Thatcher

THATCHER

PERSONALITY |

Efficient;
To Thatcher, efficiency is everything. While he often keeps his thoughts to himself, he's always thinking of ways to cut back on wasted time and energy. One of the biggest reasons why he is so quiet in the first place is that he feels he'd be wasting his breath. He can be particular about certain things he does because of this, as well as completely disregard other things. Why clean his fur on a regular basis if it's only going to get mussed later?


Aloof;
While unintentional, Thatcher isn't the friendly 'Everyone has to LOVE me' type. He finds it difficult to socialize with others at paws length, let alone actually become close to them. He is cold, disinterested, and often rude when egged on. Try to talk about anything that does not have to be discussed, and he'll more often than not ignore you. Granted, when being spoken to by an elder or superior of other sorts, he feels required to respond. But he won't like it.

Sour;
Being around Thatcher is, typically, described as unpleasant. He is distant, grumpy, and a general 'sourpuss'. He doesn't play, joke around, or 'have a ball'. He sits quietly to himself, hunts, sleeps, or does other duties required of him. If he has to do something with others, he'll do it. Give him the option of going it alone, and he won't think twice of it. Most others would have it that way as well.


Reliable;
On a lighter note, Thatcher is very reliable. When he says he's going to do something, he does it. If someone else asks him to do something and he agrees or is otherwise expected to do it, he'll do it. In the quickest, most efficient way, of course. The methods he uses to get the desired result may not always be what one would expect, or hope for for that matter, but he'll get the job done.

Guarded;
For those who for some reason wish to know more about this tom, they're in for a bunch of closed doors. Thatch doesn't talk about his past, would rather not even be pressed about it. He keeps his secrets secret, his hopes, wishes, dreams, etc. locked up tight, and any information he doesn't have to share is to be left a blank in everyone's mind.

• likes | long walks on the beach...by himself, toying with mice
• dislikes | very sociable creatures, snow
• goals | to find a nice quiet place away from others where he can live out his life, raise an army of silent minions
• fears | large dogs, deep water
• strengths | Fast, relentless, dependable
• weaknesses | Does not play well with others, fragile boned, missing an eye
• mental disorders | None.

On the surface, Thatcher is nothing much different from most other feral cats. His fur is a light grey at its base. Around his face and paws, the colour varies slightly; a gradient of tabby stripes, almost unnoticeable the closer to his nose/toes, standing almost stark against his cheeks/upper legs. Had he more of a tail, there'd be striping there too. Yet with the stub he was born with, all one can see is a pale blue cotton ball on his rear.

White markings, some small and some large blank out various parts of the grey tom. His front toes are white, giving the appearance of finger-less gloves, while his back legs are white about halfway up. His muzzle and chin are also white, going well with the two white dots on his face, one above each eye. The largest splash of white on Thatcher's body is that which gives him an almost collared look. It reaches fully around his neck, creeping slightly up the back of his head, down his back, and underneath his belly.

His long fur, almost always scruffy and unkempt, is mottled with scars. Though most are unseen, as with many feral toms, a few have left deeper marks. A nick in each black-tipped ear, an absent left eye, a trio of deep gouges across his nose, and a few other deep pink reminders tell stories that Thatcher would sometimes rather forget.

Beneath the coat, Thatcher is long and lean. His facial features depict no particular breed, though his one orange eye whispers of something exotic. His legs leave him a tall cat, though his general frame is thin, streamlined despite his copious amounts of fur. When soaked to the bone, he looks truly awkward, a bit on the gangly side. Large but not in a bulky and overpowering sense, Thatcher's appearance can be misleading to those who don't know him too well.

• height | 11in
• weight | 14lbs
• fur colour | light grey
• eye colour | orange
• scars | several.
• noticeable features | missing eye, stub of a tail
• physical disorders | None

He was conceived, he was born, he went through some bad stuff, and now here he is today. Or, so he'd like you to think. While he refuses on all accounts to speak of his father, or where his mother came from to where he grew up, it can be assumed that his mother was originally from the area. She 'left' for a small time, only to come back with a swaying belly full of kittens. Thatch was one of two toms out of a litter of six. Only one kit was lost, and only a short while after birth. Fluid had been caught in her lungs since her first breath, allowing a silent death to sweep her away.

