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Post by Member on March 26th 2011, 10:58 pm

So... If you look in the Clan, Ranks, Loners & Rogues little... Thing. You can see that there isn't a medicine cat for the clan. Well, every clan needs a medicine cat, and I'll be darned if we use a medicine cat! So... Why not someone tryout for a medicine cat job? To apply, just post either a bio for a new character, or an old one already in FireClan that you want to step up to the plate. With your bio, please provide a well-written RP Sample.

Tryouts will end... Whenever I pick someone. :D So have fun with it guys! I know this isn't that good. I didn't work that hard, so... If you have a question, just PM me!

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Post by River on April 4th 2011, 5:34 pm

*looks around* Ehhff. Nobody stand up at once, hey?
Name: Slittedwing- again. :D
Gender: Female
Age: 43 moons
Affiliate: FireClan
Rank: Medicine Cat?


Personality: Slittedwing is not the sweet kit she once was. No, now, some cats may even call her the poster child of angst. Ha. Angst. She wants her own way and will go to great lengths to get it. She has been through enough in her life to create a hard shell. This she-cat refuses to take no for an answer. You may call her selfish but... wait, where am I going with this? She is sometimes a good old selfish hag. Unfortunately, her temper often leads to outbursts and nasty comments before she can hold them back. Yeah. It's really unsuitable for a medicine cat. She’s come to ignore the whispering cats with their snide remarks, though really, there isn't many anymore. She is equipped with an entire arsenal of wits and dialogue to shoot back. She is gruff, in every meaning of the word. As a medicine cat, she has great memory and like every other before her, knows herbs inside and out.

Slittedwing is not trusting, and will rely on no one but herself. After losing the cat she thought she loved, she prefers to work alone, and do things on her own. She very rarely accepts help from another cat, and when she does, she does begrudgingly and only when she is in dire need. She is proud of her clan, their accomplishments, but never herself. She finds fault in lots of the things she does and with other clanmates as well. Slittedwing is quick to judge and her judgments don’t often change. Let’s face it, she has bad manners. She really did throw caution to the wind ages ago, and doesn’t keep her words in check. She knows how to take care of herself just fine, and other cats as well. She is strong-willed and opinionated. And yes, of course, she is mighty stubborn. As you would have guessed, despite the hard exterior, she really does care leaps and bounds for her clanmates and will do whatever it takes to save them. She hates the other clans, even dislikes the other medicine cats, and even the thought of help from the others makes her fur bristle. She is very blunt and to the point, not saving the feelings of other cats very much. When you do manage to squirm your way to her good side however, she can be an understanding she-cat who rarely comes out. Cats, although without knowing it, often come to respect her, with all of her impatient ways. Do you remember Yellowfang? <3 This is an ode to the Yellowfang spirit.

Birth: Loner

History: Don't click. .-.
Slittedwing was indeed not always that. Before any of her present life, on a cold but breaking leaf-bare, a young kit was born, lying mewling in the glistening snow, frost hanging from the limp tree branches. There was blood, plenty of blood, but the happy parents were beaming with pride as they looked down at their baby girl. Only one single kit was peculiar and this would be their very first litter and, unknown to them, their last. Nonetheless, they loved their new addition. And her name, picked out after long deliberation, was because of the slight V-shaped dip against her lower back, slitting into her upper neck and head. It was, and would be for the next eight moons, Slit.

At first, everything seemed lovely. Of course, prey was low as it usually was and they had the occasional predator, but really? Life was all about rolling in the snow, catching snowflakes with outstretched paws, and curling up with content beside her mother and father, Orie, a good-sized tabby tom, and Lattie, a beautiful dappled she-cat. She never felt unloved or tossed aside. Never did she know the feeling of loneliness or unhappiness, just the gentle scolding of Orie. Not until nature’s grasp on the cold weather faded did she feel any of it. If only it could have come in slow streams, not in a rushing torrent.

