Post by Deleted on Apr 24, 2009 21:13:20 GMT -5
A Bit About You
Your Name ∙ Moira
Out of Character Name ∙ Breezy; Moira
Chatango Username ∙ Sandetiger, Pureginius, Nuttytreekitty
Contact Information ∙ PM, Email, Chatango, Cbox, Staff Desk, MSN
Other Characters You Play ∙ Breezefeather
Time Zone ∙ Central
How You Found Us ∙ dunno.Introductions
Character's Name ∙ Ghostheart
Age ∙ 49 moons
Gender ∙ tom
Residing ∙ Shadowclan
Character Type ∙ medicine catMindset
Overall Personality ∙ Ghostheart can only truely be described as no-nosense and effecient. His long years as a medicine cat apprentice and later as the sole healer of his clan has given him a healthy respect for time and death -- of which makes him appear to the outside world as jaded --, and he's come to the conclusion that the social dancing most cats go around serves him no purpose as medicine cat. Why waste valuble time explaining to cats what they can see and smell themselves, when he can be healing and or gathering herbs to heal?
That being said, when Ghostheart does have to speak to others during healing sessions and whatnot, he tends to be brisk and to the point, not really being one to mince his words. He'll tell things as they are, won't dress them up to seem nice, and he doesn't give a whit one way or the other how those listening to him take it.
Which means that, yes, Ghostheart is a little autocratic when it comes to his dealings with others. Do this, do that, and for Starclan's sake, don't do that, all barked out with calm and clear-minded authority. He's even been known to order leaders around and get his way, though this is usually related to some sort of medical emergency; naturally, this gives him some precedence when it comes to authority.
Well, maybe Ghostheart is a little jaded. He's seen many die under his paw, through sickness or injury; blood has become such a commomplace for him that he frequently dreams of it (and not in a horribly bad way); and his view in life does lean a bit toward the pessimistic side. He's found, however, that sometimes, if you look at the worse outcomes, the actual outcome can seem a just that much better. [yay for mind games!]
It should be noted that Ghostheart has never felt the loss of not being able to take a mate or have kits; really, it hasn't. When he accepted the position of medicine cat apprentice, he agreed to abide by those laws whole-heartedly, and willingly gave up the chance to have a mate or sire kits - and really, he's not all that keen on the idea, either. From what he's observed, love can be a real pain, and kits... Kits can be a nuisance. They're cute and all, but they're also loud, and somewhat foolish.
However, just because Ghostheart isn't terribly fond of kits does not mean he will not interact with them. No, quite the opposite, in fact. Ghostheart, despite his gruff and cantankerous outlook, is actually an extremely loyal tom; he would do almost anything for his clan and clanmates; should they require a healer, Ghostheart is not one to meander his way up to the needy. Rather, he is swift, fast, ferocious, furious, and ruthless, reacting as quickly as he possibly can in the given situations.
Despite being so loyal, Ghostheart maybe doesn't always follow the warrior code down to the last letter, and will always question the code and the leader's verdicts ion some way, shape, or form; no longer is he one to move soley on blind faith, for all that he is a medicine cat that communes with the ilk of Starclan. The tom has a tendancy to do what he feels is right, of which sometimes is not in the interests of the code and leader.
It's a good thing, then, that Ghostheart has learned to rein in his nastier habits of youth. When he was young, he suffered from White Knight Syndrome, in which he felt that he must rescue each and every cat, from squalling kits to grumbling elders to the oh, so lovely she-cats of the clans (yes, plural, clans.) Even so, he still has his odd burst of hero-complex now and then, though he tries to avoid acting on them. It can be difficult, of course, and he's thus far been unable to change these spontaneous he-man reactions; it's just how he's wired, though age has tempered his control.
