Post by Deleted on Oct 22, 2019 14:21:46 GMT
Greyowl is the essence of robotics. It is as if each thin strand of hair on his body has been wired to frown upon the ordeal of feeling; so emotionless that the thrum of a heartbeat inside of his chest has been rumoured, questioned, even doubted, to the point that some wonder if his heart persists to beat at all. His eyes, a hauntingly pale green, are soulless. His expression does not so much as twitch, his eyes passionless, and his lips a tight line, always with an enigmatic display of apathy upon his unchanging face. There is quite simply nothing to be had from this tom, for he is far beyond the point of seeing reason. He is narrow-minded to a fault, honing a perspective that is entirely idealistic, being based upon the belief that there is an achievable state of perfection that both himself and his clan can reach with satisfactory effort and dedication. Emotions, presumable by this point, are not a necessity to him, so he would steadfastly deprive every cat of the ability to feel if it was within his power. Despite seeming distant, detached, or perhaps even outright cold-blooded, his inability to be affected or swayed by emotion gives him the kind of objectiveness in times of hardship that is almost otherworldly. He will not form a personal relationship with any individual that exceeds his relationship with another individual, and because of this, he can settle disputes or offer clinical viewpoints without harboring favouritism or bias. Greyowl is never untruthful, so he can be entrusted to soothe violent affairs both precisely and efficiently, offering his aid out of a sense of duty as opposed to a genuine concern for the well-being of involved parties.
Just because he is not perturbed for another’s sake does not make him any less inclined to put his life on the life so that someone else might live to see another day. If there is a plausible way in which he can predict the survival of himself and the life in question, then he will be quick to take action; however, this odd, seemingly misplaced brand of heroism extends to a select few only – if the cat is of his clan, then he will protect them as he is able, but if they are not, then he will let them die, and he will decide to let them die with the same ease it takes to draw a breath. Greyowl does not burden himself with the excess responsibility of all feline life, for he quite simply does not care what tragedies might strike a clan that is not his own. He will not sympathize with an outsider to WindClan because, quite frankly, he can hardly sympathize with a clanmate. If he could have it entirely his way, then cross-clan romances would never contaminate the mind and switching allegiances would be extremely out of the question. He does not believe that a cat should be welcomed into the ranks of a clan that they are not born into. Ideally, a grave adversity would afflict any and all unworthy of holding WindClan’s regal name.
Greyowl finds the morality of all but a leader – and even they are eventually reduced to the same lifespan as those beneath them – to be fickle. It can be toyed with, manipulated, and altered, all within the blink of an eye because of a series of choices and consequences. In Greyowl’s mind, there is a proper way to live, and a proper way to serve as a warrior. While his definition is likely too strict and constricting for the majority to take on, he will nonetheless serve as an asset to his clan because of it, focusing wholeheartedly on his clan’s growth and strength until his own morality decides to turn against him.
Greyowl’s outrageous lack of humanity, paired with his toneless disposition, allows him to speak with immense elocution, his word choice often beautiful enough to make up for the glassy, faraway look in his eyes. His mind behaves like a machine, as professional and organized as a filing system. He absorbs insults as if they are of the same consistency as compliments, for he is too emotionally lacking to be bested by verbal abuse. He does not concern himself with the words, or the actions, of a cat that is not WindClan born and bred, although a clanmate is equally incapable of getting through to him. Communication is how conflicts are solved and bonds are formed, so Greyowl becomes morally questionable, ambiguous, for not valuing the usefulness of communication or the roles it plays in the development of society. Greyowl believes that the purpose of communication is simply to reach an understanding, to exchange or gain information, and finds that it is otherwise a waste of his voice. In regards to pointless chatter for the sake of it, Greyowl becomes coldly dismissive, sooner to imply his lack of interest than carry on a dissatisfying conversation. His focus is his clan, and everything he does comes back to benefiting his clan one way or another. If his attention is desired, then a cat must attempt to benefit the clan, better his understanding of how to better the clan himself, aid the supremacy of the clan or, to his quiet distaste, engage in small-talk while doing something, like hunting, for the prosperity of the clan.