Unfortunately, Orie and Lattie were young and foolish. They thought they could take anything, that they were unstoppable. The small forest that they lived in was changing very quickly into new-leaf, the puddles on the floor making wonderful playtime agents and the hills a fun slide to zip down, when Slit’s parents spotted the terrifying, lumbering creature of black and white. It was far-off, far enough that they could leave their little kit sheltered in the cave-like overhang that they resided in and face it. Or so they thought. Slit never saw what was happening, only cries of pain, mostly cat, and slashing claws and ripping fur. The blood was pounding so incredibly hard in her ears that when the long and striped face snapped at her with grimy yellow-white teeth, she froze. Slit let out a whimper just as it was about to scoop her up when a dappled pelt, streaked with blood, barreled into the great beast and knocked it off its paws. They rolled in the sloshy mud once, twice, and then a sickening snap. Lattie lay lifeless underneath the cruel paws of the creature, the badger. Her eyes stared at nothing and when the badger lumbered off, grunting, Orie was letting out wails of grief and pain, sending songbirds flying. Slit stared at her mother, too shocked to speak, and backed farther into the overhang. She had given up her own life to save hers. It was her fault.

Her father spent days bent over Lattie, stopping only to hunt for himself. Slit knew no food until three sunrises later when a small mouse was dropped at her paws. Orie’s eyes were dull and without feeling. Not only that, they seemed to drip with something else. Hatred and the unmistakable growl of blame. It was rightfully so. To keep her was to cost him the life of the sun and joy in his world. Apparently she wasn’t worth it in the slightest. He left her four pieces of prey less than a week later, his scent stale and gone. Slit felt hollow. In a matter of nine days she was alone, an orphan, without very much knowledge on how to defend herself or feed her soon-to-be hungry mouth. But she was fighter and after one sunrise that hollowness was replaced by a bitter anger and a fierce determination to survive.

The tiny she-cat followed her nose and soon came to a place that made her very limbs shiver. The place of Twolegs. At first, she was absolutely petrified and nearly starved to death. The prey that she did manage to scavenge for was stolen by ratty-looking alley cats with long fangs and sharpened claws. It was two moons later that Slit got in her first fight. Her belly called out to her in desperation and when one of those cats attempted to take the leftover mouse, she clawed back. The cat put up a fight she hadn’t been expecting; it had ended in stinging claw marks and a leaden body. None of that mattered though because, for the first time, she had won. The mouse was her trophy and eventually, after a moon or two, the Twolegplace hardened the sweet and innocent kit she once was. She stole, she attacked, and she was one of the cats who frequently used the expression ‘it’s a dog-eat-dog world’. Slit was a lone wolf until Jag.

He was like her in so many ways. They met while fighting over a bowl of cream, a tasty delight, and were evenly matched. He was larger and stronger but she was faster and more nimble. It ended in a heap of mangled fur and two exhausted cats. Unlike the usual, they ended up sharing the milky liquid and started talking. Jag was a twin of Slit and they laughed and had the same thoughts. They were both lost and didn’t have anyone, nor any plans to go off of. So after long deliberation, the battle-hardened she-cat, merely seven moons old, left her home, the Twolegplace, and padded beside Jag to wherever he wanted to take her. They were in this together.

For a moon the pair travelled, passing rogues, foxes, forests, moors, and the whole lot of it. Jag and Slit became close, best friends, and more. Under the gleam of the moon the two admitted their love for each other. For the first time in a long while, Slit felt like she belonged; like she was finally where she was meant to be. The two cats didn’t realize they were going in a circle. They were travelling around the Twolegplace and back to the front of it. To where the Warrior cats lived. Slit had heard rumors about tremendously powerful wild cats that ate cats for breakfast. She was pretty sure, having the personality she had, that she could take them. When the two reached the border Slit felt longing greater than she had ever had. They met a patrol and the way their muscles rippled and the fiery need to protect their clan made her need that. Not even Jag was more important than that. The few days they spent camped at the border of FireClan she had dreams of the clan and her longing. When the she-cat woke up after a particularly vivid vision, she had decided. Her and Jag would join a clan. However, Jag had not the same ideas. When she mentioned her plan he looked hurt and angry. They argued for hours until finally, as hotheaded as she was, Slit turned and plunged into ShadowClan territory, leaving everything, including her love, behind her.

