High Position Auditions!

High Position Auditions! Jul 7, 2014 15:00:04 GMT

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Post by Waspwing on Jul 7, 2014 15:00:04 GMT

SHADOWCLAN - 37 MOONS - MEDICINE CAT - SHE-CAT - BISEXUAL

APPEARANCE

There’s something quite, remarkable about the she-cat, she seems sweet, almost, enchanting - the orange tones of her fur like a pale flame that blossoms in the morning sunshine. In the summer months she burns bright, russet tones brought to life, intense and striped, like the insect of her namesake - yet a cruelty festers within her pale green eyes; a gaze that mocks and entices, whispering in ode to the monstrous personality that prowls beneath the surface. Slight in form, she is small, sleek-furred and nimble, the musculature of her legs and torso is lean and sinuous. She boasts slight, sloping shoulders and small paws equipped with thorn-sharp claws - a form made for stealth rather than strength. The majority of her bulk comes from the thickness of her pelt, a soft orange streaked with dark, curving stripes. They form a gentle 'm' upon the ridge of her brow line, while symmetrical lines curl down from the outer edge of each eye. A patch of white outlines a dainty chin, the colour bleeding back to her upper throat before meeting tangerine tones once more. Her ears are neat atop the crown of her head, their inner curls tufting outwards in downy white plumes. The face of an angel, some might say; with her slender, slinking form and voluminous tail, the attractive young she-cat is nothing more than a siren - horrid intentions hidden behind a pretty visage.

PERSONALITY

(+) Adaptable, quick witted, eloquent, intellectual, charming, straight-forward, theatrical, detail orientated and meticulous.
(-) Dualistic, insensitive, egotistical, hot tempered, impulsive, superficial, bloodthirsty, cruel, perverse and unpredictable.

Equipped with a sadists tongue, a malicious silkiness shuddered beneath the surface of every breath - her pronunciations crisp and rolling; theatrical, eccentric, alive with florid assonance and poignant syllable currrrls. Waspwing is an artisan of word-craft, a speaker of riddles and master of suggestion, in her musings she could extort the blue from the sky or the green from the leaves. Apprentices and warriors alike huddle to hear her wisdom, when not scampering to dodge her volatile temper or the mockery that so easily blossoms within her poisonous tones. A lash of the she-cats wit sunk deeper than any tooth or claw, and she dissected her victims with words where physical punishment could not be atoned by her slinking body. But oh, how she made up in word where slender form faltered, her fighting style one of vicious ploys and trickery. She'd sooner lead the unsuspecting into a snare than attempt a head-on collision - a poultice of crushed yew and deadly nightshade readily prepared to press down a mewling throat.

Charismatic as she may seem, the sultry nature of the she-cat lies only skin deep. Sweet only when it suits a greater purpose, one should be wary upon receiving a gentle word from the hellion - she may seek a bloody favour in return. After the thorough teaching she received from her beloved mentor, Stonefoot, her temper is thrice as foul and her words twice as sharp as the old tom cats. Guarded as her predecessor was until his death, she's prickly, mistrusting and always has one paw planted firmly ahead. For only a fool would readily entice the rage of the medicine cat; her knowledge greedy nature makes her deft as a spider in gathering the most sinful gossip. The trees have ears, the ferns have eyes, and every treacherous whisper passes beneath the knowing gaze of the she-cats threshold. It's a wretched thing to be in Waspwing's debt, but even she needs cats to keep her secrets.

Any medicine cat clutched within the cool embrace of ShadowClan’s claws must be adept with dealing with tragedy. After the moon rises and falls over the battered and bloody camp for what seems like the hundredth time, one becomes something of a connoisseur to the scent of death. But how does one cope in a Clan dealt such a catastrophic hand in the eyes of fate? Are the hearts of ShadowClan really so cold that they feel nothing? In her age, Waspwing has made herself known for one thing; her unyielding, deathly calm in the face of uncertainty. A sadist to the core, her malignant love for cruelty seems ill-fitting on a cat born to nurture, but yet she rises, day by day to cater to the needs of her clan-mates. One couldn't even imagine the depths of horror that curl within that calculated mind, thoughts that process faster than the beating of the heart of a cornered mouse. Unnerving as it may be, the she-cat always seems to smile as she’s working; dainty paw-pads slick with fluid, spittle, blood - even as she feeds, it’s not unknown to see her prey dissected before it’s eaten, if only so she can see the mechanisms of a creatures from within. As vile as it may seem, Waspwing's morbidity is the source of her brilliance, the fuel to her knowledge and unfortunate fan to the flames of her voracious ego. Alas, it is as much her blessing as it is her downfall.

