Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
News & Updates
11.06.2022 The site has been transformed into an archive. Thank you for all the memories here!
Here on Classic we understand that sometimes life can get difficult and we struggle. We may need to receive advice, vent, know that we are not alone in our difficult times, or even just have someone listen to what's going on in our lives. In light of these times, we have created the support threads below that are open to all of our members at any time.
an unusually small abyssinian tom with short, chocolate-ginger fur, wide, dusty green eyes, and huge, rounded ears. his face is pert, delicate, and triangular, his whiskers long and feathery, and his paws tiny and soft, rendering his claws no more effective than a kitten's. paler fur rings his eyes, making them appear even larger than they already are. one of his eyes is milky and clouded, the only sign betraying its blindness. in every respect, he looks to be no older than an apprentice - and a particularly diminutive one at that. more pretty than he is handsome, he's often mistaken for a she-cat, though he doesn't especially mind. having only been a clan cat for fewer than four moons, he still finds himself distrustful of his clanmates and unaccustomed to the rules and expectations, and likes to keep a safe distance.
quiet much of the time, fincherwhisker tends to fade into the background - and that doesn't bother him at all, really. he prefers to spend his time with queens and apprentices, away from the limelight of warriors and battles and glory. fussy to a fault, and partial to his looks, he prefers to keep himself neat and well-groomed, away from the mess of dirt and blood and responsibility. when he does have a chance to speak freely, however, his manner can seem quite at odds with his dainty looks - sly and droll and occasionally cruel, he knows precisely which insecurities to prod at and which old wounds to unstitch; which soft spots to exploit; which version of himself the other cat would like to see. he can be sweet and bashful and bubbly, doleful and withdrawn, acidic and dry, bouncy and reckless and chipper as a kit - whatever they want him to be. he thinks quite highly of himself, and doesn't often feel insecure in the presence of other cats.
he isn't quiet because he's shy, but because he believes few cats are worth his time. he's prissy, sarcastic, and oh-so-much-better-than-you, all wrapped up in a neat little package of haughty sneer-smiles, feigned exhaustion, and smug condescension. he thinks all cats are fools and that he is eternally one step ahead of everyone else; consequently, he doesn't hold too high an opinion of anyone. himself, on the other hand - well, has there ever been a cat prettier, smarter, more charming? absolutely. almost certainly, actually. he truly can be a tad thick at times.
but don't tell him that.
oh, what a burden it is to be the pinnacle of class and grace when all others are but worms in the earth. it exhausts him, really, and if he were to bother with pity, he would sigh and lament the ineptitude of his contemporaries; but, as it is, being a jewel among pebbles simply never ceases to be tiring - so, forgive him if he retires to his den when he ought to be doing something meaningful. it really is so beneath him.
but there's a wispy sort of sadness to him, one that creeps in around the edges of the caustic smiles and the big eyes - one that's all guilt and mourning and emptiness. what should he care what others think of him, when he scarcely feels that he exists at all? with no sense of self, it's ever so easy to become whatever they want him to be. he feels like no more than a wistful ghost, haunting himself till the day he fades away.
HISTORY
born to a rogue and a father he never knew, finchwhisker lived the first year of his life in alleys and abandoned buildings, growing up amidst broken windows and black water and mould. always fussy and neat, he loathed the uncleanliness far more than he ever did the fear and the bloodshed; little and unassuming, he was more often than not able to sweet-talk his way out of potentially violent situations.
he abandoned his brother and sister when he was six moons old, preferring to branch out on his own and forge his own path, without being weighed down by loyalty or weakness or love. he dreamed of great things in his future - and they were far too unclean for him, anyway.
when he was eight moons old, he fell in love with a dangerous tom he ought never to have gone near - but, always one to be blinded by good looks and flattery, he let himself be charmed. the tom had a terrible temper, and finchwhisker found himself slipping more and more into subservience - he let the tom take his anger out on him; he let him blame him, hurt him, humiliate him; he let him reduce him to nothing but an incompetent, unlovable fool, and swallowed the lies every time the tom told him he was nothing without him - until he started to believe it. he let himself be broken, and forgot there was ever such a thing as choice or kindness or freedom.
when he was ten moons, the tom flew into a rage over a small, unimportant thing, and slaughtered finchwhisker's mother. tired and ruined, finchwhisker did nothing to stop him. when he tried to apologise for whatever it was the tom thought he had done, when he tried to make it better, the tom hooked his claw in finchwhisker's eye and left it blind.
when he was one year old, he fled into clan territory and tried to leave the ghosts behind.
(he didn't run fast enough.)
(they followed him here.)
FUN FACTS
• he's mostly blind in his right eye - he can still see colours and vague shapes, but no details.