The very moment Slit came even close to the camp, she was attacked by a slightly larger tom than she, with a smooth pelt and angry fury-filled eyes. He hissed at her, his fur bristling fiercely, and sprung, attempting to pin her down and claw at her underbelly. Cats of the Twolegplace attempted this all the time. Slit sidestepped him and dug her claws into his side, swinging him off course and into a nearby bush. He looked bewildered that she could fight like him and at first hesitated for a moment. She very well knew that, as a trespasser, she should really be courteous if she was to be accepted into the clan. Frankly, she didn’t care. He attacked her and she would rip his fur if need be. She pounced, quick as an adder, onto his back and was thrown off as her teeth met his neck. They snarled and spit insults at each other until a majestic and powerful cat stepped from the shadows and yelled at them to stop. Something about the way the tom held himself made Slit roll off of the apprentice and glare up at him. He was scrutinizing her with slitted eyes. Obviously, however, he was impressed. A bit later, she was officially a FireClan apprentice, with a mentor to boot. Duskshadow was his name and he was the rough around the edges type of guy.

And here was when Slit, now Slittedpaw, started clan life. FireClan started with a hate towards her, whispering about her and shooting her with looks of distrust. She bristled back at them, returning their nasty comments back at them. No cat however, could ever question how well she trained, despite her terrible mouth. Duskshadow was harsh but fair and she flourished, taking on apprentice after apprentice. They trained nearly every day, on top of patrols and separate hunting trips. Jag was pushed almost completely out of his mind. Almost. She couldn’t help remembering his sadly furious face when she turned away from him. He looked heartbroken. Coincidentally, it was a day that she was dreaming about him that, when on a small border patrol of two warriors, she saw him. He was on her border, eating her prey, ruining her life. She felt attachment to him still, of course, but not so as she did to the clan. From a command from her lead warrior, she pelted after him and jumped him, clawing at his back. Jag recognized her beige and black coat immediately but didn’t hold back. It was like the day they had met, fighting over prey. This time though, one would die. Slittedpaw had never meant to kill him. In fact, she hadn’t. The pointy, jutting branch he fell into did. There was but a faint gurgling noise and then nothing.

His expression haunted Slittedpaw up to the day of her warrior ceremony. She was filled with regret. Regret and excitement. She became Slittedwing, a warrior in her own turn. The clan never again doubted her loyalties. Her old mentor, Duskshadow, settled down with a lovely she-cat, a light brown tabby beauty, and she had kits a moon after her warriorship. They were healthy and strong. Aspenkit, Pheonixkit, and, of course, Tumblekit. Only one lived to see their third moon. It was by luck that she saw the tiny kits teetering and lumbering towards the Thunderpath and by misfortune that a monster was approaching at just that very time. She rushed to the edge but hesitated, eyes wide with terror at the sight of the monster. That slight pause was a matter of life or death for Aspenkit and Tumblekit. By the time her paws had scraped across the Thunderpath, Pheonixkit in her jaws, they were both flattened. Heartbroken, she brought the two dead bodies to camp, preparing herself to confront Duskshadow. The moment he saw her, his dead kits actually, he hated her. He yowled at her in fury and nearly chased her out of the territory despite his mate pushing him back. From then on, his blame shadowed Slittedwing like a hawk, a constant reminder of another life she had again lost in her foolish mistakes.

