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Rank: warrior
Gender: transman
Played By: bits
Custom Title: forged in war
Joined: 3-December 17
Status: (Offline)
Last Seen: Apr 23 2018, 10:42 PM
Local Time: Apr 24 2018, 10:56 PM
61 posts (0.4 per day)
( 0.19% of total forum posts )
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Apr 23 2018, 12:33 PM
/ takes place after Spottedlegs and the kids were on the border

Battleborn was not a kind man.

That was fine by him - he didn't excuse his behaviour, and he shrugged off accusations of callousness with a sort of understanding and acceptance that came from years of knowing one's limits. He had a hatred in him that stemmed from trauma and a lack of self, but that didn't change the nature of the hatred. And oh, how he hated. He had hated Southskies for a long while, until she slowly began to convince him that okay, fine, women could be warriors if raised in a place where that was okay. He hated healers still though (he remembered not being allowed to protest, being forced to be poked and prodded at to determine the value of his life, the pain of painkiller-free treatment because he was a waste of herbs), hated outsiders, glowered at the lumbering dog-beast that he only really respected because of his newfound authority.

And right now, the long-furred tongue was an inferno of anger and hatred. Had his children been old enough to travel, he would have been yowling and caterwauling to try and convince his mate that they weren't safe here.

Because they weren't. It was one thing to accept the responsibility of healing a child, but there was no excuse for inviting a full grown warrior allied with an enemy force into their camp. She was welcome to sit on the border and wait for all he cared, but the thought of Spottedlegs in camp, near his children, it made protective nausea roil in his gut. He was angry, he was infuriated, he was terrified.

At the end of the day, it only took one mistake. One moment. And no one wanted to allow a child to get hurt, but Lionclan had already proved their willingness to take children, to ignore the ages of their victims. It only took a moment and he could lose the tiny creatures he had grown so fond of.

So rather than bring his angry presence into the nursery, the transtom paced with claws unsheathed in front of the nursery, emanating rage and, to those who knew him a little better, a bone-deep terror that only fueled his hatred.
Apr 16 2018, 01:48 PM
Battleborn was a little overdue for the kittens, and he had started to worry over the extent to which he had grown, and only now was he actually getting the little parasites out of him. The process was admittedly drawn out, and he'd snapped at Noble once or twice (only to pretty much apologise immediately afterwards).

At the end of it, beyond all expectations, there were five, fluffy children that the transtom had curled around, exhausted but stubborn enough to want to be awake with the little fluff balls that were already rather demanding in their youth. Five children. Five freakin' children, and they were big as hell considering their father's Maine Coon heritage. No wonder the Oriental had been bloated beyond belief.

But now there were five little ones in the Thunderclan nursery. A thick furred, black tom seemed to be the only of the bunch, and Battleborn huffed before muttering out a name.


Like the stone - and named in the tradition of Thunderclan. The clan was a new home for both traumatised men, and there was a respect in naming their children as the children of the clan were named. Moving beyond their unfortunate homeland.

The rest were all girls, and for some reason, that made him think of Southskies. Anxiety roiled in his gut, thinking of the treatment low-born women would be given in the homeland, and it made him want to curl around his children even more. Not here - it's not the same here. No one is going to hurt them. He couldn't help the fear, but he was trying.

The rest, torties and torbies, were varied in their size and build, with some taking after their larger father already.

"Valiantkit. Goldenkit. The other two are gifted names in your honour."

He passed it on to his mate, who had fretted over him from the beginning to the end and would likely continue to fret as the days went on. Batts yawned, resting his head against the nest around him as the children fought over milk. Little warriors already.
Apr 3 2018, 10:04 PM
Batts was due in a quarter-moon, and the generally stoic warrior was not enjoying the amount to which he had grown. Sure, there was something to be said for the loving tenderness that Nobleground treated him with as a result of the growing pregnancy (and the general care they were known to show each other these days) but the downside was that he was bloated and couldn't move as much and smelled like milk and queen.

Ugh. Dysphoria was kicking his ass and he was ill-tempered even more so than usual. So the pregnant tom sat beside the entrance to the nursery with a glare on his face and a tightness around his eyes that relayed his current grumpiness to anyone who cared to know.

It was only a matter of time before his sharp tongue decided to lay waste to some more clanmates.
Mar 8 2018, 09:29 PM

He was a big old mess.

He was tired all the time, feeling bloated and ill. And this morning, he had spent a solid fifteen minutes gagging in the dirt tunnel until he managed to retch up his breakfast. Immediately he was hungry afterwards, so Battleborn wasn't exactly the in the best of moods when he finally glowered and grumbled his way in front of the medicine cat den. Batts... did not like healers. They were nosy and poked and prodded without consent (in his own experience) and that was enough of a reason for the young transtom to avoid them as though they spread the plagues they healed.

"Hey! Prithee, healers, mind sparing something to make me stop emptying my stomach every other morning? It's a waste of prey."

He grumbled, somehow blatantly ignoring the slight scent of milk and pregnancy that clung to him. Because of course he couldn't be pregnant - that was for queens and the feminine, definitely not a bitter, heavily scarred warrior only good for a few brief moments of affection with the one feline he actually cared about. Nah. Definitely not.

(Yeah he was 100% pregnant, oops.)
Jan 16 2018, 10:08 PM
Free time.

Free time was a concept that had never been offered to Battleborn. He did not remember his time before the homelands, could not recall a land beyond that which had become his 'home'. He only vaguely recalled the scent of milk and a crystal clear laugh, everything else lost to time and the lack of integrity in memories. His earliest memories were of sorting prey -- checking to see what was still good, picking through the scavenged pieces brought back by scouts and hunters. He remembered being ordered about, eating last, being struck if he worked too slowly.

Free time was brand new to him, and it brought to him an alarming amount of anxiety. What was he supposed to do? What was meant to feel the idle time? Thunderclanners spoke to one another, went on walks, and filled their days, but Battleborn had never had hobbies. He survived. He worked. He applied himself.

And now that he had nothing to do, he was on his sixth lap of the Thunderclan border, solo-patrolling and half-numbed by the lack of work to do.

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