So often does the line between genius and madness quiver, that it falls upon blessed to take charges into their own paws. Waspwing's anatomical, herbal and medical prowess is a thing of wonder, though with it comes under a heavy price. The she-cat is plagued with nightmares daily. When not beneath the gentle, caressing paws of StarClan's wisdom and foresight, it is uncommon for her to have a night' sleep that goes undisturbed. Her waking mind is like a wasp's hive - furious, buzzing, a whirlwind of chaos once knocked from the protective upper boughs of a tree. Migraines pound her skull and burn out the light of the sun with auras that cloud her eyesight; a twitching thump, tick tock, tock tick in the back of her head. To live would be impossible, if it weren't for a very well-kept secret. Little of the Clan know that the medicine cat has an overwhelming poppy seed addiction, a dependency on opiates that allows her to function, albeit sedated, day through day. Any extended period of time without them sees her deteriorate slowly, first with the sweating, then with the shakes. At her age, she could never be without them again; a cruel fact known to her mentor and her leader. Though no whisper ripples through ShadowClan in outrage... It's known, Waspwing wouldn't survive without her painkillers, and neither would they.

HISTORY

The romance of Sunburst and Thornheart was no paradisiacal affair, nor was it at all clandestine. While some lovers entwine and keep peacefully to themselves, others make it the business of the world to hear them. Every cat in ShadowClan knew of the couple’s quarrels, the raging fires of Sunburst’s temper burned as bright as her lustrous ginger coat. One moment they were infatuated, the second at arms, the third inseparable and the forth about to tear out each other’s throats. The explosive nature of their coupling, some say, is where Waspwing got her ever-changing mood; the mind of the cat like swings and roundabouts, constantly fluttering from this to that. After a long and arduous pregnancy - where many were sure Sunburst would have murdered her mate, she eventually gave birth to two healthy kittens: Waspkit and Nettlekit.

They couldn't have been any different if StarClan had intended it as some cruel joke. One bright orange, the other mottled black; in the caliginous, murky marshlands of the ShadowClan territory, one meant a natural hunter, the other meant an easily spotted, hungry child, that would struggle with every step. Yet it was Waspkit who was quick, agile - slayer of moths, stalker of bees, while her much larger brother progressed with strength rather than cunning. For her first few weeks, Waspkit had a remarkably nondescript life, where her brother progressed in leaps and bounds, she shrunk away, unnoticed, lacking the rippling size and power of her elder. As handsome as his father from an early age, Nettlekit was swooned over by prospective mentors and delighted nursery queens; ‘What talent!’, they squealed, ‘What promise!’. At the age of six moons she finally knew bitterness, the cold sting of jealousy that rose like bile in her throat when he was made an apprentice before her and placed under the care of the mighty Badgerclaw.

When her obsession with the dead began, she didn’t know. Steeled to her brothers rising fame, Waspkit busied herself with the elders - much preferring their creaky bones and slow, winding tales to the stifling confines of the nursery. She had long grown tired of her mother’s quiet assurances, with her wicked tongue and detached manner, no mentor wanted the hassle of the bad tempered kit. Instead, she sought refuge in the old cats, changing their bedding, examining their ancient, flea-bitten flanks. She was fascinated by the ripple of their weary bodies, the sinuous pulse of muscle within their aching legs, the bony swell of their ribs, and the fat cargo of tics that clung onto their sagging rumps. How strange, she pondered, that these walking skeletons were so revered, so precious. Beneath their gaze, she came upon another foul tempered old relic, only this cat wore a young toms pride and refused to don a senior skin. Stonefoot was her first love, the first warrior to ever, truly notice her, and under his nurture the she-cat clawed paw by paw to the greatness she'd one day achieve.