It was when she was fourteen moons that she saved the dying cat. Yewleaf was away at the medicine cat meeting, the half moon beaming down on the coldly-lit camp. A blood-curdling scream of pain was heard and Slittedwing rushed out to see what had caused the terrible sound. The warrior lay between two cats, his eyes rolled back inside his head. He had fallen from a tree, a huge tree, and was to die if someone didn’t do something. Somehow, just somehow, she knew what to do. A soft presence of a pelt of invisible fur guided her on how to save him. When Yewleaf returned, he was sitting in the medicine den, tail curled around his nose, sleeping. The medicine cat was amazed and told Slittedwing that she was meant to be his successor. It was not her path; she knew it! Apparently StarClan didn’t. The next evening, the sun a pinky hue, all the birds in the prey pile had slitted wings, a sign so clear not even she could deny it. She dreamt of them, of their starry pelts, and was taken up as a medicine cat apprentice.

She learned well, very well, and when Yewleaf died from a bout of incurable green cough, she took his place with begrudging honor. He was a kind old cat and she missed him. Since then, Slittedwing has lived her life with herbs and sick cats, gaining skills of healing like learning battle moves as a warrior. She is, at times, not satisfied with her present place in the clan. The scars of her past haunt her and she knows they will continue to long after she joins StarClan, long after she again meets Lattie, Jag, Aspenkit, and Tumblekit in a second life…
RP Sample: Frost hung from the trees in thick clumps, the only water supply was frozen solid, even the river was slushy with ice, and the chilling breezes that whistled through the plains ate chunks from each and every cat’s energy. Simply trudging through the terribly deep snow left a cat breathless and panting, the hard surface breaking at the weight of a living creature. Cats were thin, so thin, and prey was either frozen solid or hiding deep beneath the long-gone ground. It was indeed the coldest leaf-bare any cat could remember. Even in the light of the day, the sun at its peak, only a lone cat stood wallowing in the swirling snow. The rushing sound of the white abyss filled the ears of its companion, clumping on her fur like the seeds of the poplar. Was it not just moons ago that the floor was teeming with an abundance of small reeds and leaves like dappled sun? Was it not mere weeks that the ghastly ravens were crying with a remorseful song of solitude? It was phenomenal how fast things could change, how fast cats could wither away into skin and bones and fall away in the wake of the slightest disaster.

Alas, Slittedwing stood as a statue on the crest of a steep hill, dark olive eyes portraying nothing but hardness. The wind buffeted her fur, running it’s cruel fingers through whatever they could find. Of course, this outing did have mild purpose. Finding herbs. The stocks were running so dangerously low that an injury at this time could wipe her out. The idea was frightening. Good thing the ShadowClan medicine cat never feared. Unfortunately, nothing grew for the picking… anywhere. After an hour of fruitless labor she finally had thumped down in the chilled crystals, frustrated. She gazed out at the blanket that was her territory. And for once, for whatever odd reason, Slittedwing felt serene. She felt alone and without a duty to her ailing clan. She felt- oh gosh, was she really getting this soft? The she-cat shook her head, breaking the stillness, and as she drew her icy eyes off of the barren landscape, a young cat, Plumpaw, was bounding through the snow, eyes wide with fear and fur bristling. The cat collapsed at her feet, catching her breath with shallow strokes. The message came out in pieces.

“Slittedwi… Rowanleaf…leg…uhhh…,” Slittedwing squinted at the apprentice, the thing’s flanks heaving. Were no apprentices in shape nowadays? She didn’t wait patiently for her leave. “Well spit it out Plumpaw, for StarClan’s sake!” This round was easier to comprehend. “Rowanleaf was attacked by a monster. Hi-his leg is mangled and there’s something wrong with his breathing…an-and Tornscar told me to run and fetch you!” She rank of fear-scent. Slittedwing came towards her, more calm then perhaps she should’ve been. Plumpaw was sitting and was obviously uncomfortable with the medicine cat’s gaze on her. “Run ahead and tell the others that I’m coming.” She hesitated but with a hiss the young cat was off bounding. Great. Slittedwing followed more slowly, contemplating the seriousness of the injury. The bones would be more brittle with less usage and it wasn’t unlikely that the limb would be broken or even crushed. As for the breathing? Leaf-bare wasn’t exactly the best time for a chest implication.