Yet another aspect of the ginger tabby medicine cat of Shadowclan is his temper, or, rather, his lack of temper. They say that red-heads have tempers: well, they're right, but the tempers can be supressed, should the bearer put forth the energy to do so. In his youth, as well as being the knight in shining armor, Ghostheart also had the infamous red-head temper, though it differed from the normal connation of the concept. He would get angry much more easily then than he would now, but it was not a hot-and-cold snap of the second anger; the rage had to build up.
Even today the rage has to build up, though it is much more easily repressed these day. However, should he get mad, it brings him to the point of seeing in shades of red, to feeling red-hot under his skin, to spitting and sputtering. That, however, is normal. Should he get really angry, his vision grows white around the edges, and his temperature spikes up to that thin white line between really hot and really cold. Woe betide, however, those that bring Ghostheart to his extreme fury; he feels ice-cold, and rather than spit and sputter, the tom sees and speaks with complete and fightening clarity, each word calm, cold, and deliberate.
Sad as it is, however, many a cat mistake Ghostheart's demenor as already being angry, when in reality he is just cranky and grumpy. For the most part, his grumpiness is bearable, just a colorful addition to the medicine cat. However, should stress creep into this tom, he can get quite snappy, and it's generally best to avoid his honed tongue lest you wish to feel the barbed edge of his emotions.
Additional Tidbits ∙ Well, I've decided to re-write the Shadowclan history a bit; Swifttalon-the-medicine-cat never existed, and Shadowpaw-the-medicine-cat-apprentice never existed.
Oh, and I'm of the view that making a medicine cat character is a good thing; last night, I dreamed that I was a doctor.
And if anyone would like to play any of the characters (that are still living) that were mentioned in this biography, just hit me up and we'll talk :]Reflection
Overall Appearance ∙ Being a tom cat, Ghostheart is, as tom cats generally are, quite large. Really, he is. His build, while not bulky, is there. He's just one lump of hardened muscle, having spent his youth as a warrior and having never really gotten out of the habit of training.
His limbs, however, are actually quite graceful; his legs in particular are long and far-reaching, enabling him to move at a fairly fast, ground-eating pace. His tail is somewhat short, but he's totally okay with that - less to be grabbed, should it come to a fight.
As far as his face goes, Ghostheart has a somewhat delicate structure, which is at odds with his gruff demeanor. His nose is ginger-pink, and his whiskers are long and orange; his ears are trim and neatly put together, giving him a somewhat 'proper' look.
Pelt-wise, Ghostheart is a vibrant ginger mackeral tabby, his body solid ginger with faint, slightly darker ginger tabby markings on his body. His fur is short and bristly, though in winter it grows out a bit and can actually fluff out a little.Backstory
Family History ∙ Robinflight and Darkthorn's coming together was purely for the sake of procreation; neither were mates with each other (and neither had a mate), and when they parted ways, they parted. There really isn't any special attachment between the two, though they will always be bonded for the kits that they created together.
Family ∙ sire - Darkthorn - elder
dam - Robinflight - elder
brother - Snakefur - warrior
Background ∙ Ghostheart was born to a mother and a father, as most warriors hopfeully are, in the middle of the night, under the cover of darkness. That wasn't anything special, really, just an instinct on the part of his mother, Robinflight. The delivery itself went relatively smoothly, for all that it was Robinflight's first litter, and none too shortly after the birthing pangs had begun, little Ghostkit and his brother Snakekit were snuggling up to their mother's belly and nursing.
The two kits had been born in the best of times: new-leaf. The earth was beginning to warm up, and there was plenty of -- though rather scrappy-looking -- prey to choose from. It stood to reason, then, that though they had been within their mother's belly during leaf-bare, that they quickly grew plump and healthy, their eyes, when opened, clear and comprehending, their pelts fuzzy with the fluff of kitten fur.
As soon as their eyes and ears opened up and they could both see and hear (though Snakekit opened his eyes a few days sooner than Ghostkit did, and Ghostkit opened his ears a few days before Snakekit did), both Snakekit and Ghostkit were out and about, romping and tumbling even in their early days. They were dutiful little scraps, and always kept their mock-fights contained and none too loud, as per mother's orders. While in the nursery, they were secluded and sheltered, and as such, the nursery was their whole world; when they first went outside, they saw the world as a very large place indeed.
