CICERO, common shifter

[cicero]

` CICERO !



[style=text-align:center;]'I'm mischievous, but I'm calculated'

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the generals

NAME CICERO
AGE TWO YEARS AND THREE QUARTERS
GENDER MALE
RANK COMMON SHIFTER
PATRON GOD WILTRAN
SHIFT RARITY COMMON
SHIFT FORM MASKED OWL
PICTURE(S)---

the personals

[style=text-transform:uppercase;]APPEARANCE

Cicero is a red-point Birman cat with the deep blue eyes stereotypical of his breed. Though of course there is probably different breeds mixed in with his bloodline somewhere down the family tree, he betrays the qualities most associated with Birmans, with the thick, creme-coloured fur and artistic splashes of color around his face, legs, and tail-tip. Such colouring is very noticeable, and often makes hunting in his true form a pain. As such, he usually prefers his less-ostentatious Masked Owl shape to carry out his duties that require stealth. It just makes things easier.

His fur is semi-long and incredibly soft and silky, when it is clean. Naturally when one lives out in the wild, fur tends to collect a variation of grasses and twigs, though Cicero's vanity will not allow him to stay disheveled for very long. His ears are relatively small to the size of his head, and while one would think that this would lead to a hearing disadvantage, his hearing is still quite sharp. The odd ear size gives his head a too-large appearance at some times, an almost comical flaw in his birth, though one that he will attack you for if you laugh at. The tips of his ears are creme-colored like the rest of his points, standing out against the paler backdrop of the rest of his coat. All in all, a rather wonderful display. Some would say it would be wasted on a cat with his lower status.

The deep blue eyes typical of his breed are striking and bold. as they are such an unnatural eye color for a cat, it makes him stand out immediately from the others, both a blessing and a curse. They can often be seen narrowed in some sort of shrewd calculation or a private moment of merriment at someone else's expense. When they are not, the are wide and alert, always watchful and ever-waiting for any sort of ambush, a revenge for his petty pranks. They stand out like beacons against the rest of his body, and give him and air of mystery and mischief from the way they glitter and shine.

Cicero is not quite old enough to have acquired many major scars, but nonetheless, he does have a few. The most prominent is a thick, jagged line that stretches diagonally across his chest, a reminder of an apprentice battle with a fox, which nearly took his life. Other battles show themselves in the form of a torn ear, some minor scarring on the back, and a think pink line across the bridge of his nose. But with his calloused attitude, he will most likely acquire more over the coming years.

His Masked Owl form is unimpressive. It does not have the power of the Eagle or the swiftness of the Falcon, but does reflect his personality very well. The dim mask around the bird's eyes reflect the inner secret of his being, the constant suspicion of that which is hidden to the untrained, innocent eye. Very similar to a Barn Owl, the Masked Owl has a pale, heart-shaped face that is bordered in brown, a tawny back with darker flecks, and a white-underbelly that is marred with various dark markings among the snowy feathers. It's eyes are black and do not betray much emotion other than the occasional narrowing or widening.

PERSONALITY

I am the brim of your fear and the greatness of the uncommon mind...

Cicero is haughty, cool, and proud. Though a malicious trickster among the tribe, he chooses to carry out his various hellish acts in private, usually under the cover of night when his unfortunate victim happens to be turned away. Naturally, his doings are mostly harmless, as anything that would cause great trouble would most likely get him thrown out. And despite his proclaimed hatred for companionship, being an outcast is a deep, personal fear of his. He doesn't like the idea of being rejected, turned out into the dark with nowhere to flee to. Whenever he does choose to commit some of his more atrocious acts, he is cautious about the trail he leaves behind, and is not above framing a fellow Tribe member and gloating at their unfair misfortune when they are punished for his misdeeds.

Though he is no knight in shining armor, he is by no means a coward, though some might question his methods on the battle field. He uses every trick up his proverbial sleeve to ensure his victory, and is rarely defeated by a fellow Commoner. He rarely picks fights with Uncommons and Rares, as he knows that his puny shift form is no match for the tigers and wolves of the greater ranks. Should such a fight ever come, however, he would use every ounce of cunning he possessed to fight to his end; he is far too proud to accept defeat, something that will no doubt bring about a premature end soon enough. Though Cicero knows his stubbornness is one of his greater flaws, he chooses to ignore it with an easy grace.

