[darkstripe] wind.clan

[Emma (: [one]]

ooc: Yes, I know the name is 'borrowed', but it fits him, so let it be known that Erin Hunter owns full rights to the name 'Darkstripe'.

Darkstripe
19 moons
tom-cat
WindClan
warrior

Appearance: Darkstripe is a name obviously chosen for the color and pattern of the tom's pelt. His thick, sleek fur of medium length is a rich dark brown in color, with even darker brown, nearly black stripes beginning upon the crown of his head, running down the length of his spine, and ending at the base of his promptly short tail. Splashes of white color the tom's sharply angled muzzle, thin chest, stomach, and all four meidum-sized paws, as well as upon the tip of his tail. As previously stated, Darkstripe's tail is signifigantly short, so that when wrapped around his body in a sitting position, the tip of it barely meets his front claws.

Darkstripe has a traditional WindClan build, being lean and fast upon long legs. However, the tom is also gifted with large, muscular shoulders and is of considerable general size, larger than most WindClan warriors even in his youth. His lengthy legs lend him imposing speed, while at the same time, his muscular shoulders allow him great strength in battle as well. A wedge shaped head with a sharply protruding muzzle gives him a knowledgable, masculine appearance.

The tom's eyes are a sparking, bright green, more vibrant in color than the sun dried grass that grows upon WindClan's plains. They have a naturally narrow shape, which gives them an involuntary glaring effect most of the time, as though Darkstripe can see straight through the object of his vision.


Personality: Ambition completely curves Darkstripe's life, perhaps for the worse. From the day he was born, the tom has wanted to be leader of his Clan, and the fact that he was given a prodege status within WindClan only helped further his ambitions.

As an apprentice, Darkstripe dedicated himself to his training with fierce enthusiasm, always working to get ahead of the older and more experienced apprentices. The tom liked to shine above others, and appear the strongest, fastest, or simply best at whatever he attempted. He accepted the praise his successful actions earned him with faux modesty, and eventually grew to thrive upon the compliments. If he was not valued most in his Clan for something, he was working to be so, and when he graduated to a warrior at the early age of ten moons, the leader almost sang Darkstripe's praises.

The tom's success is not without its merit, however. Always determinedly throwing himself into his warrior duties, Darkstripe can often work himself to the edge of collapsing, as he refuses to admit his self-limitations. He has dedicated himself completely to the warrior code, and puts loyalty to his Clan above everything else in his life, except perhaps his current status of power. With a smooth, sensible demeanor, Darkstripe has a way with befriending, and occasionally manipulating, others to his will. The tom also knows it is unhelpful to make enemies, and so strives to have a positive relationship with most cats, whatever that may entitle, and keep an encouraging reputation beneath him. Darkstripe despises fear, and, in an effort to hide such emotions from his Clanmates, faces all challenges with a forced enthusiasm.


History:

"Is this your entire catch, Darkpaw?" Brownstripe sat just before the camp entrace, his bushy brown tail wrapped over his large front paws. The tom's blue eyes were narrowed against the bright leaf-green sunlight as he spoke, so that the mentor appeared displeased with his apprentice's catch of two mice and a field pigeon. Well, he needn't be.

"Of course not," the younger tom mumbled through his mouthful of fur and feathers as he neared him. Darkpaw slowed to a halt beside his mentor and dropped the freshly caught prey upon the ground, pausing afterward to spit out a loose feather that had caught upon the roof of his mouth. "I have two more loads buried back on the plains that I have to go bring back."

"That's more like I expected," Brownstripe replied approvingly, rising to his paws. "Come on, let's get these inside, and then I'll help you bring back the rest." Darkpaw nodded obeidently, and bent again to pick up the two mice.

"And Darkpaw," the elder tom added as he lowered his head to pick up the dead bird. The apprentice paused and glanced up at his mentor with expectant green eyes. "Excellent assessment."

The apprentice just nodded and picked up his catch, but as he turned and padded into the tunnel entrance to the WindClan camp, he had an almost approving look upon his tabby face.


"And," the WindClan leader continued, her head now turning to search through the assembled cats for a single dark tabby pelt. "WindClan has gained itself a promising new warrior; at the beginning of the moon, Darkstripe earned his new warrior name."

