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t h y n a m e ;;
-- tearshed

m o o n s ;;
-- 17 moons

s e x ;;
-- female

a l l e g i a n c e ;;
-- westclan

r a n k ;;
-- warrior

p o w e r ;;
-- soaring leap

l o o k s ;;
-- [As.] a very playful child, you might expect her to look as so. As if she's a

rough-and tumble sort of cat. INcredulously, this loosely fits her

description. Her misty coat of grays and whites, is groomed just like any

other. And her deep blue eyes show pure and innocent.


[Her.] fur is soft and medium-long in length. It is about the length of a

duckling's feather, and just as soft. It is not however, the same color. More

or less, it is almost completely white, except for the tips of her ears and

nose, and the rings on her tail, which are misty gray. Her fur is no more

groomed than anyone's else's, but she does take extra time to clean it.

[Unlike.] most described eyes, hers are of a different type. They are blue,

much like any other cat. However, they are deep. They are not black, nor

navy. They are lighter than that, proving sort of like this


[Her.] body type is peculiar. It is sort of stubby, the length of an average tail.

Though her legs are long and bony. She has a short neck, and a squat

nose. Her tail is thick and about the length of a tennis racket. She has

long, talon-like claws that have been overgrown and now are much

ingrown as well as out.

d i s p o s i t i o n ;;
-- [Generally]. loyal, Tearshed befreinds all with her clingy trait. She is often

very attached to someone in ways quite uncomfortable. She is always

very tightly comfortable around people in ways that make others

somewhat frantic. But at other times, it is good. When you are in need,

she is always there. She is always there and would truly give her life to

anyone if necessary.

[As]. well she holds yet another desirable trait much alike to her

friendliness. She is playful. Often people scorn her very dismantled mind.

She thinks fun is what life orbits around. It is the only element of a

well-enjoyed life. She wears a smile everywhere, even if anything is wrong.

Though this results in misundertanding, fr she is often very troublesome

for this reason.

[Unfortunately]. Tearshed holds quite loosely the feelings of others. Though a

true friend, she often sees others as pawns or playthings. She does not

understand the concept of dumping her problems on others. She is a very

dishonest person. She doesn't like to get in trouble, as much as she does

so she has perfected the trait of lying when needed. She blames others,

makes up excuses, and pushes herself into far greater depths.

t h e p a s t ;;
-- [Frostlace.] gave birth on a cold, barren night. At her side was a strong,

beautiful tom with rippling muscles. On his face, a map of his history.

Scars stretched over it like branches of a family tree. HIs name was

Gracegift.What was most interesting about Tearshed's birth was the sky. It

was lacking stars, only one shined brightly through the cloudless night.

Also strange was that Tearshed inherited none of her father or mother's

genes, as if born to neither of them.


[She.] was brought back to Westclan, where she lived happily for long moons

before being apprenticed. In this span she got into lots of trouble. As

much as she was independant, she was fretfully scared of the dark. She

never showed such fear, but you could see it in her eyes seldom her many

tries. She ventured out in the pure of day, escaping past the warriors.


[As.] an apprentice, she was valued as a skilled fighter in hunter. However,

she made the common mistake of mis-scenting. Her nose wasn't quite

good. And she could never hunt or fight in that dark, for some reason.



r p - e x a m p l e ;;
-- Worn and tired from the exhausting day, Larksong felt clumsy, if not careless. He carried along upon a gentle, winding path. It sloped downward twice, upwards once, but never much was levelly straight. PInes stood like orderly sticks around the path, bordered with ferns and framed with fallen leaves of auttumn.Everything was as deep orangey red, tinted gold by sun and dappled with a timber-like brown. It was a pleasantly hot leaf-fall, not yet to feel the cold, worn hands of devastating leafbare. The chipmunks scurried from place to place, difficult prey, as the rabbits hopped rapidly from tree to tree, easier, but not yet easy, as well did the squirrels absent mindedly scurrying about, and the voles and mice deeply arrogant over their size and sensitive feelings. Most distracting was the birdsong, catching on the breeze and wafting from the tree-branches on the chills.

Larksong felt pleasant, as was the weather, yet weary and absent. His smile was curved, and enjoyably smug, as if he was drunk on poppyseed. His fangs showed slight slivers through his crescent moon mouth like shards of stained white glass. Catching were his dull eyes, despite their usually-bold color, blue and crystal-clear, as if lacking some shiny component. They held their frost, but not their daimond, the orbs that dappled his white face. His fur was feathery and uplifted, snowy tipped and bright, and dazzled in the mid-afternoon sun. His stomach lacked much-needed fat, yet looked thicker at the front. Maybe he seldom had much plump, but his muscles hugged his long legs, especially his back.