Post by finchwhisker on Feb 7, 2019 1:18:18 GMT -5
E U G E N E previous name: sedgefeather (sedgemouse? sedgepelt? sedgefur?) nickname: "doc"
CLAN: primal instinct; formerly earthclan
RANK: hunter DESIRED RANK: pathologist
AGE: seventeen moons (one year and five months)
GENDER: tom
MATE: none
SEXUALITY: bisexual (but prefers toms)
F A M I L Y ;
MOTHER: marigold
FATHER: undetermined
SIBLINGS: littlestep, finchwhisker
KITS: none
FUN FACTS
based loosely on doctor poison from "wonder woman" (2017)
HISTORY
growing up as a rogue on the streets with his sister, littlestep, he was the quiet optimist - their lives were difficult, but their stomachs weren't empty; they saw suffering, but they witnessed the strength of life; the nights were cold, but they always found warmth. he was tentatively happy, softly hopeful.
and then he learned that there was such a thing as death. he tasted blood on the air, saw murder - learned that he was fundamentally so very, very weak. he tried to nurse cats back to health, tried to bring perfect strangers back to life with quiet pleas and a breaking heart. but he was useless. he couldn't save them. he could never save them. he wasn't enough.
there was only death.
when he was seven moons old, his sister abandoned him in the dead of night. he awoke to find her gone, and learned another lesson: he is not worth staying for. alone on the streets, he fell victim to the torment of others. they scorned him for liking toms, and left him bleeding in the gutter more than once. the warmth of his kithood was over, and real life crept in, cold and empty. he eventually found his way onto earthclan territory, and tried to leave all the ghosts of the cats he couldn't save behind.
but while he lived as a clan cat, he could never stop thinking about all that death - about all the things that aren't yet understood, about all the things he wants to know. it evolved into an obsession. he began to dissect prey, studying their guts and falling ever more infatuated with the mystery of why things die. eventually, before he was able to start studying the cadavers of kits, the clan could wind of his unsavoury fascination and drove him from the territory. he finally ended up in primal instinct, where he is free to conduct his studies in peace.
but it isn't morbid, you must realise. it isn't sordid or macabre or sadistic. oh, no, it isn't anything like that at all - he loves them. he grieves for them. he kills them, but he does it because it's what's best for them, because it will make them better, because life is sick and messy and only death is clean and pure- and each time, his heart breaks as he pulls out their organs and inspects all the things that used to make them tick.
you have to understand.
he's only trying to help you.
BIOGRAPHY
a large, scrawny black tom with dreary black fur, prominent ribs, and watery green eyes. there's something haunted about them, something hollow and numb and afraid - where once they were beautiful, there is now only quiet, fragile grief and a shivery mania suspended in them like dust motes in pale sunlight. most cats notice this and, frightened, keep a wide distance. he doesn't mind - scarcely notices, really. he's lonely, certainly, but he works himself raw to the bone and, more often than not, that helps to forget. quiet and unassuming, he has an involuntarily twitch that affects the left side of his body, particularly his eye, his lips, and his front leg.
and yet, he has such an incredible capacity for hope - he believes so strongly in the right thing, and in the fundamental goodness in all creatures.
however, the right thing is not always necessarily the good thing. he believes in goodness, yes, to the extent that he almost worships other cats - or, rather, the holy innocence he projects onto them, the purity, the virtue. this blind veneration verges on mania - he wants to take them apart, inspect their insides, untangle their nerves and find piety in their veins. he wants to understand them, know them. he surrounds himself with death, spends his nights huddled over corpses, muttering and quivering and whispering and pleading with them for forgiveness.
oh, he loves them a little too much - and dead things can't hurt him. dead things can't leave. dead things, he can pretend, love him back.
and in the end, the hope turned to obsession, and the obsession turned to madness.
Post by finchwhisker on Feb 7, 2019 1:46:59 GMT -5
L I T T L E S T E P previous name: poppy
CLAN: brookclan
RANK: viony DEDICATED TO: marli
AGE: seventeen moons (one year and five months)
GENDER: she-cat
MATE: none
SEXUALITY: gay af bruh
F A M I L Y ;
MOTHER: marigold
FATHER: undetermined
SIBLINGS: sedgenose, finchwhisker
KITS: none
BIOGRAPHY
a small, hot-headed she-cat with large ears, wide, frosty blue eyes, and thin, soft fur that scarcely manages to cover her pink skin. she looks eternally worried, and has the compulsive habit of licking her nose every few moments, to the point that it's dry and cracked. her whiskers are short and stubbly and her tail more like a rat's than a cat's, each vertebra painfully visible beneath the fine fur.
a particularly nervous cat, littlestep's anxiety shows itself in a short temper and high-strung aggression - where there is worry, there is acidity spat out through bared teeth; where there is dread that keeps her awake at night and rings her under-eyes, there are sneers and mockery. she is wary of growing close to other cats, and prefers to keep a safe distance between her and them. she likes to keep busy, and more often than not works well into the night, the only cat still awake in the forest - to distract herself, to keep the anxiety at bay, to stop her closing her eyes. the anxiety keeps her awake, the sleepless nights make her jittery, and the nerves wear her temper taut and her patience thin. she doesn't like to talk about herself, and will deflect any questions with silence or hostility.