Waspkit blossomed beneath the wing of Stonefoot, she followed him incessantly, thrilled to watch him work on the weak, wounded and infirm. Her sharp-tongued babbling, her poetry, seemed to soothe the frayed nerves of the tom, who listened to her observations in a perplexed, tempered silence. Outcast from her fellow kits, he was all she had. She lacked the same drive as her den-mates, who treated her inquisitive nature and florid verses with mockery and cool disinterest; she wasn’t interested in being big or strong, she just wanted to know why, needed to see how about everything - why fight when you could out-scheme your enemies? Why live in fear when you could heal and trap? Her trips to the two-leg dump began long before anyone realized her disappearance. She spent days among the fetid, bulging masses of rotten food and mess; picking at the bones of rats, birds and the small creatures that writhed among the waste. She’d carry them home, tiny beaks, leg bones and claws hidden away in the elders den, covered by old moss to be dug up and uncovered like treasure each day. Stonefoot caught her and the objects of her morbid fascination, and furiously demanded to know why she hid such treacherous things. Her soft reply surprised him; she wanted to see how these creatures had died and how she could have helped. Her apprentice ceremony was held a few days later.

At eight moons, she was Wasppaw; at eight moons, three days, she took her journey to moonstone; at eleven moons, she was Stonefoot’s beloved prodigy; at thirteen moons the headaches began; at fifteen moons insomnia sank like a kestrel’s talon deep into her psyche. Her isolation from the other apprentices nurtured a wild and wonderful personality, though her surroundings of sickness and death did little to curb her morbid curiosities. Stonefoot looked on with a watchful eye, though StarClan could not have sent a better young cat to serve beneath him. He knew in his heart that Wasppaw’s growing instability was punishment enough for the darkness of her thoughts, though it broke his heart to sit and watch while her nights were destroyed by fitful dreams and nightmares. It was he that first gave her poppy seeds, a thing that would be her unravelling and sweet addiction; though they calmed her aches, her pains, her shudders, and allowed the sweet passage of dreamless sleep touched only by the sweet breath of StarClan. Under Heronstar’s terrible reign they worked tirelessly, through every sickness: greencough, whitecough and disease. She became known for the sharp-tongued, quick witted and intelligent she-cat she always was, instead of lying in her brothers shadow.

Nettlesting was crowned a warrior, Heronstar died and Maplestar rose from his tattered ashes. Wasppaw continued to grow, to flourish - a terrible, startling beauty who spoke in riddles and collected beaks and bones. She was eventually named Waspwing at the age of twenty five moons, as Stonefoot began to tire and cease beneath the weight of his seniority. Everyone lived in fear that one day the mangy old cat would up and die, though moon after moon he proved resilient. Waspwing’s influence within the Clan grew with every day, her tendrils sunk deep in every corner. Further swung, dizzyingly under the poppy seed influence, her wild ideas came to life, where inquisitive thoughts were put to test under the guise of experimentation. Dissected prey: frogs, birds and adders; she lived for her work. Moons after moon, she grew in renown - they were things of kits tales, the fabled Stonefoot and Waspwing of ShadowClan. Then... everything changed.

'Blood, blood, wretched blood! It saturated her senses, dripping into her throat and her wide, blinking eyes. Blood was all around her. She shuddered with revulsion as she reeled, stumbling on dainty paws through the lichen tangled opening of Maplestar’s den. From within she could hear Stonefoot howl with grief, his strangled cry broken by a fit of gurgles. He retched, hunched, heaving with all the power in his frail old body. “Maplestar, Maplestar is dead!” Five lives gone in a heartbeat, the fragility of life. She found laughter bubble within the depth of her chest - a harsh, rusty sound, like the crunching of two-leg metal as it was crushed, chewed by wide jawed monsters. While the camp exploded in hysteria, an icy calm slid over her, a rush of frigid cold water seeping, creeping, and cleansing the filth from her skin. She stood still, gazing to the sky as Stonefoot stumbled behind her. His flank sagged to hers and her eyes met his in silence. With a lurch, like a thousand bats writhing in the cage of her chest, she knew that Maplestar wasn't the only cat who'd join StarClan tonight.’

Since the death of her mentor, Waspwing has lived a dream. Lost in the throes of her addiction, a pungent dose of poppy seeds has kept the she-cat steady on her feet for days. She seems detached, a trawling ghost of her former self, attending the dying camp with an untiring fastidiousness, night and day; spurred by morbid fascination and the refusal to accept Stonefoot’s death. The she-cat senses him still, padding beside her, though whether this is a product of her opiate addled mind, no one can tell.

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High Position Auditions!

Post by Everscale on Jul 3, 2014 15:27:49 GMT

Post by Waspwing on Jul 7, 2014 15:00:04 GMT

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