And with his faltering features, came his arrogant thoughts. They weren't pleasant, nor grumpy in the least. More or less they were in fact mindless, carrying no special value or taste. His thoughts were simply on nothing satisfactory, nothing, as much as it seemed, was the full-on topic. The thing that bit at him most was nothing. Nothing in a way, was absolutely something. Nothing is an adjective, which is something. In a totally apprehensive topic, nothing is something in itself, defying its own definition inside itself tearing itself out. It was quite confusing, all the facts, the data, everything. Not only was it quite confusing, as you could neither could be doing nothing as well as its meaning reflected it. Quite certainly was nothing not nothing. You could never do nothing. You could lie about in the den and do 'nothing' but of course, you'd be lying around in the den, and still be doing just that! Not nothing.

He walked on farther, through the forest, surrounded by exactly his surroundings, which were certainly not nothing, as he lectured himself, he said just that. Until he found himself, quite concentrated. The scent firstly, flooded his mouth, making him shut it to keep himself from drooling. It hit him hard, yet softly. LIke a sharp nudge. It was clearly noticeable, but the smell slanted up to him , slowly growing. it was nothing to fear. And still, it captured him, tearing him down, slowly falling into face. He was concentrated. It was a wave, little at first, but then a tsunami; it drowned him. It was a stampede of a fawn, then the buffalo; and it left footprints on his nose. It was wolf.

You didn't often see them, especially of course, without their numbers. And with the rarity, Larksong felt as if they had been with him, all his life. he closed his eyes, deep sorrow, and opened them, deep pain. It was cut-throat, and the wolf had not yet come in sight. But it was there beside hi, haunting them. He shuddered as a voice whispered in his ears. It was not there, he could tell. It was ghost-like, clear, tranquil, peaceful, yet it could kill a thousand cats, if a thousand cats could hear the whisper. " Larksong, you know it, you know it, you know it, you know it, you know it, it haunts you, it lurks, it comes, it kills"

His eyes wandered corner to corner, though he wanted to keep them tight. he stood dead still, his fur on end, feeling blinded, yet so aware of the world around him. Until it came

The wolf was stocky, beautiful. " It is, it is, it is, it is here, it is here to kill, it is here to roam" With the site of it, he felt powerfless. It was large, the largest being seen in his life, bigger then a badger, and in the eyes of Larksong, bigger than a mountain. Stocky and well-built, he was thick, to his absolute everything. Well-fed, so you could see he wasn't hungry, he only wanted to slay. His long legs, thick and strong, gave way to small, large, overgrown claws that had not been bothered in the least to be cleaned of blood, they were smeared red. And their tips, gave him the shivers, like they were already filthy in his blood. His eyes were, red, redder than red, like flesh and gore, and blood, and like the burning fire, and like the sunset, and like what could not be, and what was. And his teeth, gleaming qhite, glittery, though expected to be tarnished in blood. But no, they had to glitter, like everything did. And his tarnished, ungroomed pelt, dull yet oh so catching, too dirty to be seen the color, tough hints of black shown through the grime.

He concentrated, hard, but then, harder, harder, harder, as none struck first, too afraid to, or too strategic to. And though both eyes gleamed, only one used it as a mask, a perfectionate mask, to hide his fear, his suffering, his pain inside. Because he knew. And as his eyes stared, and his fangs beared, he was sure he couldn't attack and win, for two reasons- This wolf had killed his parents, the bravest, to kill him, and he was nothing more than them. And his fear, biting hard on his stoamch, could not be overpowered by courage in the least.

And then he heard it, the terribel taunting, like something was smiling at him, like something was glaring, like something was there. But he couldn't turn, he would not lose. And though his eyes stared into the wolf's own, his mind was on the spirit, the playful, mocking spirit. The one that seemed to grab him in a a transe, in a beautiful, dead transe. It was a bird, a Tweto, tweeto, tweet. And the song of birds, just couldn;t be ignored, the beauty, it was unbearable.

But only then did the wolf choose to strike. HIs teeth bared, his claws sheathed, he had been anxious in the passed minute or so, and then he smiled, let his lower lips curve up, to show full length of his teeth, they gleaming. But with his front paws, he battered hi, scarring his belly, taking away his soul, mesmorizing his very head, and he knew this was a valuable win for him. So he leapt onto his stomach, knocking furthermore breath out of him, leaving him ffeeling so miserable inside, so desperately wraithing under his full weight. But suddenly, the owlf receded, as if the win was too much.

And it left Larksong still on the ground, feeling broken.


c o d e w o r d ;;
-- rainbow ponies!

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