Their father, Darkthorn, was never really around for them, being otherwise occupied with hunting, fighting, and serving the clan in any way he could; he did, however, from time to time, pop into the nursery and visit his get. Ghostheart, then Ghostkit, still remembers the day he first met his father; the two brothers had been in awe of the great big tabby tom. He'd seemed so ferocious and regal and powerful, and in wasn't hard for the romantic minds of the two to fall in love with the idea of their father, the most fearsome warrior of the whole forest. In reality, Darkthorn, while a valued member of Shadowclan, was no great legend. But kits will be kits, and there really wasn't any harm in letting them pretend.
The two tom kits only met their father twice while in the nursey; much more frequently seen were the elders of the clan, of whom the kits visited as frequently as they could, begging for all the stories their elders had to say to them. In particular, Ghostkit and Snakekit's favorite story was the legend of the great cats - Leopardclan, Tigerclan, and Lionclan. They easily imagined theirselves as the proud and fierce leaders of the golden Lionclan or the regal Tigerclan or the fearsome Leopardclan. And as they grew older, their dreams and fantasies shifted in focus, becoming about when they would become warriors; they made bets with each other, who would become the most ferocious fighter, who would catch the most prey for the clan.
It was rather disapointing, then, when their sixth moon came by, and neither of them were given their apprentice names and a mentor to follow around. The reason for this was not -- as they assumed -- that either they'd done something wrong (what?!) or that the leader had it out for them; neither option was very rational, as they'd know if they did something wrong, and really, the leader, having it out for them? No, the reason was much more simpler than that. It wasn't even the fault of any one cat.
What had happened was this: by a set of purely coincidential incidents involving pre-existing apprentices, injuries, old age, and temperaments not suited to mentoring, there actually wasn't a single warrior in the clan that could take them on right at the moment when they turned six moons of age. In fact, it would not be until for another whole moon that any of the warriors would open up, and even then, the mentors they would be given were not totally up to the two kit's expectations.
At seven moons of age, finally, at long last, Snakekit and Ghostkit were given a shot at what they'd dreamt about for so long. In the medicine cat den there'd been two injured and unattached warriors that the leader had thought suitable for mentoring, and once they had healed up enough to the point of being able to handle a lively apprentice, the long over-due apprentice ceremony had begun. Snakekit became Snakepaw, under the tutelage of Graypoppy and under the eye of Frogleg, Ghostkit became Ghostpaw.
Being an apprentice was nothing like what young Ghostpaw had expected. For one, he no longer lived in the nursery with his mother, instead being made to retire into the apprentice den with all the other apprentices. For another, quite unlike what he had expected, not only was he not training with his brother -- something that was nigh upon unthinkable previous to actual apprenticehood -- but he wasn't rushing off to do battal training and hunting missions. In fact, the first day, all they did was travel along the borders and see what was what.
The would not begin to hunt until after the theories of stalking and hunting were explained and examined, and the actual practice did not occur until a quarter moon had passed. It was strange, Ghostpaw always thought, how they spent more time discussing things rather than actually doing them, and though he never had the bad tastes to say outright what he was thinking, (at least, most of the time he didn't) the young tome never quite stopped wishing that things would speed up.
As an apprentice, Ghostpaw was a bit of a busy-body, always nosing his way into other people's business, wondering what was up and finding ways to get involved. It wasn't from bad intentions, mind; no, he had all the best intentions in mind, but then again, you know that one road that's paved with good intentions? Yeah, that one; story of Ghostpaw's life.
