you can prove your strength to him, he will be a loyal friend and comrade for life, revealing a dry, somewhat gruesome sense of humor and a genial nature that belies the beastly glint in his eyes.
HISTORY
Family: None living.
History: Timberpelt is born and bred ThunderClan, only kit of Silvertongue and Barkheart. He was a rough-and-tumble kitten from a young age, often scolded by his mother for being too rough with the other kits, and was indulged by his father, a great warrior of the clan, in being taught basic fighting moves to keep him entertained until he could be made an apprentice. Even so young, the thought of battle fascinated Timberpelt, the clashing of bodies and wills, the strength required to make it through each skirmish. He knew, even then, that this was what he wanted to do, always.
He became an apprentice just before turning six moons, as he was already quite large compared to his nursery mates, and was beginning to cause trouble with his rough nature. Barkheart was chosen to be his mentor, and under his father's strict tutelage, he soon became known as something of a prodigy among the Clan. For, while his size and strength sacrificed speed and agility in exchange, leaving him a somewhat poorer hunter than others, his fighting skills were phenomenal, and his stamina was laudable.
His first battle came when he was about thirteen moons of age, when it came time for ThunderClan to reclaim the Sunning Rocks. He showed no fear, only a sort of nervous apprehension, hardly sleeping a wink the entire day before the attack. His every muscle itched to be moving, screamed for use. When the time finally came, and he was chosen to join in the battle, his heart thrilled with excitement, his eyes wild with glee. It would be his first real taste of violence, and he would love every minute of it, his history to be written in violence and battle-cries.
When he was nineteen moons old, the Battle of the Gorge came, a period of uneasy peace finally broken. Timberpelt was thrilled when the simple return-mission digressed into heated combat, crying out in rageous joy, and was only pulled away by the command of the Clan higher-ups, reluctant to abandon the fight.
At twenty-five moons, he fought viciously at the Battle of Snakerocks, but was bitten by a large adder, and was confined to the medicine cat's den for some weeks, despite numerous escape attempts; because he was labeled as 'under observation', he was not permitted to participate in the Battle of the River.
Just after the coming of his thirty-seventh moon, the Second Battle of Fourtrees came, and even eight moons later, he is still bitter that he was forced to retreat with the rest of his Clan. Even seriously injured as he had been, he still maintains that he could have fought on.
Currently, his wounds have healed, and he itches for battle once more.
RP SAMPLE
It was such a marvelous thing, ambrosia to the senses; blood thrilling through his veins and rushing in his ears, seeming to slow time to a crawl, yet speed it almost too fast to see. The metallic tang of blood lanced at his nostrils and scent glands, sticking to the off-white fur of his lower jaw and to his porcelain fangs, vicious and curved. Claws like thin black thorns hooked into a ginger tabby pelt as those fangs came down into the ShadowClan tom's haunch, timber-shaded head shaking back and forth, ripping and tearing. The tom cried in pain, twisting to claw at the gargantuan ThunderClan warrior, the infamous Timberpelt, easily recognizable by his size, and that aggressive glint of the eyes, ever-present, disturbing.
Timberpelt grunted in irritation as his opponent's own fangs latched onto his tail in turn, pulling desperately. That actually stung a little. He released the tom's haunch and brought a massive paw to bear on his enemy's head, only to be dodged and grabbed by his ragged scruff, claws digging deep furrows into his shaggy underbelly. He snarled, feeling rivulets of blood well up to the surface beneath the onslaught, whipping around to smack away the annoyance, oblivious to the pain, though he knew it would hurt quite a bit later. The lither, skinnier tom danced away, laughing at his enormous foe, who was much less quick or agile; a cocky gleam that was distinctively ShadowClan emerged on his face, and Timberpelt sneered. He settled into a fighting stance, leaving several obvious holes in his defense, then struck out once more in a rudimentary move, allowing the ShadowClanner to evade him and leap about to his back. Smirking in anticipation, he was gratified when he felt a weight land on his broad shoulders, crying out in feigned surprise.
"Say good-bye, you great oaf!" The tom snickered over the rush of battle-cries all around them. Timberpelt grinned; oh how he lived for this.
"G'bye." He rumbled in a deep baritone, then employed an old trick his father (also a cat of substantial size) had taught him. He loosened his muscles, allowing his skin to fall slack, then drew every sinew taught, effectively entangling his opponent's claws within his skin. He then proceeded to rear up, causing the tom to cry out in shock and fear when he realized he could not free himself to jump out of the way. Timberpelt then fell onto his back, effectively crushing the ginger under his massive weight with a whoosh and a crack.
This, this was life.