He attends to the fortune of WindClan so authentically, so intensely, that he holds his own will in higher regard than Starclan’s. He finds the clan of the stars to be painfully misguided, for they have taken from him until there was nothing left to take, and for that his loyalty has recoiled. His distrust is not to be mistaken for disbelief, for he is a believer, but he will not attempt to prove this if he stands accused. Greyowl does not care how he is viewed by his peers. Even though his actions might sometimes seem cruel, perhaps even wrong, he does not act unless he wholeheartedly believes that it is in the clan’s best interest. His care for WindClan will cater to everyone who serves WindClan with similar devotion, but not always in a way that will seem fair, just, or considerate. Personal feelings are of no relevance to him because feelings are nothing more than a hindrance. He cannot be talked into something that he does not believe in; he cannot see reason when it goes against everything that he will mercilessly strive for his clan to possess. If Starclan, their deity, has no hope of influencing him – their riddles and prophecies accounted for, certainly, but not always treated with the reverence they deserve – then there is certainly no hope for the common cat. He does not care about his peers directly, about their opinions, feelings, but the most important thing in his eyes is undoubtable loyalty and proper service. If he can check these boxes, then he will do what he believes is best for his peers with no consideration for what they believe is best for themselves.
Silverfur was young, reckless, and pretty to boot, eyes a dazzling blue and fur true to her namesake. She was never known to appreciate boundaries, opting to ignore them in pursuit of self-interest. Sleetfang, on the other hand, was a perfectly average tom in almost every way, but there was something appealing about his soft mannerisms and gentle, shy looks. He settled down quickly with a she-cat named Fogheart with whom he was incredibly happy, anyone could see it, but their happiness was not going to stop Silverfur from chasing after something she wanted – and what she tended to want most was what she could not have.
Silverfur’s pregnancy, for rather obvious reasons, became a point of contention in Sleetfang and Fogheart’s relationship. Fogheart could not find it within herself to forgive Sleetfang, and she blamed Silverfur profusely for coming between them. Over the moons, she became increasingly vindictive. She, too, carried Sleetfang’s kittens, and she did not know how to feel about them; they were a constant reminder that Sleetfang had loved and wanted her, but loved and wanted Silverfur no less. Although she actively sought revenge, she knew that she could not act until the kits were born.
Silverfur only had one kit in her litter, Greykit. Fogheart, on the other hand, coddled her two kits with great satisfaction, a she-kit named Whitekit and a tom named Black-kit. The two mothers did not acknowledge each other in the nursery save for the fleeting, spiteful glance, allowing the three half-siblings to grow up without any knowledge of their shared blood. It was Sleetfang, inevitably, who could not tolerate his, Silverfur’s and Fogheart’s drama affecting their kits’ relationship with one another. Against their mothers’ wishes, Sleetfang took the three of them aside to explain as gently as he could the way in which they were related. Whitekit and Black-kit took the news well, their innocent minds unable to grasp the complexity of the situation, and tried to include Greykit in their games; however, having been a quiet and distant kit since the moment he opened his eyes, Greykit did not express a lot of interest in playing with his half-siblings. Eventually, Whitekit and Black-kit simply stopped asking.
Greypaw was apprenticed to a battle-worn senior warrior named Ratscar. His ceremony took place on the same day as Whitepaw’s and Blackpaw’s, the three of them touching noses with their respective mentors to affirm their rank ascension – it was then, just as Greypaw’s nose brushed against Ratscar’s, that catastrophe struck. From within the crowd, Silverfur had caught Fogheart’s eye and then, in an attempt to rile her, cozied up to Sleetfang. Fogheart was overwhelmed with hatred, and in a moment of pure anger she lost control, shoving her way through the crowd to attack Silverfur from behind. The attack caught the crowd by surprise, so much so that Silverfur’s fate was sealed before anyone could properly react. Whitepaw and Blackpaw stared, stunned, mouths hanging open, as their mother was ripped off of Silverfur’s corpse and sentenced to immediate exile. Ratscar shielded Greypaw’s view with his body, but the noble gesture was unnecessary. With uncanny dismissiveness, Greypaw headed for the apprentices’ den to pick out his nest, leaving the sounds of uproar far behind him. Ratscar took this as a strange coping mechanism, opting to give him some time alone to process what had happened.