Trouble seemed to cling to Ghostpaw's tail like a squirrel does to the trees, and he really wasn't sure what to do with it. Honestly, it wasn't his fault that the she-cat had blown up at him and tried to claw his face off; how was he supposed to know that she'd be able to get out of the tree by herself, even after having been supposedly stuck up there for a good hour. Or what about the time when he'd tried to save the kits that had snuck out of the nursery. Oh, yeah, that had gone real well: not only did they think that he was a lowly lump of mousedung, but their mother had believed that he'd been the reason they were out of camp, and to top it off, he'd gotten punished for it.
And that was nothing to the anger he'd felt. It had hurt when he'd tried to help the she-cat and kits and when they'd flung his well-meant words and actions in his face and told him where he could shove them. A little bit of resentment might have boiled up right there and spilled outward. And when he'd been punished... oh, he'd ranted and spit and spat and spewed. The anger had been short-lived, for the most part, and he'd been able to go about his merry way. And for some reason, though time and time again he had the same reaction dealt unto him, the tome kept trying. What a pig-headed fool he was, then.
When battle training finally came about, finally, Ghostpaw was a pretty touchy little tom; all this fustration and anger, all pent up inside of them... not a good thing. And quite frankly, fighing was a life saver for the little guy; it was like anger management, channeling all his inner anger into the fighting moves, releasing it, letting go and coming out lighter and happier. And Ghostpaw loved fighting. It was always a surprise to Frogleg to see how taken with the discipline his young apprentice was, and they spent a good many of afternoons just sparring with each other, bonding and having in general a jolly good time.
During all this, another thing was also going on. As afore mentioned, Ghostpaw's mentor Frogleg had been injured previous to the younger tom's apprenticehood, and throughout Ghostpaw's entire training, periodic visits to the medicine cat were a matter of course. First, it was for Frogleg's health, he of whom needed regular attention on account of his wounds. As time went on, however, the medicine cat was visited purely for the sake of providing company and companionship -- it seemed that Frogleg and the medicine cat had struck up a friendship. And naturally, during these visits, Ghostpaw played the part of the curious kit.
Oh, it wasn't truely playing a part, for Ghostpaw was actually genuinely interested what the medicine cat did and why he did it, and after the first few visits, he was not above asking questions to find out who, what, when, where, and why. And the medicine cat was totally open to these questions; in fact, he encouraged them. And it was during these little sessions that the medicine cat of the time came to believe that little Ghostpaw was a potential candidate for the future position of medicine cat of Shadowclan. This idea, however, was not put to words until the tenth moon of Ghostpaw's life.
First, the medicine cat had gone to the leader of the time, old Redstar, and discussed the possibility. And then the medicine cat had approached Frogleg with the idea. After having discussed with the two adult cats the possibility within Ghostpaw to train in the ways of the medicine cat and having gained their full approval and a character reference, Brownstripe had gone to the apprentice himself and talked to him about it.
Brownstripe had first asked if Ghostpaw liked the idea of training as healer of the clan, of learning the arts of the medicine cat and growing closer to Starclan than most cats ever do. Once that had been confirmed, the medicine cat had talked to Ghostpaw a little about what would be expected of him, and about what he would give up in order to gain.
No mate? That was no loss, the tom thought. She-cats, who needs 'em? No kits? Well, kits shmits. A longer time spent as an apprentice. Well, oh well. Really, Ghostpaw did not even really concider the ramifications of becoming a medicine cat; in fact, all he saw was a way to better himself and spend his life saving his fellow cats (White Knight Syndrome.) And in the matter of a few moments, Ghostpaw forever changed his future, and took the very first step to becoming the spiritual leader of Shadowclan.
Ghostpaw's life as medicine cat apprentice was actually far more interesting than his life as warrior apprentice was. Not only did he learn the common names of herbs, as well as their other names, not to mention the uses, properties, growth habits, and harvesting techniques of said herbs, but he re-learned the legends of old, had new an little known tid-bits added to what the elders had already told him. And he learned some interesting things about the elders.
"For the most part, if you wish to know your history, talk to the elders," Brownsripe had told his apprentice. "They are the retired warriors, and though we say that they no longer have any duties, that is a lie; they are the historians of the clans. It is their job to keep the lore of the forests and pass it on to the future of the clan. The kits.
