Swiftfoot

[attr="class","arrgenMAINTEXT"]
Swiftfoot is a cat marred by tragedy. It's written across every aspect of her being: from the various scars that decorate her skin, to the permanent frown etched into her face. A cynical cat rendered bitter through moons of loss, sickness and strife, Swiftfoot's beliefs reflect a life fraught with struggles. Many first notice her apparent lack of sympathy towards those she considers weak or helpless: disregarding queens and elders, whom she feels have earned their right and place to rest within the hierarchy, Swiftfoot determines a youth's worth through how much they can contribute. Their keep is earned through what they can give to WindClan - not the other way around. She's old-fashioned to the core, a keeper of highly traditional values that understandably puts a heavy damper on her popularity amid her peers.

Despite this, none can deny her loyalty. Swiftfoot hails from a family who prided themselves as being WindClan warriors first, individuals second. Her parents deeply instilled a sense of service into her from a young age, teaching their brood the importance of upholding their legacy. Because of this, Swiftfoot is fiercely dedicated to WindClan. She's constantly on the move, whether that be through patrolling, hunting or patching up the camp. None can refute that Swiftfoot's a hard worker, if an unsociably prickly one. Conversations with Swiftfoot are akin to licking a rose's thorn-bitten stem. Even acts as intimate and bonding as Sharing Tongues are unfamiliar to this cat, who would shudder at the very thought of participating in such a bonding ceremony. Indeed, Swiftfoot is not one known for her pleasant company, nor her penchant for polite conversation.

The truth is, Swiftfoot guards herself. To form connections is to allow the potential for weakness to plant its weed within her chest. She cares deeply for her clanmates, though many would argue she has an interesting way of showing it. Strict and harsh, Swiftfoot doles out chores and tunnel-visions those she deems are not up to her standards. It's common to see the she-cat walking stiffly through the Camp, casting out a critical eye for lazy apprentices and troublesome kits. She's especially harsh on newly-appointed warriors, who she believes have lost their touch when compared to her good old days (which is, of course, an unfair and nostalgia-tainted comparison.) Nonetheless, it's expected for Swiftfoot to deal out harsh words and even harsher criticisms; few have escaped a quip or scathing comment. Where there is mistake, a frigid comment will follow. She is certainly not afraid to speak her mind, and her methods as clan deputy can be downright mean, although in the eyes of Swiftfoot these measures are required and justified. She has no fear when it comes to making enemies and at times seems much too eager to run into battle, especially if it means protecting the clan's honor and dignity.

And that's what it all circles back to - honor. Swiftfoot is honorable to the bone. Although difficult to get along with, particularly in regards to her interactions with those outside WindClan, Swiftfoot believes deeply in the Warrior Code, in its wisdom and sincerity, and thus she trusts her life with it, and allows it to guide all her judgements. In her mind, WindClan's survival depends on the Code's very existence: cooperation must be upheld, order must be respected, and leaders and deputies are in service to those beneath them. Swiftfoot might be a thorn in the backsides of many, but she is not an enemy. Everything she believes in - everything she does - is born from her commitment to WindClan, and subsequently the clanmates surrounding her. Should a cat pose a question, a disagreement, a calling - she will do her best to listen, and to oblige, for it is what the position of deputy calls for her to do.

An important aspect to note is also her uncomfortableness around medicine cats. She seems jittery and paranoid around the healers of the Clan, as if unsure on how to treat or speak to them. This circles back to the many losses she has experienced; though of no fault to them, she sees the deaths of her family as a failure on their behalf. She struggles to trust them, and when wounded has outright refused treatment, touting that her body is strong enough to heal on its own. The whims of StarClan have little meaning to her; the dead are dead, and the living are living, and in the end the latter is all that matters in this current moment. As such she simply treats them with an abrasiveness coldness, choosing to ignore their very presence in the Clan, and taking their wisdom with a grain of salt.