When her dainty paws reached camp the pitiful wailing, muffled and hoarse, was what she heard first. Bracing herself for whatever she was to face, Slittedwing hurried to the medicine den, hearing relieved sighs from behind her that she was finally here. Three cats stood over Rowanleaf, offering him reassuring words. With a single command from her, they slunk out, casting glances backwards to see their ailing friend, perhaps for the last time in life. She could guess the monster had made a clean blow. The tom’s breathing was coming out in ragged gasps and his hind leg was protruding at an angle entirely not normal. His own crimson blood stained the next he lay upon, his emerald green optical clouded over in pain. She immediately turned towards her dwindling herbs, darting to grab the proper supplies. Rowanleaf whimpered softly behind her, squirming as if in a nightmare of horrors and the Dark Forest. She returned, the sap of horsetail, poppy seeds, cobwebs, and comfrey clasped in her jaws. Slittedwing rummaged through his mangy pelt, finding the source of the blood. The warrior was murmuring things she couldn’t make out as she pressed silky cobwebs onto the wound. The flow stopped quickly. She then grasped the leg in her jaws, steadily bracing the joint. “This’ll hurt a bit Rowanleaf, you may want to hold on to something…” And with that she gently applied force on the bone, shoving it back into position. It hung limp but looked less horrifying. Her patient faded in and out of consciousness, his shallow breathing becoming slighter and slighter. He won’t die… he can’t die… She gently applied a poultice to fend off infection and speed up healing before fashioning a splint of branches and make-shift grass.

The way his chest moved however, puzzled Slittedwing. When her paws pushed slightly on it, his breath came out slightly deeper. Silently she massaged just above his forelegs, attempting to restart proper patterns. Anxious mewing wafted from outside, curious onlookers peeking their head in every once in a while. When Rowanleaf’s gaze cleared slightly, he looked up at her, looking devoid of hope. “It hurts Slittedwing, it hurts so bad. Can’t you just make the pain go away?” Could she? Could a medicine cat really make the pain go away? Only the stars and their ancestors could truly do that. Pain lived on in every cat. The tiniest heartbreak, the smallest prick of a thorn. She took a moment to answer his question, staring at him thoughtfully. “Rowanleaf, only death itself can do that. Only when StarClan lifts your paws from this Earth will you ever feel no pain. You have too many cats rooting for you to give up. Now keep fighting. Giving up would be selfish.” She wished that her words were as confident as she sounded. His desperate cling for life was ebbing away slowly and no matter what she did, he couldn’t seem to reach a steady rate.

Her stomach growled in hunger by sunset, the pink streaks edging their way into the sky. It was far from warm in her den and was contributing to Rowanleaf’s troubles. His tongue and gums grew a ghastly blue and he began wheezing. The gentle massaging stopped working. Taking a step back, Slittedwing knew he was going to join StarClan. And, as usual, she would have to let him go, to be taken to a place of eternal rest. She rested her tail tip on his shoulder and placed a poppy seed under his nose. He seemed alarmed. “Am- am I going to die?” The she-cat replied with a solemn tone. “I can do nothing more. Sometimes things are set in motion that even the best herbs cannot treat; something that only the fifth clan can alleviate.” Within an hour, of constant soothing from his gathering clanmates, his breath stopped completely. He gave a final heave before laying still, an expression of peace. May StarClan bless him…

The first star twinkled overhead and she watched it closely as another smaller light blinked on beside it. Sleep well Rowanleaf…

YUUSSS recycled bios and samples are fun. Ha, we all know I don't post that well without hours of writing something.

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