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!
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41 posts
Post by Admin on Sept 16, 2018 18:56:04 GMT -5
OCEANCLAN MEMBERS //
Antarctica by xx.sapphire
Now upon this unholy night, where the stars above aligned just right, a mistake conceived of ice and bone, would one day rise to oppose the throne.
The day her soul was born was indeed the day hell froze over, for after she procured from its fiery depths, the temperatures only continued to drop. Such words were spoken from the God of Chaos, Tiveronah herself, outlining the true disorder that would one day come from Antarctica and her siblings. Fur as white as snow, with shading around her ears, muzzle, and paws, contrasts starkly with the iciest of optics. She does not understand why she was born this way; isolated, calculating, and cruel. She didn't understand why she loved the pain of every frozen wound life burned her with. Perhaps it was because she was born to be a catalyst of a bigger plan, and this was the part she was needed to play. Perhaps it was because she had never received proper love from her biological parents. Cast off and alone in the world, Antarctica closed herself off from all except her siblings. If she were not worthy of the world's love, then how could the world expect her to love it back? Sometimes she believes she was born at the wrong time, in the wrong place. If things had aligned differently, would she hate the world a little less? Would she have built her walls a little lower, a little thinner? Would she have enjoyed the taste of blood a bit less? As a kitten, she was the unparalleled queen of ice. Having Kerrigan's favor will give your arrogance a boost; cats in the Monarchy did not cross her or her siblings for fear of the Tsar's disapproval. Perhaps this helped breed her desolate tendencies; she was different from other cats. As she aged, they avoided her, and she looked down upon them. Who were they to spit at her paws? It wasn't her fault that she was so above them that her paws were at their eye level. It started with a rogue -- a worthless life. It had been an accident; at least, this was how she used to justify it. The rogue had been trespassing, and then made the mistake of giving Antarctica attitude. The battle had gone a bit too far, Antarctica had been a bit too skilled ... Before she realized what she had done, the crimson blood of the rogue was pulsating from the carotid artery and painting her paws a lovely shade of red. The cries of agony, of terror, were music to her ears. The rogue died a slow and painful death, and Antarctica savored every minute of it. For the first time, her pristine white fur had been stained, and although she later washed her paws, her soul could never be cleansed.
Antarctica by xx.sapphire
Now upon this unholy night, where the stars above aligned just right, a mistake conceived of ice and bone, would one day rise to oppose the throne.
The day her soul was born was indeed the day hell froze over, for after she procured from its fiery depths, the temperatures only continued to drop. Such words were spoken from the God of Chaos, Tiveronah herself, outlining the true disorder that would one day come from Antarctica and her siblings. Fur as white as snow, with shading around her ears, muzzle, and paws, contrasts starkly with the iciest of optics. She does not understand why she was born this way; isolated, calculating, and cruel. She didn't understand why she loved the pain of every frozen wound life burned her with. Perhaps it was because she was born to be a catalyst of a bigger plan, and this was the part she was needed to play. Perhaps it was because she had never received proper love from her biological parents. Cast off and alone in the world, Antarctica closed herself off from all except her siblings. If she were not worthy of the world's love, then how could the world expect her to love it back? Sometimes she believes she was born at the wrong time, in the wrong place. If things had aligned differently, would she hate the world a little less? Would she have built her walls a little lower, a little thinner? Would she have enjoyed the taste of blood a bit less? As a kitten, she was the unparalleled queen of ice. Having Kerrigan's favor will give your arrogance a boost; cats in the Monarchy did not cross her or her siblings for fear of the Tsar's disapproval. Perhaps this helped breed her desolate tendencies; she was different from other cats. As she aged, they avoided her, and she looked down upon them. Who were they to spit at her paws? It wasn't her fault that she was so above them that her paws were at their eye level. It started with a rogue -- a worthless life. It had been an accident; at least, this was how she used to justify it. The rogue had been trespassing, and then made the mistake of giving Antarctica attitude. The battle had gone a bit too far, Antarctica had been a bit too skilled ... Before she realized what she had done, the crimson blood of the rogue was pulsating from the carotid artery and painting her paws a lovely shade of red. The cries of agony, of terror, were music to her ears. The rogue died a slow and painful death, and Antarctica savored every minute of it. For the first time, her pristine white fur had been stained, and although she later washed her paws, her soul could never be cleansed.
Antarctica by xx.sapphire