A pragmatic, independent individual, Swiftfoot is passionate in regards to her opinions - and also ruthlessly stubborn. She's also incredibly respectful to those she feels have earned it: a compliment from Swiftfoot is rare, but not unheard of, and it is given when she feels the cat is adequately deserving of one. Around elders and other senior warriors, Swiftfoot is humble, even reverent, and it is in these interactions one can see the very core of this deputy: above all else, she is one who can be depended on, perhaps even with your life. Swiftfoot is not all barbs and bloody thorns; she is fire and water, the relentless surge of a river and the trill of an exhausting, satisfying chase. She lives and breathes for WindClan. Above all else, she loves her clanmates with the pain of a mother loving her sole surviving kit; with the heart of a warrior who has lost almost everything, and yet clings onto life with claws unsheathed, unwilling to let go.

There is an inner strength within this feline, a strength born from years of hardship, and with this strength Swiftfoot barrels through life, head held high and heart sealed tightly away so that no more hurt may leave a wound upon it. Her conservative values may have ripened past their time in a Clan that's ever evolving, ever pushing onward, but Swiftfoot remains with paws rooted firmly to the ground, as part of WindClan's soil as the grass and tunnels. She was born atop these wind-swept moors. She will die atop them. That is how it has always been for her family, and how it always will be.

[attr="class","arrgenMAINTEXT"] The union of Reedsplash and Weaseltooth was not one born from love. Though they cared for each other with the platonic love of two tightly bound companions, the drive behind their want for kits was firmly rooted in logic: both came from strong, pure-blooded WindClan lines, and together it made only sense that they produce healthy offspring to carry on the family legacy. It was a desire deeply instilled into their parents, and the parents before them - to contribute to the Clan was to give your everything: your mind, your heart, your soul, your body. Any less was not only a disservice, but a crime.

Swiftkit, Pigeonkit and Rabbitkit were the first of many litters for these two highly-regarded warriors. Reedsplash was not an enthusiastic mother by any means, but she glowed with pride at the thought of raising WindClan's newest generation of warriors. In them, she saw not individuals, with their own personalities, desires, hopes and dreams: she saw a reflection of herself, of the legacy that would live on past her death.

Weaseltooth's influence in their life was scarce at best. To him, fatherhood was watching from the sidelines, occasionally offering a scrap of training advice or some behavioral critique. For the most part, he kept his distance from the nursery. Reedsplash was given full reign to raise her brood however she see fit - and that was with a paw crafted from iron. Playtime was forbidden, and she took it upon herself to prepare her children young for their encroaching apprenticeship. Beyond the safe crevices of their dreams, every waking moment was molded by strict words and even stricter punishments. From the moment Swiftkit had opened her eyes, she was told her existence was in service to one thing and one thing only: WindClan.

And little Swiftkit took to this lesson like a duckling takes to the water. She was her mother's golden child - a proud achievement. This earned her no praise, but rather, a sense of honor, of dignity: Reedsplash never did voice her pride, but in comparison to Rabbitkit and Pigeonkit, the former's struggle and the latter's rebelliousness earned enough ire to teach Swiftkit what lay at the very roots of disobedience. It terrified her so.

By the time apprenticeship had come, Swiftpaw was confident in her abilities. Though she had never left Camp, she'd practiced her hunting stances for hours on end after the critical eyes of Reedsplash and, rarely, Weaseltooth. By the request of Reedsplash, her mother's father was bestowed upon her: a bruised, motley old tom named Shrewswipe.

Shrewswipe was no stranger to grief. He had lost many kits in his time, Reedsplash being his only daughter left, and so often joked that wherever his paws led, death was sure to follow. At the time, Swiftpaw took his venom-laden jabs with a pinch of salt; her mother shared his macabre humor, and thus she was no stranger to the tom's gloomy disposition. Much akin to Reedsplash, he governed her training with an almost unfair strictness. He would constantly preach that only the strong had claim to a place in WindClan. To show pain - or weakness, as he preferred to call it - was to lose the very purpose of one's existence. After so much loss, Shrewswipe had very little left to lose. Perhaps that was where his callousness came from.

Nonetheless, Swiftpaw idolized him: his scars, his commanding presence, his everything. He was every bit of the kind of warrior that Reedsplash had taught her WindClan valued. On sore, lonely nights in the apprentice's den, when Rabbitpaw and Pigeonpaw curled into each other's forms a broad distance away, she would lap at her aching pawpads and think how all her hurt was not for nothing - it had to be for something.