The three apprentices did not converse much after that. It was partly because Whitepaw and Blackpaw were appalled about what their mother had done to Greypaw’s. The other part was because, deep down, they did not feel comfortable around Greypaw, finding him profoundly unsettling. WindClan recovered quickly from the incident. Soon enough, it was nothing more than a bad memory, and one did not talk about it unless they wished to be scolded promptly; they could not afford – nor would they tolerate – distrust between clanmates. Ratscar, thankfully, did not go easy on Greypaw in training because of his loss. While he could not understand how Greypaw was taking his mother’s death so well, he did not particularly care to try. Their mentor-apprentice relationship proved to be professional, strict, and focused, which suited Greypaw just fine.
One evening, Ratscar took Greypaw’s training to the outskirts of WindClan territory: The long distance was to work his muscles, and the hour was to sharpen his senses in the dark. All went well for a while until, of course, it did not. Fogheart had not been seen since her exile, but Greypaw and Ratscar recognized her immediately beneath the roguish mats in her fur, behind the dark, hungry eyes. She made some kind of wild, incoherent speech about Silverfur being scum, her bloodline scum, it needed to be wiped out – today, Greyowl does not remember it in great detail.
What he remembers is the moment Fogheart lunged for him, aiming to kill. Ratscar intercepted the ravenous she-cat, throwing all of his weight into her; he earned himself another two scars in the tussle, one where her teeth sank into his meaty shoulder and another across his cheek when she pinned him, toying with him as if he was more mouse than cat. Ratscar exchanged a quick, telling glance with his apprentice, and then planted his paws on either side of Fogheart’s face to hold her steady against him; she lashed out at his face and neck with her claws in a frenzy, but Ratscar maintained his grip long enough for Greypaw to latch his teeth around her throat, clutching until he could taste warm blood. Fogheart fell limp, and then Greypaw pushed her body aside and tried to nudge Ratscar onto his feet. Ratscar was in critical condition, but Greypaw supported his weight the whole way back to WindClan camp without a word of complaint. He did not spare Fogheart’s corpse another glance, not even a passing thought.
For the second time now, Greypaw found himself in the center of a scandal. Ratscar was urgently assisted to the medicine cat’s den and, in the meantime, Greypaw was questioned thoroughly. He told his version of events, a true account down to every last detail, but Ratscar did not live to confirm them. He was believed if not only because there was no reason to doubt him, and no proof to support a claim against him if it was made in the first place. That incident was the last straw for Blackpaw and Whitepaw. Before, his half-siblings could not look at him out of pity and shame. Now, they were truly afraid to look at him, and felt that they had good reason. There was no question that their mother had done terrible things, and perhaps even deserved to die, but she was still their mother. It was difficult to share a den with the cat who took her away once and for all, solidified it in death.
Nowadays, there are various versions of what happened that night: Some believe Greyowl’s story wholeheartedly, whether it is because they trust in his loyalty to WindClan or simply feel sorry for everything he endured as a young cat, while others whisper that it was him who turned on Ratscar next, discovering that he had a thirst for blood after his first kill. The second recount is, of course, far-fetched and hardly taken for fact, but there is no argument that something is deeply disturbing about the tom that does not appear to feel.
He was briefly reassigned to a middle-aged she-cat named Gracklefire. Where Ratscar had been interested in the physical aspects of warriorhood, Gracklefire was more interested in Greypaw’s unusual mind. She spent hours honing it with him, relishing in his thought processes. He learned from her in ways that he had not been able to from Ratscar. By his twelfth moon, he recognized how far his mind would take him, and he was aptly named Greyowl to signify his calculative, owlish perspective. His half-siblings were named Whitecrane and Blackeagle.
Greyowl’s interactions with his half-siblings remained minimal into warriorhood. They would speak when they were assigned to patrols together, and while it seemed like Whitecrane was slowly warming up to the possibility of looking beyond their past, Blackeagle would sparsely even offer him a curt nod in way of greeting. He saw his first apprentice, Cloudpaw, into a graceful hunter by the name of Cloudtail. His second apprentice, however, did not go quite as smoothly.
Her name was Leafpaw and, as far as apprentices went, Greyowl thought her painfully average. She listened quietly to his instructions, and took his advice to heart when it was given, but she was soft-hearted and tended to shy away from conversation; nonetheless, Greyowl had no reason to believe that she would not eventually become an efficient enough warrior, especially after he was finished with her. Blackeagle had an unusual fascination with her, and because of it he often overlooked his differences with Greyowl in the hopes to accompany them on lessons. Greyowl, oblivious to Blackeagle’s feelings (or perhaps too disinterested to pay them any mind) allowed this, believing it would be useful for Leafpaw to receive training tips from other warriors. Everything changed when she had the honour of attending her first gathering. Leafpaw’s attention was snatched by a RiverClan tom close to her in age, and Greyowl’s skepticism grew throughout the evening until he forcefully separated them. Leafpaw did not seem happy about this, but at the time she did not complain. WindClan returned to their territory, and Leafpaw’s apprenticeship continued without incident. On her twelfth moon, she was renamed Leafstorm.