All around him, Darkstripe sensed heads turning in his direction, and felt the heat of many gazes resting upon his pelt. But rather than self-consiousness, the warrior felt a warming sense of pride glowing beneath his pelt, and he lifted his chin before every pair of eyes.

"Darkstripe drove a rogue off WindClan territory by himself the day after his warrior ceremony," his leader stated proudly. "He will be a true asset to the Clan."


Darkstripe paused outside the shallow dirt tunnel, snagged in a resentful moment of hesitation. The enormity of what he was about to do was staring him in the face, like some evil, wide-eyed creature. If his actions were ever found out? It would completely destroy his chances of ever ruling WindClan; in fact, it would more than likely get him exiled from his Clan. But if he didn't do it? This was the best oppurtunity that had come across him since the idea had first wormed its way into his mind, so many moons ago, moons of careful study and planning. Could he, could WindClan, afford to hesitate? No.

His logical mindset already supressing his nerves, Darkstripe flexed his unsheathed claws once in the thick sand of the WindClan camp's floor, before resuming his walk down the badger tunnel that lead into the medicine cat's den.

"Aspenmask?" the tom called out blindly into the semi-darkness, his ears perked for any sounding trace of the old she-cat. "Are you down here?" As he stopped in the mouth of the underground den, the sound of a pebble clattering across the soft, grainy sand echoed around the walls.

"Of course I'm down here. Where else would I be?" Darkstripe almost jumped at the sudden sound of her rasping voice-- almost. The small medicine cat had emerged from the shadows gathered at the back of her den and was staring expectantly at the younger cat in the dim, filtered sunlight. After pausing to take in the sight of her visitor, she continued without an answer. "You seem perfectly fine, so what do you want?"

"Er, it's Blackclaw, actually," Darkstripe replied slowly. He sat, seemingly unthinkingly, down to the side of the den's entrance. "He must have eaten some rotten prey, because he's in the warrior's den now, grumbling so bad he woke everybody else up. He claims he couldn't even stand up to come to the medicine den, it's that bad." Before him, he saw the medicine cat's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"He's just being overdramatic," the she-cat grumbled, but she turned busily and disappeared back into the darkness. She returned a moment later, a bundle of leaves clamped between her jaws. Darkstripe stepped politely to the side as the medicine cat bustled past him and out of the den's exit, muttering to herself all the while. He paused for a moment longer, listening tensely to see whether or not the medicine cat would notice his lingering in the old badger nest. When no call sounded, he stood and swept hurriedly to the den's rear on silent paws.

At the back of the den, Darkstripe paused uncertainly. It was too dark, even in the bright morning sunlight, to see much more than the shapely silhouttes of different herb clusters, and with every deep breath that the tom attempted to sort out, a flurry of sharp and tingling smells overwhelmed his senses. For a brief moment, the task of finding just one berry seemed practically impossible. Darkstripe closed his eyes then, and tried to recall the exact scent of the small red berries that Brownstripe had once, many, many moons ago, warned him against ever placing in his mouth. As Darkstripe opened his eyes again, he thought he could catch an uncertain trace of it among the clustered rest, fainter and farther away than the others. Lifting his paws high and treading lightly, Darkstripe continued farther back to the rear wall of the den.

Bending his head, the tabby gave the air a sharp sniff, and this time the scent of the deathberries was distinct upon the air. Stored in a shallow pile and pressed into the farthest corner of the medicine den was an old store of wrinkled, pathetic round red berries, or, as Darkstripe knew them as, deathberries.

The tom could feel his heartbeat quicken as he found the sought-after herbs. Now, all he had to do was get an unnoticable amount out of the shallow hole and stash them somewhere out of the way up above. Gingerly, he rolled a little less than half of the stock away from the wall and before his white-tipped paws. Careful not to squeeze the juice from the small round fruits, Darkstripe lowered his head and laid the berries upon his tounge, closing his mouth awkwardly around them. Hurriedly backing out of the dark, the tom turned and shuffled back to upper ground.

Back in the main clearing, it was as if StarClan itself had graced Darkstripe's plan to success. No other cat loitered in the camp, and not even Aspenmask had returned from the warrior's den across the clearing. Darkstripe had the perfect oppurtunity to hide his stash of lethal herbs, and pushing his way into a clump of heather growing beside WindClan's fresh-kill pile, the tabby did just that.