It wasn't long after Swiftpaw's eleventh moon that Reedsplash had her second litter. Roachkit, Butterflykit and Beekit experienced a similar upbringing punctuated by harsh words, harsher punishments, and no play.

Swiftpaw struggled with her litter-mates. Often it felt as though Rabbitpaw and Pigeonpaw cared little for their obligations to WindClan. They had no sense of real duty, in her opinion, and their mentors acted less as teachers and more like friends. During one training session, she had caught them all laughing together out of the corner of her eyes. The sight had enraged her. While she pushed herself to the brink of fainting, her siblings lazed to the side and poured as feeble an effort as possible into their hunting pounces. Shrewswipe often called them shameful. She had to agree. He was never wrong, after all.

Needless to say, the three did not get along. Reedsplash disowned them first. Swiftpaw was quick to follow.

When Swiftpaw was twelve moons old, she earned her warrior name. As she swore herself to dedicate every ounce of her being to the warrior code and WindClan, even at the cost of her life, the pride that had filled her chest went beyond description. Swiftpaw became Swiftfoot, recognized for her speed in the hunt. Rabbitpaw and Pigeonpaw became Rabbitjump and Pigeonwing.

Swiftfoot became known as somewhat of a bossy young warrior. Around other young cats, she raised her voice with a sense of superiority, only lowering it in order to express humility and deference to those older than her - or whom she felt deserved it most. Many didn't take favorably to her constant crowing and critique, when she was fresher out of the apprentice's den than any of them. An incident with a senior warrior settled this quickly, however: annoyed at her domineering demeanor, she'd snapped for Swiftfoot to keep her head down until she had the experience necessary to earn her right to criticize. The words had stung, coming from a cat she admired, but it seemed to shake a sense of humility into Swiftfoot. She grew more distant from her fellow youth, and took to fulfilling her duties with quiet, lonesome resolution.

At seventeen moons, Swiftfoot received her first apprentice. It was a young age to be appointed a mentor, but despite her shortcomings, none could deny she worked hard and barely took a moment's rest. She was given a runt of a tom, who she'd barely paid a minute's thought to until now.

Sunpaw idolized her. He was also a talkative, clumsy little creature, with legs too long for his squat body. She had to admit - he was as charming as he was every bit annoying. And though he was never spared a snap or a disappointed grunt, Swiftfoot inevitably grew fond of him, as she did with all her apprentices that came from Wrenwhisper, a mother who had found her calling in providing as many cats as possible to contribute to WindClan's swelling numbers. 

Swiftfoot found her calling then. Being a mentor set her soul ablaze. She relished the challenge in Sunpaw, who proved a sickly soul, eager to learn but often bound to the medicine cat den at the best of times. He was asthmatic, a condition which had no cure through herbs alone, and it was Swiftfoot's first brush with medicine cats and their inability to heal all. For a warrior, the duty to hunt, fight and patrol was pivotal: fail one, and what was your use then? If a cat sworn to cure the sick couldn't even take away her apprentice's ghastly cough, then why were they so revered and held in high regard? It often frustrated Swiftfoot. Sunpaw pushed himself beyond his limits, a point she encouraged, because if herbs could not sooth his lungs, then surely it was merely a matter of his body adapting, something that could be solved with a few harsh training sessions - just as Shrewswipe had taught her, and his mentor before him.

His asthma never went away. If anything, it only got worse. The sprightly tom pushed through, however, and earned his name of Sunleap. Pride had inflated her chest on that day, watching the bold young cat soak up the praise of his clanmates. Though she'd been rather harsh on him, he was proof that her training methods worked. That even the most hard-done by of cats could rise above it all, and become a warrior WindClan could be proud of.

Not long after Sunleap, she received her second apprentice, Lyrepaw. He was aggressive and, unlike Sunleap, the picture of perfect health. Again, he thrived under her scathing regime, incredibly eager to please his distant and overtly critical father, Firecall.