He won't say much about his kittenhood, either. If anything, he'd rather not say a word. But if one had to know, His only brother and he fought often. One might guess many of the scars on his body were from this larger, more heavily set brother. Thatcher won't speak of where he or any of his other siblings are or why they're gone, but it can be interpreted dark things occurred.

• season born | winter
• place of birth | somewhere near Southern Hexasol
• family | unknown
• memorable events | the day he left his mother and his siblings, or rather was chased off by his brother.

It had been dreary all day. Dark clouds, heavy with rain, rolled in early that morning, sitting, waiting till well into the night before the water it held flowed over. It had been decidedly muggy that day, and while it was late in coming, the wash of rain brought relief to the village. Though many of the humans and dogs lay sleeping as it happened, the next morning would bring about a pleasant surprise. Trotting around, slowly making his way towards the outskirts of the village dogs' territory, a young dog enjoyed the breath of fresh clean air that came with the rains.

His thick feathered fur clung to his body, making him appear more gangly than normal. Typically one to worry over his appearance, Koen found himself in an odd state of disregard. When he found himself in such weather, his mood changed, his mind cleared, and the world opened up around him. The steady beat of droplets against his head stood as music for his quick jog, his steps keeping in their own sense of rhythm with them. A happy, almost dazed expression seemed stuck on his face, rather than his usual flirtatious smirk. It was times like these that he felt he didn't have to put on a show for others. He didn't have to keep up an impression, or worry over what others thought of him. Heading out into the wet darkness, there was only himself and the rain. It was calming, and in a way what kept him from cracking under the enormous pressure his way of living put on him. This was his escape from himself, and without it he wouldn't have lasted thus far into his otherwise short life.

Still keeping a steady pace, the lightly merled mutt made good timing. He had hoped to head out to the borders, perhaps catch up with a guard should any particularly interesting ones show, circle around the lands, and then head in for the night. Yet as he neared the borders, something strange pierced the otherwise monotonous rumble of thunder. At first, Koen wasn't sure he had really heard it. He paused, straining his ears over the droning rain. A small moment of silence, and then it echoed barely above the sound of the storm once more. A shrill shrieking, almost. Perhaps an injured fawn? The young dog trotted closer, his eyes unable to distinguish much of anything in the darkness. Slowly honing in, the calls grew louder and more desperate, yet still he could not tell what they were from. Not until he nearly tumbled over the tiny thing did he realize what it was.

Had he had any younger siblings or been a parent himself, Koen would have known right off the bat and likely rushed over sooner. But being young and inexperienced, he hadn't a clue that there had been a tiny pup left at the borders. For a second, he found himself unable to think of what to do. He simply stared down at the infant pup, gawking in a way. Yet within moments, the gears slowly began to turn, and the vaguest forms of paternal instincts began to kick in. Crouching down, he sniffed the pup, licked it once, and then curled around it. Its fur was soaked through, its tiny body going cold. He didn't know much, if anything, about pups, but he knew what dangers having one so young being frigid could bring. He himself was wet given the weather, but at the least his body held more heat.

Feeling a pang of panic, he looked about, wishing that a guard would come along and help so that his own ignorance with young ones wouldn't end a life prematurely. Nervous, he let out a shrill howl, his voice cracking indignantly throughout. He called for no one in particular, just an SOS.

The seconds ticked by, and Koen felt himself getting antsy. Staying out in the rain was making things only worse, and he wasn't even sure how long this pup had been out here. The longer he was wet, Koen figured, the less time he'd have. Getting to his feet, he gingerly nosed the pup over, trying to get a good grip around him so as to carry him to better shelter. Throughout his whole moment of fumbling around in the dark, he cursed himself for not having paid more attention to his mother's actions when he was a pup himself.

• link to image of character | it's a nifty little cat creator thing. there's credits on the finished product, but here is where I found it.
• where did you find CR? | was ad hopping around and landed here.