Softthroat / Rawflesh OC Biography.

A revision of one of my Windclan OCs.

Born Softkit of Windclan, he was neurologically mute from birth as he had no voluntary control over the muscles of his mandible and larynx, and articulate manipulation of these areas led to muscle seizure, though he learned a rigid and stiff way of eating despite it.

Softkit bore a great depression in his youth in never having the means to respond primarily to declarations of Love by his Mother, where the other Kits were always chirping back 'I Love You Too' He always felt he must seem rude or cold, but his loving Mother understood all his affections. Despite his mute tongue, no Kit seemed to mind, and in particular three were among his closest friends, and the ones who often encouraged him to play and smile. Smudgekit, Snapkit, and Harekit would be his constant companions through life.

His Father had been slain a quarter-moon behind his Son's birth for speaking out against a band of Shadowclan's monstrosities who they called their new Fangs. As he was Apprenticed, Softpaw was given Patchside as a Mentor, an experienced Warrior with extensive fur loss along his flank and underbelly, and more would likely come out as years pass. Patchside surprised the young cat with a more sensitive and caring side than he had expected of an older cat, and his Mentor taught him first about acceptance and Love, for he understood what the young Tom was going through. Softpaw took a quick appreciation for his Mentor, who would soon seem like the Father he never got to know.

The other Apprentices were generally accepting of the mute Tom, aside from the occasional backpawed remark or advantage they could steal, but never in cruel means. Snappaw, Smudgepaw, and Harepaw would remain his closest supporters. As young Softpaw trained however, his quiet life gnawed at his consciousness. Despite the growing and passionate efforts of his Mentor, all began to see the unusual fervor of his efforts. He began to pass hunting and exploration records of his denmates, and particularly seemed to be vehemently more alive in Warrior training, both impressing and worrying Patchside.

Whilst Softpaw excelled in other fields, his combat lacked grace and fluidity. The Tom was overburdened with spite and a growing discontentment with his skill, that ironically slowed his combat potential. He found his mind could simply not meet the highest standards of the fray in conflict. This was no issue for the average Warrior, but Softpaw had no intention of being average. Moons of silence, never hearing the conviction of his own heart for himself had left the poor lad panicked inside, and he fought to be the best, and for worse it was.

At Gatherings, he mostly kept to himself, to afraid to reveal his silence, or worse have to explain it somehow. Snappaw was chiefly one who took that burden and introduced him as is, and Softpaw soon met a slightly older Shadowclan She-Cat, an Apprentice named Shadepaw. Shadepaw was as her name implied, a somewhat warded and secretive cat, and Softpaw could sense that it was not mistrust or coldness within her, but a personal ward, Shadepaw hid her deep and rich heart, to keep it safe. A feeling he knew very, very well. This was the start of a long and ill fated friendship between them that stayed constant until the bitter end.

Back in his training, Softpaw seemed to believe that the flame of war could fill the void his silence left him. He had nothing else, especially as further friendship with Shadepaw revealed that they both held a dark and jaded view on the world. That was until Morningpaw, the most beautiful Apprentice who could ever have been, approached him with kindness in her eyes. In an action that stunned the other Apprentices, she seened to choose the one no cat paid mind to. Perhaps that was why he caught her eye. Morningpaw did not stand for the contempt her denmates had for the Tom, and she believed his drawback could make him beautiful as well.

Morningpaw adopted his silence, and his heart, to the shock and rush of Softpaw. In her embraces, his fiery drive fell dormant and his silence was replaced with Love.

Patchside had been working with Windclan's Medicine Cat to find a way to give Softpaw a language of his own. The Medicine Cat conferred with the other Clan's and began to expand on Shadowclan's infamous tail signals, and derived from it the first sign language. It was presented to Softpaw near the end of his Apprentice moons. He realized it did not yet have a word for Love, until Morningpaw created it. The clenching of a paw at her chest, like a heartbeat. A Sign of my Love for you.

All these cats soon became Warriors of Windclan. Snapclaw, Smudgeface, Harebounce, Morningglory, and Softthroat. Softthroat's life passed smoothy now, and most the Clan had learned the basics of his language, most importantly his Mother at last. He told her of his gratitude to her each and every day, and each and every day he laid his muzzle over Morningglory's.

Shadecloak of Shadowclan kept in contact, though it drifted as did their motivations. While Softthroat had found a better way of living, Shadecloak fought tooth and claw in an oppressed and corrupted Shadowclan, and her name fit her as bark does a tree. She was secretly joyed by Softthroat's new happiness, but soon broke contact as she fought for Shadowclan's Honor.

Though he feared for an old friend, Softthroat enjoyed his life. Until in a day, it crumbled like dead wood. Rogues of a cruel nature, on nothing more than a wild search for territory happened upon Windclan's camp while a great deal of Patrols were out. Wrong place, wrong time. There was no mastermind behind this, only fate.

Patchside in his aging form fought valiantly against the ragged villains, and he was carved, crimson on the heathers after the third cat was felled beneath him. His soul departed that day.

And the promise of no happy endings rang true as Softthroat fought for everything he loved. These were no masterful fighters, but their brutish strength was more than his simple training could handle. He was a Windclan Warrior. Not an excellent fighter like legends of old, but an admirable one. Admiration doesn't take you far in the hold of unfairness.