Roachpaw never made it to his warrior ceremony. He passed away in a border skirmish. Not long after him, Butterflypaw, wracked with guilt, fled the moors, her abandonment leaving a dark red stain upon the legacy of her parents. Beepaw became Beesting and met his end after a terrible wound sustained by the brutal hindlegs of a hare. 

Weaseltooth and Reedsplash's second litter had crashed and burned and left piping hot coals in their wake. There was an urgency in their need to have more kits - and so, around this time, Swiftfoot's parents had another litter: Grasskit, Thornkit, Rockkit and Cloudkit.

In many ways, Swiftfoot felt like the sole heir of her family. Pigeonwing and Rabbitleap were thick as thieves, and because of this they hardly ever contributed in meaningful ways. An attempt was made at giving Pigeonwing an apprentice, but his lackadaisical approach to mentoring infuriated Swiftfoot, so much so that she snitched on him the first chance she got. This caused an even deeper rift between the siblings. Pigeonwing and Rabbitleap both found her to be an infuriating she-cat, obsessed with nothing beyond her use to WindClan. This argument spiraled out of control fast, until a gash ran thick and bloody through the seams of their fragmented family. Beneath all this boiling pus, Reedsplash's third litter were raised with even bigger expectations than their predecessors.

Lyrepaw became Lyrebite. Not long after this, she was approached by Firecall. His most recent brood had one tom in particular he thought would make a highly acceptable charge. By his request, she took on Beetlepaw. It was at this point she began to take notice of Wrenwhisper, the mother of all her apprentices so far. It seemed to Swiftfoot that the she-cat had scarce a break from the Nursery. It was hard to tell how she truly felt about this, small and unassuming as she was, but there could be no doubt in that she had produced fine, well-rounded offspring. Swiftfoot respected her. 

Another apprentice was challenged and raised. Beetlepaw struggled unlike his older brothers, and had a slight rebellious streak, though she made sure to frighten that out of him as soon as he tried to pull anything. His forked tongue was no match for her barbed one. By the time he'd become Beetlethroat, she felt she'd made a humble, respectable cat out of him; what she'd really created was anxiety.

Then came Lynxfall, and Leafpounce, both alike to Beetlethroat in their willful, strong personalities, yet beaten down quickly by Swiftfoot's demand for respect. She pushed them harder than her previous apprentices. She felt like somewhat of an experienced mentor by this point, and thus honed her techniques to a fine point; no longer was she a youth fresh out of the apprentice's den. Swiftfoot had developed an air of authority - and by StarClan's good name, she would command it.
And then the greencough epidemic hit.

It swept through the camp like wind-tempered fire. It claimed the lives of Rockheart and Thorntail in one fell swoop. Cloudjump and Grassblaze, who'd been especially close to their siblings, were devastated by the loss. Pigeonwing - cocky, arrogant, lazy cat that he was - fought the virus with all the might of LionClan, yet he too soon fell in a heap of sickly wet yowls. Lyrebite died. His passing affected Swiftfoot deeply, though she tried not to show it. Then her father snagged the illness, and though he recovered, it bruised him in such a severe way that he had to retire early to the elder's den. With the death of her brother, Rabbitleap saw her last connection to WindClan severed. She left, taking Cloudjump and Grassblaze with her. They were never seen again. 

Reedsplash was grief-stricken at the sudden crumbling of her family. She tried to sire another litter of kits with Weaseltooth, all whom were born still. Not long after this, she joined the elder's den and passed away peacefully in her sleep, to which many claimed to be of a broken heart. Weaseltooth followed soon after.

It had happened so quickly. One moment, she'd been Swiftfoot, a proud warrior and highly regarded mentor to the Clan. The next, she was the sole survivor of her family, a cat with far too much weight thrust upon her shoulders. All her family had either perished, or deserted their duties. The strength of her line seemed to crack like glass.

It fell on her to continue it.

From here on, whilst balancing her life as mentor to yet another one of Wrenwhisper's brood, Swiftfoot threw herself into the pools of romance. Well, romance isn't quite the word to describe what she was looking for. The callous she-cat made her intentions very clear from the get-go. What she wanted was heirs. A tom was merely a means to an end. Of course, they couldn't just be any tom either - they had to come from clear WindClan ancestry, with an impeccable hardworking ethic to boot. They would have to be content with a mate as prickly as pine needles, and a love as shallow as a summer-baked puddle. Needless to say, this left her pool of choices quite low.

