STORYOAK A medium brown and orange tabby with a white chest, neck and paws and all knowing yet soft green eyes, Storyoak regularly transverses the line between intimidating and endearing. Although she is a genuine cat, one who strives to be as authentic as possible, her presence can be daunting, if you don't know her, in that criticality is a central tennant of her personality. She is critical of everything, although sympathetic in her criticism. This leads to a serious air to her, one that can be difficult to get past. Once past it, though, one might notice that love guides her actions. With a strict sense of right and wrong, Storyoak is both judge and executioner, but she acts as such not in vengence, something she does not believe in, but with love, as she believes strongly that justice, true justice, amplified by egalitarianism and compassion, is the most loving thing, as it prompts cats to rectify harm and see each other as kin and not as opposition. She carries out justice for transgression with a fair, even hand, careful to obtain all of the facts before determining her position on an issue. She finds no pleasure in punishment, but strongly believes that each wrong must be righted. Preferably, this can be done with reformation. Storyoak is strong in her belief that cats can change, will change, if given the right tools. Transformative justice, after all, is the best justice, justice that both rectifies harm and offers a path of change. Her desire for reformation does not equate to naivity, though, and she simply does not tolerate others walking over her. Still, it means that she prefers mediation above everything else. If objectives can be accomplished without violence or punishment, she sees no reason to resort to what she perceives as barbaric. Perhaps this is how she got her name; after all, the oak is a symbol of justice, honesty and stability, three of her central values. The only thing that she values more than justice is knowledge. She craves to understand the world and all of its intricacies to the best of her ability. This often translates into a curious nature, although some take her genuine curiosity as nosiness. She is apologetic of this, of course; after all, she intends no harm with her constant questioning. Instead, she just wants to understand. She is particularly interested in understanding the stories that others tell themselves. Stories, after all, have great potential to teach. Prone to parable herself, much of her insight is delivered through narrative.

Zebrakit / zeal - ian
A puffball of a white cat, whose plush mid-length furs are disrupted by thick black stripes, an homage to his name sake. With eyes so dark brown that they appear black, he is quite the character. A conman through and through, he believes that the best way to secure ones own rights is to... minorly impinge on the rights of others. It's a dog eat dog world out there, after all, and such a world demands one to look... beyond ones moral code. This doesn't mean to suggest that he doesn't <i>have</i> a moral code. He does; he doesn't believe in conning the destitute or pregnant. That isn't fair. Anyone else, though, is fair game to his trickery, and he tries to pull a fast one on nearly everyone he comes into contact with. Still, he carries himself in a way that makes it hard not to find him endearing: like his nickname, Zesty, suggests, he is a mix of spicy and pleasant, his smile charming and his words calculated to be a perfect mix of pomp and circumstance that leaves his words inviting. Even if you know how he is, it's hard to resist the pull of a magnificent salesman. Equal parts salesman and con artist, he has a certain attractive quality about him. Confidence smears his tone and actions, and it's hard to think of him as anyone <i>but</i> the strange zebra-striped tom who could probably sell a cat a car if he had the opportunity (and not meerly because 50% of the time, he acts like a walking advertisement). Beneath the pep to his step, though, is a nervous child, marred by abandonment and pain. Even though he would never show it, insecurity and ambivalence often color his actions.

aspenflicker x2

The gods argued over who should lay siege to the soul. The forces of good knew the soul’s potential; when nurtured, it would be the brightest star in the sky. The forces of evil were equally aware of the soul’s potential; just as it could do a great good in the world, it would was equally capable of doing harm. The forces of good saw in it a dazzling angel; the forces of bad saw in it a merciless monster. They warred for a long time over which allegiance the soul ought to own. Eventually, both sides realized that they were running out of time. If the soul stayed with them much longer, it wouldn’t survive; a soul without a body withers, just as a body without a soul. So, in the midnight hour, the gods came up with a compromise. They would let fate decide. Seven years a saint, seven years a sinner, so the gods must have ordained the day they sent her soul into a vessel. For seven years, she would be good. She would play by the rules, she would do what was right. She would be good, be pure, be whatever the humanity in her heart told her she must. And after seven years, there was truly nothing more frightening than a saint who had her first taste of sin. She would repay whatever good she had done in the world with a blaze of darkness. The day she died, the gods would decide which side had been stronger, the good or the bad, and she would spend eternity to whichever side her allegiance was truest to. Both sides were so sure the soul would one day belong to them that they agreed to the compromise. So it was ordained: the soul was sent to earth and the wager was made. If both sides had played fairly, perhaps it would have been an even battle of good and evil. However, seven years is a long time to wait for your precious prize to unleash her potential, and the forces of evil are a fickle sort. When they grew too tired of her goodness, they interfered. They sent a dog to her. If the gods of good were to ask, there was certainly plausible deniability. How could we have done that? they would ask, and the gods of good would have no evidence but their own suspicion. And, even if they could prove that the forces of evil had tangibly got involved, they would point out that there was no rule against sending a little tribulation in her way. How were we supposed to know this would be how she would respond? Once tampered with, the game would never be the same. The saint’s first sin had occurred; how could they expect her to remain pure when the darkness felt so good? At her first taste of blood, the soul became ravenous. The forces of evil had not been wrong; she made an excellent doer of harm. Under her claws was a reign of terror: murder, conquering, destruction of anything left in her path. She became a god, dazzled by the stunning darkness that radiated through her chest. However, the forces of good were not so keen to give up her soul. Although it had done great harm, it still could do good. As such, in her darkest hour, they intervened. Murdered by the Primal Instinct Warden, her head slammed into the earth. Breath was not the only thing taken from her lungs with Bermondsey's claws; her recent memory was also ripped from her soul. The forces of good considered this their recompense, a reset to the original rules of the game. They restored her chance with the hope that her fractured spirit still retained the goodness that was first given to her. It is unclear where the soul's fate lies now. With no recollection of her time as Aspenstar, Aspenflicker was rebirthed in her own blood. Once again, she is given a fresh start: seven years a saint, seven years a sinner. Will this time be different? Will she rise like a pheonix from the ashes, the saint she had once been meant to be? Or will darkness once again take root in her chest, reminding her of the god she could once again be? Only time will tell.