These Rogues had dragged Morningglory to the earth, and gouged her stomach open as the others held his writhing form. They only laughed in cruel sport as the Windclan Warrior failed to defeat his adversaries, as he failed to save his Love. Windclan's violent reinforcement came moments later like some cruel joke. The rogues were either murdered or driven off. Windclan won, yet Softthroat however, had lost everything.

In the following few moons, Snapclaw, Smudgeface, and Harebounce could only shrink in pity as they watched their oldest friend slip back to his old way. The Love that had filled the silence was gone, and righteous fury took it's place. He once believed bloodshed and the thrill of battle could fill the hole in his spirit, and he wills it again.

He does everything he can to improve his skills, to become greater so that he might hunt down the savage who took his light from him. No matter who he found to train him, no matter how focused he was, it never helped. He wasn't good enough. So he decided he didn't have to be.

One fateful day, he hears from hushed whispers around the Twolegplace that Shadecloak had visited a strange group of cats, the Rogue's Rest, an ancient branch of the Clan's ancestors who had given her an unthinkable degree of wisdom and skill the likes of which no Clan could compete. She would use it to liberate Shadowclan, and he sought them now.

He found the cat named Rivven, a cat who worked strange spiritual arts of healing and invigoration. In his arts, were the powers to grant a spirit's ancient prowess into a living being. Used to grant cats the abilities or strength of their ancestors in the Rogue's Rest, it could bring the physical form and techniques of a dead cat, into the living.

Softthroat spoke with Rivven, who understood all languages in some unnerving way, and who agreed to this request, as a favor to Shadecloak and understanding of his struggles.

As fate would have it, Softthroat chose an ancient spirit of Thunderclan, dead for centuries, even from Starclan's ranks. She was perfection in every way. Her strength, speed, agility, willpower... she was a true legend, immortal in Clan history. What better cat to take strength from?

Rivven cautioned him to no avail, as Softthroat was far too vengeful to care. It was warned that the cat he had chosen, so strong and fortified was her willpower, that the sheer capacity of her mind could cause irreparable damage to his soul.

And so it did. In an instant, as old stones and runes lit in unity, and Starclan's spirit was drawn from, Softthroat felt his bones and muscles snap and rebind. His body adjusted to accommodate this new strength. In his mind, decades of masterful technique and discipline, and... capacity.

Softthroat's own will was so very strong from his life, all the things he had learned of acceptance, and turmoil, his mind was strong enough merely to not die. But his sanity was never his again. The surge of mental fortitude from Starclan's champion fused and burned into his soul, granting him all the strength he desired, and shredding his mind to tatters.

As he emerged a new cat, all of Softthroat's memories and experiences were there... but this cat did not recognize them, he did not feel them. From his maw would be a ghastly screech, as whatever anomaly in his mind that once silenced him had been overwritten. Unfortunately it seemed the first and last sound from his new voice would ever be screeches and moans of madness.

As he took to wandering the forests, no fortified thought came to him. He was nobody. Home was not a thing he understood. He did not even understand he was so much alive. He was a being of power and strength beyond imagination, with no mind or care to what he was. Snapclaw and Smudgeface found him in the woods a quarter-moon later. He wandered as though they were invisible even as they yelled to him. From his mouth came chirps and whines, his ears flicked, teeth clacked, paws would tap. Like a carefree Kit fresh from the nursery, his insanity was like a newborn given all the tools and toys to build with, and in it's ignorance, smashing them together aimlessly. For like a young kit, insanity is too ignorant and naive to understand, to respect.

And as all these... malfunctions ceased at once, it seemed his attention locked rigid to Smudgeface. It were like the champion's willpower only fortified his body when he had... a target. He split her beautiful skull on the rocks... and simply padded off, back to his chirping and... chattering madness as Snapclaw lay horrified. This cat was not Softthroat, and seemed to be at odds with reality itself. Sometimes he could see others, and sometimes he was blind it seems. Snapclaw did not exist to his mind.

And as Snapclaw watched in horror, this cat who once was a friend fell to the floor screeching and roaring, and began to carve frantically at his head. He ripped and tore, his claws parting his cheeks, his ears, his muzzle. The madcat's claws whisked over his own head for a fair minute, blood splattered the stones, before it all simply stopped. All in an instant, the screeching and scratching ceased... and the cat began walking aimlessly again, like they had forgotten everything to the very second.

Soon, the Clans would call this cat Rawflesh. Once Softthroat of Windclan, Rawflesh was a lethal error of mind and body. A cat who possessed the unyielding might of the Clan's oldest legend, with the madness to slaughter anything that caught his attention. If anything of Softthroat still lived inside Rawflesh was unknown. Those who once loved him thought there was... that maybe that smallest piece of awareness of what he had become is what led Rawflesh to ritualistically carve at his own flesh, leaving his head perpetually bleeding and infected, twisted and disfigured, hence the name he was given.

His claws were horribly extended from the carving of his flesh, and others. He bore tattered fur on most his body, and his face was a visage that once led a sane cat to smash their skull on a tree, thinking a Devil had come to claim them. It was a better fate than whatever Rawflesh would have done to them.

Shadecloak had liberated Shadowclan, and sent out to find, and possibly kill her old friend, to her dismay. After the first few weeks of Rawflesh carving up the odd Clan patrol, it seems his wanderings led him randomly out of the territories. And by whatever sentience his heightened mind may have had, he seemed to have left no trail to follow. She would never see him again.

Wherever he is now, Softthroat of Windclan is most assuredly dead.

^{Psst, there's some lovely work on him now!} https://www.reddit.com/r/WarriorCats/s/sVhW2BpALv