"However," the brown tabby tom had added seriously, "There are some things that even the elders do not know. That's where we come in. Part of our job is to hold onto the facts that our forebearers deemed to volatile the rest of the clans to know. We keep the secrets; that is how it is, and that is how it shall always be.
That, however, was only the tip of the metaphorical iceberg; When Ghostpaw went to the Moonstone for the first time as a medicine cat apprentice, he dreamed of things he'd never imagined possible - the sight of the glade in which Starclan resided, the leaders of old, the spirits of warriors that had gone before him. He spoke with the medicine cat that had preceded his mentor's mentor, and set down the foundation for the relationship that would carry on through life and death, and which would span many years before it should become death and death.
Though the tom did not know it, the silvery tom he had spoken to had been watching him (along with, oh, hundreds of other cats), and once it had become clear that the choices Ghostpaw would make would lead him to the path of healer of the clan, the cat had volunteered to become his spiritual go-between. Their first meeting had begun with something like:
A silvery tabby tom had approched Ghostpaw, and the apprentice had watched with some care, both curious and apprehensive at the same time. "Hello, there, young Ghostpaw," the tom mrrowed, his eyes crinkled around the edges, as if he'd spent his whole life smiling. "I am Littlefeather."
And then, they'd talked, the spirit asking questions such as how he liked his training, why he'd chosen to become a medicine cat apprentice, if there was anything he was curious about. Ghostpaw, for his part, had shown uncharacteristic candor in answering these questions, and had learned that he really did like his chosen calling. And only too soon, it had been time for the tom to wake up, and once within the land of the living, the apprentice found that he saw the world with a new eye.
It was during his seventeenth moon of life that, after a relatively peaceful few seasons, Ghostpaw was innitiated into the ranks of full-fledged medicine cats. The half-moon ceremony had had all of it's medicine cats present, and it was with great pride that Brownstripe had said, "Ghostpaw, you begun your training as a warrior, and that is something that I hope you will never forget; you also gave up a warrior name (knowing smiles all around) in order to pursue your second calling, that of medicine cat.
"Long and hard you have trained, and you have far surpassed my expectations of you. With diligence and and determination, you have doggedly learned more in two seasons than many learn in a full year. Therefore, I call upon our warrior ancestors to look upon this apprentice, who has trained and studied the warrior code and the mysteries of medicine cats, and I commend him unto you. From this night on, this cat shall be known as Ghotstheart, in honor of his dedication to the life he has chosen."
That night, when sharing tongues with Starclan, Ghostheart had been greeted by his new name by the whole of the former members of Shadowclan, and it was with great joy that the tom conversed with other warriors as a warrior at last, only slightly resenting the knowledge that all the apprentices of his age had already taken their warrior names. He was so happy, in fact, that he failed to notice the slight signs of discontent that shimmered her and there within the ranks of Starclan.
Brownstripe, however, had had a talk with the spirits he conversed with, and he had not, of course, failed to note that something was wrong. And it was a troubled and somewhat broody senior medicine cat that had woken up and trudged home with the newly named Ghostheart. Ghostheart, being somewhat sensitive to his mentor's moods after two whole seasons of spending day and night with him, sensed that something was not all peachy keen with Brownstripe, but, being respectful as he was, chose to not say anything.
Brownstripe's sense of ill-at-ease proved to be accurate, and a half a moon later, Shadowclan and Windclan went to battle with each other over border and prey disputes. It was amazing, really, how quickly things had escalated from hostility and snide remarks tossed over the border to downright violence, and, as it was, this was the first battle that Ghostheart would witness.
Most new warriors eagerly look to battle as a chance to prove themselves and have a raring good time, and Ghostheart was no exception. Sure, he was disapointed when he was ordered to not fight unless he absolutely had to, but that was mild compared to the excitement that he felt as he'd gone with the patrol that was reinforcing the innitial border patrol, of which had been ambushed by a Windclan patrol.