He is capable of socializing civilly with the Tribe, but he is mostly a standoff-ish snob who prefers to walk alone, nothing but his prayers to Wiltran to keep him company. Though he is not fiercely devoted to the Tribe, he will fight for them to an extent, but it is in Wiltran where his true faith and fidelity lies; for his chosen god, he will defend his shadowed beliefs to the last breath. Is it because of his hard-headed nature, or does he truly believe in something that is greater than himself? alas, not even he knows the answer to that question.

His shift form, the MASKED OWL shares his name, gender, snotty temper, and the uncanny need to cause bounds of trouble. If ever there was a shift form that reflected the inner soul of the true body, this is it. Secretive and silent, masked owls choose to keep in the shadows while stalking their prey, sizing up their options before they strike. The subtle rings around the eyes imitate the mask of a burglar, a thief, suggesting that this animal, like his master, has secrets to hide.

HISTORY

You, sir, are very nosy to assume that you may look unabashedly into my past. But honestly, go ahead. You will find nothing truly interesting. I mean, sure you'll get a few laughs out of the various tricks I've performed, or gasp at the atrocious misdeeds that I have done, but there is no dark secret. My past isn't filled with the horrible cliches about a horrible childhood that shaped me into the vicious deviant that I am. I am who you see by choice. My life has been, in all honesty, rather uneventful. Such is the fate of a Common Shifter, to live his life and give to the Tribe as much as possible, but not get any respect in return. I could be bitter, I suppose, but I choose to seek my revenge in forms of malicious tricks that usually leave most in complete bewilderment.

My mum was a loner, some poor soul who had no place to rest her head or call home. My father was a Commoner, and had little choice in his pick of the females. He was simply a little Kite, hardly useful for hunting or warfare. by the time those high and mighty Rare ones had gotten through with their pick of the queens, there was no one left for him, and da...he wasn't the greatest. He had his needs that he wanted to satisfy. And mother just happened to be in the right place at the right time. He was a trickster like me; a few kind words and he had her in his pocket; she, who had never heard a kind word in her life. Who was desperate for that little bit of warmth that father could offer her. Soon after they met, tra la la, me and my sister came along.

Father took care of us, of course, but it was more out of a sense of responsibility than any sort of affection that he should have had for his family. once we were old enough to hunt for ourselves, he distanced himself. He's still running around the Tribe somewhere, but he doesn't seek me out, and I don't look for him. some things are better left alone, some bridges better left burned. We were closest to mother anyways, my sister and I, so father's almost-abandonment was hardly a blow. It was more of something to be expected. As we became apprentices, mother went back to being a nanny and gradually removed herself from our lives.

The first real blow was my sister. Females are the lesser species, of course, but she was a fine she-cat, very sharp-witted and incredibly swift on her feet, much clverer and far more agile than I, and yet she had to waste her talents on being a kit-maker while I got to go on to become a warrior for the Tribe. I felt her bitter disappointment sometimes, saw it in her eyes when she would speak to me; she was happy for me, of course, but before she would turn away, her shoulders would slump in defeat. And she would trudge back to the nursery to make the best of herself, find another mate in the next season to have another litter of kits. Sometimes my sorrow fer her is great, but at the same time, I can feel a small ounce of pride; She has never produced a disease-ridden kit. Never. they are all healthy, fine specimens, a grand addition to the Tribe.

It's the only thing she has to be happy about. But such is the life of a she-cat in this society. And i cannot change that.

I suppose if my hopeless cynicism can be blamed on anything, it is my sister's unhappiness. If I was a greater soul, perhaps I would rebel against the leaders and take her away to a finer place, away to a life she deserves. But I am not. my life in the Tribe is relatively comfortable. I scorn others because they live so willingly at the paws of their masters, and yet I am no different. I pray to Wiltran just as others pray to their respective Gods, but the things I ask for, ha, are rather different. I do not plea for a fertile mate or a blessed life. No, I ask my master trickster for deception and cunning, to throw the most wicked of curves in the paths of those who deem themselves better than us, my sister and I. Those who put her in her place when she is capable of things far greater. And yet it is to the tribe I return to every night, sleeping amongst my comrades in the warmth of a nest, knowing that I despise them and yet doing nothing about it. There is nothing that can be done. I will not leave this place, and I cannot change the minds of the elders or the Gods. My lack of action is more out of an act of pure selfishness than anything...I care a bout more needs more than hers.

I am a terrible soul. But sometimes, you must just accept that you are imperfect, just like everyone else.[/style]


functions preformed by JOURN
other characters are N/A

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