HISTORY
born a rogue, she grew up amidst street lights and hunger. she saw death, violence, starvation, greed; she saw that love was weakness, and weakness got you killed; she saw that the only way to survive was to close your heart and fill it with dust.
when she was seven moons old, she took her own advice and left her brother, to whom she had been so close, in the middle of the night. far better to be the one to leave than to be the one who is left behind. far better to have her heart sewed up and sutured and cauterised, to stitch the wound up till it's little more than smooth white scar tissue and the memory of being loved, than it is to leave it raw and bloody and vulnerable.
she stumbled onto brookclan territory and made a new life for herself, bottling up all the fear and the grief and tucking it away behind her spine. but the past, she's learned, has a way of seeping out through the stitches, and anxiety is such a lovely companion to trauma.
what a thing it would be to feel safe enough to fall in love.
Post by finchwhisker on Feb 7, 2019 19:27:52 GMT -5
T H I S B E previous name:
CLAN: renegade regime
RANK: undetermined
AGE: sixteen moons (one year and four months)
GENDER: she-cat
MATE: none
SEXUALITY: pansexual (but prefers she-cats)
F A M I L Y ;
MOTHER: undetermined
FATHER: undetermined
SIBLINGS: none
KITS: none
B I O G R A P H Y
a wisp of a thing - more feathers than blood, more clouds than skin, more bird than cat. there's a gentleness about her, something quiet and calm, like the moment the wind falls silent and the sparrows cease to sing. a sort of arcane stillness, as old and sibylline as the winter air. with soft, pale brown fur, a rosy nose, a sharp, triangular face, and light, vacant green eyes, her looks, though a little too odd to be pretty, are as gentle as her presence. and yet, though she carries a motherly air, there's far more coolness than there is warmth - she cares deeply for others, but death doesn't haunt her; she loves, but she doesn't mourn; she helps those she can, but she'll stand back and watch them suffer when she cannot, all glassy eyes and a wisp of a smile. "ah," she'll murmur, and turn away, "what a waste." so kind, so loving, so peaceful - and yet, oh, there's always been far more ghost to her than there has ever been life. some cats are just born with something missing.
HISTORY
t o b e a d d e d
FUN FACTS
• there’s an emptiness to her, like she looks straight through cats but cannot see them. not cold, not uncaring, not hollow, simply... numb.
• soft-spoken, wise, and sweet-natured, in the same way the clouds are; one gets the impression she’s an ancient soul, simply drifting through life and watching all the horrors and joys she’s seen a thousand times before and will see a thousand times again. nothing truly affects her anymore. she is kind to cats, but she knows their time, too, shall come, so she’s always a little airy and distant. unknowable.
Post by finchwhisker on Feb 7, 2019 19:30:32 GMT -5
C L O U D B E R R Y previous name:
CLAN: springclan
RANK: actor
AGE: fourteen moons (one year and two months)
GENDER: she-cat
MATE: none
SEXUALITY: panromantic asexual
F A M I L Y ;
MOTHER: undetermined
FATHER: undetermined
SIBLINGS: none
KITS: none
FUN FACTS
HISTORY
t o b e a d d e d
BIOGRAPHY
an air-headed chocolate-brown she-cat with feather-soft fur, pointed ears, and wide, foolish eyes that always look to be equal parts wonder-struck and overwhelmed. thoughtless, mouse-brained, and quiet, there never seems to be much going on inside her head - what you see is very much what you get, and what you see is nothing more than a wide-eyed fool.
but then, she's a very good liar. tucked away beneath the feigned idiocy, there's a sly, devilish creature who is so very good at luring cats into a false sense of comfort and using them to her own ends. she likes to play with cats, likes to toy with their emotions and watch them squirm. at times she physically shakes with the joy of senseless violence.
manic, cruel, and more than a little mad, she can switch from sweet and air-headed to feverish and charming in the blink of an eye. why? because she can. because she wants to. because it's fun. and there's nothing more dangerous than a cat with no morals, no sense of purpose, and no fear of death. she's here for a good time, not a long time, and it ain't a good time without spilled guts and bad jokes.