"Oakclaw," Darkstripe quietly greeted the elder tom as he padded into the WindClan camp clearing, his pelt still covered with dust from his past sundown patrol, followed by a restless late-evening hunt. The deputy was crouched to the side of the clearing, alone, his haunted blue gaze fixated upon a lonesome clump of dried heather as the younger tom approached. "How runs the prey?"

The older tom's only reply was a half-hearted grunt in Darkstripe's direction. Irritation flashed in the tabby's green eyes as he stopped before the solid brown tom, but Oakclaw had not looked up to see it. If he had, Darkstripe was unsure the dim light would have revealed it anyway.

"Have you eaten?" Darkstripe ventured after a drawn out moment of silence. Oakclaw said nothing, and Darkstripe took advantage of the silence to glance surreptiously about the clearing. The late hour had driven all other WindClan cats to the comfort of their den; no soul remained in the clearing. Again, Darkstripe was struck by the convenience of the moment.

"No." The muttered reply from the old tom was faint and sudden, and Darkstripe jumped from the sound amid the silence. It took the tabby a long moment to process the tom's delayed reply.

"Oh," Darkstripe whispered his answer hurriedly. "Let me get you something, then. That is, if you don't mind my company along with your meal." The brown tom just grunted again in reply, though Darkstripe couldn't sense a refusal in the sound, so turning, he padded quietly across the clearing and over to the cold pile of gathered prey bodies.

Again, as the tabby neared the fresh-kill pile for the second time that day, the blood rushing in his veins began to pick up speed, pumping so strongly that he could feel each pulse throb beneath his fur. Upon his shoulders, the tom could feel his pelt bristling against his will. But it was not with fear or anxiety that his fur raised upwards- rather, it was with a sense of exhilertion that stirred his blood. Finally, all that he had planned for was happening tonight. Within the moon, he would, no doubt, become WindClan's deputy. Who else could the leader pick, but him?

Flicking his ears with excitement, Darkstripe positioned himself just so before the pile that both it and the heather brush could not be seen by the elder brown tom. Working quickly, the tabby reached into the yellow stalks with extended claws, and pawed out the small round berries beside the prey. Dragging a small, darkly furred mouse from the cool pile, Darkstripe began crushing the berries upon the sandy ground, and smearing the poisonous juice upon the brown fur of the morsel. In the dark moonlight, the red stain could not be seen upon either prey nor paw.

When all the berries were reduced to scrambled scraps within the sand, Darkstripe scuffed the ground around the remains to bury the berrie skins and juice beneath another thick layer of sand and dirt, before turning and, picking the mouse carefully up by the scruff of its neck, carrying it across the clearing to the old tom. Along the way, the tabby cautiously managed to drag the damp surface across the ground, to apply a thin layer of dirt that would help mask the freshly crushed scent of the berries.

"I picked the best one for you," Darkstripe announced quietly as he arrived at the old tom's side and dropped the prey beside the deputy, dirtied side facing upwards. Oakclaw just nodded, once, before sinking his fangs into the dusty hide of the mouse, not giving it a second thought as he teared off almost the entire surface of the mouse's side.

Darkstripe knew when the poision had sunk in from the sudden rigidity of the old deputy's form. His entire body seemed to have locked up; his brown head snapped up, and suddenly his blue eyes were glaring up at Darkstripe with all the cold hate that the tabby had seen in the world. Then the tom was thrashing upon the ground, attempting to force the poisioned meat back up his throat and onto the ground. Quick as a rabbit, Darkstripe leaped forward and bowled the old tom to the ground, placing a white paw over the deputy's scarred muzzle. It was not another cat that Darkstripe was killing; it was a weakness of his Clan. Therefore, he was only abiding by the warrior code, by putting his Clan foremost, above the individual.

Once the thrashing form had stilled, Darkstripe had dragged the deputy's lifeless body to the outermost edge of WindClan territory, where it was common for dogs to run around during early hours of the morning. There he left it, where the devastated remains of the old tom were found by the dawn patrol, later on in the morning. No questions were cropped as the Clan accepted and mourned Oakclaw's tragic death. However, the next day, Darkstripe was not chosen to become deputy, and his ambitions continued to burn beneath his dark tabby pelt.


*Aspenmask and Oakclaw are just old charries of mine, and I do not plan on applying either of them for WindClan.


RP Sample: Not needed. (See Feather's profile.)

[Hollystar]

Approved!