What the newly named medicine cat found, however, was not what he expected. He'd expected thrills and chills, and sure, he got some of that; but what he also discovered, was that war was bloody, tiring, awful business. The fighting itself - though bad - wasn't nearly anything compared to the aftermath. The dead, the dying, the seriously injured, the maimed and the crippled: those were what he was exposed to, those were what he saw, smelled, touched, treated. It was sobering, really, to be so full of life, and then to see your comrades - who you'd just talked to earlier that day - lay lifeless on the forest floor, their lifeblood soaking the grass beneath them.
But, as sad and frightening as true death was, it was the living that impacted Ghostheart. Those that lay bleeding required his attentions - Brownstripe could only tend so many cats at one time - and Ghostheart found himself in total control of his administrations. He treated Mossflower, the brave tabby she-cat that had been his den-mate; she suffered from a slashed belly, and, despite his best efforts, she died beneath his very paws.
And was just as bad in other places, too. Smoketail was given a permanant limp from where his paw was accidentally severed (accidents happen). Goldencloud's ear was gone, ripped off when a claw hooked onto it and couldn't escape, to say nothing of the thich, jagged scar she would always bear across the bridge of her nose. And on Brownstripe's half, Smallstep was dead, and Hollythorn was near to it.
Windclan, too, suffered injuries and casualties, though it would be three other battles until the fighting would finally abate and the leaders would meet in hopes of coming to a peace treaty - both sides were sick of the death that came with warfare, and it was dubious indeed that there was a single warrior between the two of them that wasn't injured in some way, shape, or form.
It was after this that young Ghostheart, no longer so little, began to doubt the decisions of his fellow cat; why else would they go to war, and fight? Did they not understand the concequences of battle? Death, Ghostheart was no stranger to it. His very name tied into death; he dreamt of death; he conversed with the dead; without death, there was no life; yet, without life, there was no death. They were all going to die anyway, why throw their lives away?
He began to ask, why? Why do this, why was this the way it was, and, for Starclan's sake, what are they thinking? These questions were presented to in particular Starclan, and every time he got answers that weren't to his satisfaction (which was, every time) the young tom cat would rail against them in fustration whilst they watched in pity.
And the tom never really got the answers he was looking for. For many moons, he was a melancholy and rather secretive cat, keeping to himself and socializing when he must. He observed and scrutinized his race carefully, watching at gatherings, spying on the meetings, and listening to what cats said, to whom, and when. His demeanor drove off his friends, and they watched him from afar. Snakefur and Ghostheart, once close brothers, had drifted apart, and they were at ends by the time they'd reached thirty moons of age.
Ghostheart did, however, get a revelation of sorts when he reached his thirty-second moon. His conclusion? Catdom was slightly deranged, and that, well, they were all mad there. No helping it. It was after that that the tom finally started coming out of his self-induced shell; it was as if a burden had been lifted from him. What he had been seeking for so long, he'd finally attained; granted, it wasn't the answer he'd expected, but it was an answer, none the less.
You know, it happens eventually. Any cat that lives long enough to do so, retires. And Brownstripe was no exception. In Ghostheart's thirty-fifth moon, the tom retired, leaving his rank as Medicine Cat behind, and in doing so entrusting the clan to his apprentice. Former apprentice, as the tom is actually quite keen in articulating.
Taking over the mantle of medicine cat of Shadowclan was actually easier than the tom had imagined; mostly, the work that he did as full medicine cat was the same that he'd done was second medicine cat; it was familiar, and quite easy. He did, however, become an authority to be reckoned with in the clan - becoming the sole medicine cat was very good for one's reputation, as it turned out. And Ghostheart, found this reputation much to his liking.Sample
-excused- *yay*Contract
By submitting this application, I am also stating that I have read, and understood, the forum rules, and that I agree to follow them. This means that I will take whatever punishments come my way should I break the rules.
--Breezy