On her fifteenth moon, Leafstorm partook in the worst kind of betrayal. She left WindClan for love, and not just any love, but one within RiverClan. Greyowl did not spare her a glance when she left despite her attempts to catch his eye, but there was no way to miss the look of grief that swept through Blackeagle’s eyes. Greyowl recognized how his half-brother must have loathed the RiverClan tom that captured Leafstorm’s heart – a good thing, truly, for any fuel in WindClan’s animosity towards outsiders was inevitably in their best interest.
Leafstorm was nothing more than an afterthought to Greyowl by the time WindClan and RiverClan had an unpleasant exchange of words on the border escalate into a moon long brawl. Once, Greyowl encountered Leafstorm on the battlefield, and his former apprentice immediately stiffened, unsure whether to attack or pretend that she did not see. Greyowl made that decision for her, pinning her beneath him effortlessly, for her surprise at seeing him, having to fight him, made her movements clumsy and awkward. Without even thinking, without even considering the code, Greyowl heaved her body over the side of the cliff. He did not care that he had trained her. He did not care that she might have once admired him. She was scum in his eyes the second she betrayed her loyalties to WindClan for cross-clan love, just like he had been to Fogheart many moons before, the product of her own lover’s betrayal. It had been easy to kill her, but difficult to anticipate the feeling of claws in his back, pulling him off of her limp body with delirious force. Greyowl whirled and, for the first time in his life, hung suspended in indecision, for he was not staring into the face of a vengeful RiverClan warrior – but Blackeagle. Greyowl waited for him to make the first move. If he did, then Greyowl would renounce him as a WindClan warrior no differently than he had renounced Leafstorm, and then fight him like an enemy. Just when it seemed like Blackeagle was going to give in, to attack, he turned his back on Greyowl with a hiss and fled into the battle. Greyowl turned away, too, and he was met with the shocked expression on Whitecrane’s face before throwing himself into another fight.
In the following days, Blackeagle was uneasy to say the least. He tried to catch Greyowl’s eye, anticipating that his half-brother would have attempted to rally the clan against him for attacking one of his own; however, no such rally ever came about, and Greyowl neither quelled his concerns nor made an official statement about his almost-betrayal. Even though Blackeagle had attacked Greyowl, he had found it within himself to recognize the error in his ways, and he returned to WindClan a loyal warrior, expecting his punishment. Greyowl never found out if Blackeagle was thankful for Greyowl keeping quiet, nor did he ever find out if Whitecrane was grateful or thought he deserved to be punished. They are half-siblings, joined by Sleetfang’s blood, but there is no common ground between them. Greyowl no longer blames Blackeagle for his near-slip, although he remains wary of him to this day, cautious of the potential for that fire, that rage, to ignite within him again, making him once and for all unworthy of his place in WindClan.
@greyowl: [i]a long-haired grey and white tom with pale green eyes[/i]
→ played by [b]nyx[/b]
IMAGE CREDIT: image source.
FATHER: SLEETFANG, WindClan warrior
→ A black and white tom with yellow eyes
→ Up for adoption
→ A light grey she-cat with blue eyes
→ Killed by Fogheart
HALF-BROTHER: BLACKEAGLE, WindClan warrior
→ A black tom with yellow eyes
→ Up for adoption
HALF-SISTER: WHITECRANE, WindClan warrior
→ A tall white she-cat with green eyes
→ Up for adoption
→ A scarred dark brown tom with yellow eyes
→ Died from wounds sustained in battle with Fogheart
→ A black she-cat with green eyes
→ Died of old age
APPRENTICE: CLOUDTAIL, WindClan warrior
→ A white she-cat with yellow eyes
→ NPC [open to being replaced by an existing character of appropriate age, PM me]
→ A brown tabby she-cat with green eyes
→ Killed by Greyowl
MADE BY ★MEULK OF GS