Thunder, Lightning, and the Smell of BloodThe thunder rumbled from the dark sky above, but was unheard due to the crashing of the waterfall. Cats were curled up together in the damp cave sharing tongues and chatting to each other warmly. Despite Leafbare being around the corner, the camp had an odd way of staying the perfect temperature. Perhaps it had to do with the rocks? No one knew for sure, but no one was complaining.
Maplepaw was dashing in between dens with herbs clamped in her jaw. Viperstrike was following behind her closely, due to her own request. The pretty orange tabby had found out just days ago she was expecting kits and now her sister was being worrisome over her. Maplepaw didn’t mind the help though. As Maplepaw moved to check Sunflowerwish over, she nosed a few herbs towards Viperstrike and gave her an innocent smile. “Can you please bring those to Scorpionfang? His infection is going down and he needs these.”
Viperstrike growled lowly before snatching up the leaves and trotting across camp
"Deer-mid" (Irish; "without enemy")
Breed| Chocolate Birman-cross
Build| Slim, but wiry
Eyes| Ice blue
Scars| not available
Special extras|A knitted pink collar
Diarmuid is awkward. Excluding the time spent with his mother and siblings (which was very short), Diarmuid isn't used to being around other cats. Like so, he isn't used to having conversations (or rather, starting them) either. His Old Lady did the most chatting, the most conversation-starting. Ignoring the fact that he couldn't possibly respond to her, Diarmuid always only listened, and that was enough for him. He has been working on this and has actually improved, though he still tends to stutter - something he absolutely hates about himself.
Regardless, Diarmuid is as blunt as they come-- to everybody and anybody. He claims he can't help it. But he can, and he knows he can. He's just mean. Diarmuid doesn't hesitate to point something out and as such, he generally has a straight-forward, matter-of-fact approach and doesn't let emotion distract him. He has a strong sense of self; his motivations govern his actions, and he is not so effortlessly moved by the ideas of others. That said, Diarmuid is also a coward - but he's a smart coward. He doesn't like to and won't take risks that will possibly harm him. He has all the bad-case scenarios written and imprinted in his brain and will do everything to avoid even the smallest doom. But despite his somewhat unpleasant demeanor, Diarmuid is still a compassionate tom - though he tries to hide this from everyone so that they won't take him for a soft cat. This goes hand-in-hand with his being secretly poetic/romantic - something Diarmuid will never admit to, although at times, it slips.
(1) Hates thunder and loud noise; he’ll jump. He is also sort of easily spooked. And clumsy.
(2) Diarmuid isn't cold, isn't sinister. There's just something about being… friendly, that's… mushy, and lovey-dovey, and sappy and gushy, and no!(3) Hates being teased or joked about. Hates it.
Diarmuid was born in a scanty litter (he and his two sisters, Tetra and Hecta) in a little Greenhouse on a small Twoleg lot. His dear mother Jayla, a wild cat, had broken into the warm glass house pursuing a safe place to raise and nest her kits. Unfortunately, this was a faulty spot- for shortly after, the strange and long creature who owned the greenhouse had found them. She was an elderly old thing - with thin, flimsy alabaster hair all knitted up atop her mostly fur-less head. With long rags, and furry pink paws (he had later discovered these "pink paws" to be slippers). At once, she was a terrifying creature - one he had never seen before. How could such a strange... thing exist? Why was it so different from he and his family? Why was it here? Where was it going to take him? Diarmuid was a blubbering, sobbing mess when she had stolen him; brought him to a different and new home, albeit a warmer one. His mother could not hear his cries - his soul was trapped in this new existence.
The house was more... old-fashioned, and the walls seemed weighted with history. Obviously it was a withering, lamentable complex. But the Old Lady had been to work, crafting ornate house accessories from rubbish and rubble. Despite the given circumstances, she had never failed to feed him over the course of months. With such little resources, he'd often wondered where she had been getting it from - until she'd taken him to what was called a "market". She - this withered, wrinkled, beautiful and kind old creature - even went out of her way to knit him a collar, albeit, a pink one. It was for a while however, that he lived with her and gradually came to love her as a foster mother. It was stupid. It was stupid at first.
"I always was fond of Irish names.." She had said once."..Particularly the name Diarmuid. How about that, kitty? Diarmuid?"
(Diarmuid is pronounced as “Deer-mid”)
She had told him that the name meant "without enemy". So “Diarmuid” became his new title. It sounded stupid at first, but it had a ring after a little while.
He always hated the cursed radio. With that erratic, idiosyncratic, agitating buzzing noise it'd always made. It was a dusty old thing, with long silver sticks poking out from atop its head. Sometimes it'd work - the static melodies, and incoherent chit-chatting would crack off of the decaying walls... It was this strange box that his old lady seemed to've liked.
"The older ones are the best ones.." She'd say gleefully sometimes as she lay idly in her bed, listening to the senseless thing.
But Diarmuid despised the stupid contraption by itself; if he had been created with thumbs - like her - he'd silence it forever. But his foster mother loved the thing. Diarmuid probably would have hated it a little less if he could actually hear the music over the white noise.
It wasn't a stretch to surmise she'd certainly take care of him. And she did, bless her. She'd upkept their home around him and his needs, rejuvenated the wallpaper, preserved the delicate lives of the melange of posies in the back. She had brought entity to a sullen, decaying building in a silent, crumbling vicinity. Diarmuid had thought that their world would carry on this way forever, embedded in a place that no one else could reach. This shared peace would be their kind, new euphoria.
...His old lady hadn't outlasted the sound existence. Nor had the radio.
The carpet of the last summer bluebells, the long, graceful stems of the glads, the occasional pink ladies slippers and the clutches of wizen wildlife; the leaf taint - grayed just as she had.