Every rejection and break-up only further served to feed the cynicism growing in Swiftfoot's chest. By the time she was given Viperpaw to train, she was as jaded as they come.

Her newest charge was not a child of Wrenwhisper - a welcome surprise, if she were being honest. The last apprentice had been a spitfire of a molly, bent on breaking any rule she touched, and not even her graduation had proved enough to mellow her out.
Truth be told, she already liked Viperpaw the moment she laid eyes on him. He was a troublemaker, yes, knitted close to Adderpaw's side like a tick, but he wasn't outright defiant. This was a personality she could work with.

And work with she did. The tom had been somewhat of a bully in his formative years. She made sure to rip that right out of him. Thoughts of mates and kits trickled out from her priorities, as she threw herself back into what she knew best: education. Viperpaw grew and grew by the moon, and it seemed as if he too would become another successful notch around her claw, another valuable contribution to the Clan - but then everything changed. A cloud seemed to befall his head, heavy and plump with rain. Viperpaw stuck stubbornly to his nest. Emberpaw seemed to eclipse him like the full moon.

Swiftfoot's frustration mounted and mounted. She tried every trick in the book - threats, punishments, insults, even a sheathed thwack around the ears. But Viperpaw seemed determined to prove her biggest challenge yet as he sunk deeper and deeper into his depressive state. Finally, the tom pulled himself back, though with none of the zeal he'd possessed before. It was hard to watch - especially since she didn't know how to help. Gentleness was not in her nature. She could only watch, frustration turning inward at her inability to solve the issue.

He was the latest of her apprentices to graduate. She couldn't help but be disappointed - not just at him, but at herself.

A few moons of peace followed. Swiftfoot grew agitated at her lack of a new apprentice. Morningstar related concern for her health and wellbeing - she wasn't a sprightly youth anymore. But at her ruthless insistence, the leader granted her another cat to train. She went into the Nursery and chose her herself. Juniperkit was one of Wrenwhisper's ninth litter. She thanked the she-cat for her service as she always did, but not without noticing the melancholy trapped within her eyes.

When Juniperkit became Juniperpaw, a time of great upheaval came to WindClan. Morningstar passed on, allowing Emberspark to ascend. The Camp split into two - those who followed Emberstar, and those who opposed him. Chaos infected each cat like a seed. Swiftfoot found herself torn apart, loyalty to her leader divided by loyalty to her Clan. Ultimately, she chose to side with WindClan. Emberstar's rule would bring nothing but death. When Juniperpaw fell prey to the carnage, Swiftfoot swore her own vengeance, flamed further by the public slaughter of one of Vipereye's kits.

Vipereye approached her last with his plan. Seeing him then, resolute, confident, ready to stand on his own four legs - an independent creature uncaged by the shadow of his leader - Swiftfoot felt proud. Suddenly, he didn't feel like a disappointment. Though she lacked the words to tell him that, she hoped her pledge of allegiance to his cause was enough to convey it. When the battle broke out, Swiftfoot fought against all she'd ever believed in - against her leader, against old clanmates, against the very core of WindClan itself. With RiverClan on their side - another violation of her beliefs - Emberstar was eventually overpowered, killed by the fangs of his half-brother. A broken Clan was left in his corpse's wake.

Vipereye became Viperstar. He appointed Swiftfoot as his deputy, a decision that both confused and unnerved her. How was she to serve under the cat who'd once been her apprentice? The sudden change in power dynamics was a confronting one, and it has yet to leave Swiftfoot's breast.

Now, WindClan's sole goal is to recover, heal and grow. Though Swiftfoot never dreamed of leadership, she took to the role of deputy with all the sense of duty she could muster. She continues to dedicate her everything to WindClan. As her mother always said: "we were born to fight atop these moors; we'll die fighting atop them." This has how it has always been for her family, and how it will eventually end with her, alone.