Post by finchwhisker on Feb 7, 2019 19:43:20 GMT -5
C Y P R I A previous name: sunflower
CLAN: brookclan
RANK: viony
AGE: twenty six moons (two years and two months)
GENDER: she-cat
MATE: none
SEXUALITY: bisexual
THEME: "bury a friend" by billie eilish
F A M I L Y ;
MOTHER: undetermined
FATHER: undetermined
SIBLINGS: none
KITS: none
BIOGRAPHY
a large, sly she-cat with fluffy dark ginger tabby fur, white paws and chest, and dull amber eyes. her pelt always looks dirty, like she hasn't quite managed to groom out all the dust and burs and dried blood of mice and sparrows. quiet, ambitious, and bound only loosely by morals, she wants one thing, and one thing only: a crown. whether it is handed down in turn, whether it is stolen, whether it is usurped in war or chaos; whether she has to bow her head and obey, whether she has to slip behind the throne and bide her time in the shadows, whether she has to pledge herself to a false queen and wait - she will have it. sensible, clear-headed, and well-spoken, she has a talent for giving advice and pulling at puppet strings, at knowing where each thread leads and how to unravel it. she can be loyal, but only to those in whom she recognises a part of herself, and only if what they can offer her is equal to what she can offer them. life, after all, is but a game of chess - give and take, win or lose, take the crown or... well. that's the only outcome she's interested in, really.
HISTORY
after spending half her life as a kittypet, confined within small rooms with peeling paint and grimy windows, she's learned that only one thing truly matters in this life: power. control. the ability to decide one's own path.
FUN FACTS
• she has a debilitating fear of fire. • • • • • • • • • • •
a large, long-legged she-cat with short, ruddy fur, one narrow green eye, and a prominent aquiline nose. her head and back are a soft ashy grey, as though she's been dusted with charcoal soot. she has a serious look about her, like she disapproves of most everything and is perpetually on the verge of scowling. she has one missing eye that was never properly cared for, leaving one side of her face a badly healed mess of scabs, scars, and weeping pus.
her personality is not that different from her appearance - stern, old-fashioned, proud. though only a young cat, she seems already an elder, weighed down by displeasure and discipline. she believes in an eye for an eye, blood for blood, a war for a war; she believes that no crime should go unpunished, that the word of the crown is law, and that execution is not an unreasonable consequence. she holds herself to a high moral standard, though the fairness of those morals is questionable; a fanatic when it comes to upholding the decrees of the leader, she can be loyal to destructive extents. there's something of the medieval witch-hunter in her, something of the Spanish inquisitors and the enlightened nobles of England who condemned heretics to the gallows. in the name of devotion, nothing is unholy.
and yet, beneath the iron and the austerity, she has an innate sweetness and a droll sense of humour, which shows itself in sly smiles and flat-voiced quips. but loyalty being what it is, it's far easier to reduce herself to one thing, and one thing only. and kindness has no place in devotion.
HISTORY
born a loner, she was drawn to the order and regimen of clan life. upon joining, she declined to take a warrior name, as she feels herself undeserving; what is she, a humble servant, to so honourable a life, if she was not deemed worthy of being born into it? surely there is some past transgression she must account for first.
a dainty, cheerful cat with golden-brown fur, amber eyes, and long legs. though born a she-cat, they never felt like one; the pronouns prickled at their gut like needles, and the knowledge that they were thought to be something they were not itched at their skin and curdled in their stomach. they felt wrong, and frightened, and alone - until their mentor accidentally called them by a male pronoun in a flustered moment, and something slotted into place. they didn't have to be a she-cat; they didn't have to be a tom; they could just be them.
though a remarkably light-hearted cat in most respects, they are painfully aware that, had they not been so supported, their life could have been entirely different. as such, they strive to live each day to the fullest. optimistic, kind, and curious, they are in love with the world and everything in it; they truly believe that life is a gift, and that all creatures ought to be treated with decency and understanding. they are outgoing and occasionally reckless, never afraid to greet new cats and make them feel welcome - with no consideration as to whether they are friend or foe. usually overflowing with energy and rarely without a smile, they dream of exploring the world, and spends their days daydreaming about adventure in faraway places with cats they have yet to meet. they can be insecure and self-conscious at times, afraid that they aren't who they're meant to be, that they should choose between being a tom or a she-cat - but they cling to one desperate belief that they won't allow themselves to waver on, no matter how much doubt and fear might be trying to tear it down: there is nothing wrong with them (there is nothing wrong with me). during those times, they can be quiet and shy, preferring to slink away by themselves into the darkness until the anxiety stops scratching and the air seeps back into their lungs.
