Post by tor on Nov 17, 2023 21:01:24 GMT -6
#s://i~ibb~co/6nSHvqF/bear~png
summit
basic information
NAME: Summit [Previous names unknown.]
AGE: Unknown [36 Moons]
ALLEGIANCE: Barn Cat
RANK: Healer
GENDER: Tom [He/Him]
INTERESTED IN: All genders
MATE: Ashfang
MENTOR: N/A
APPRENTICE: N/A
NAME: Summit received his name from Magnolia after a round of teasing in which she offered several names. The name is meant to represent his size, being as "tall as the summit of a mountain."
AGE: Unknown [36 Moons]
ALLEGIANCE: Barn Cat
RANK: Healer
GENDER: Tom [He/Him]
INTERESTED IN: All genders
MATE: Ashfang
MENTOR: N/A
APPRENTICE: N/A
NAME: Summit received his name from Magnolia after a round of teasing in which she offered several names. The name is meant to represent his size, being as "tall as the summit of a mountain."
appearance
A large, brown tom with darker tabby markings and a golden mane.
-
Summit is truly a testament to his name based on his size alone, standing taller than most cats. His body is covered in long, thick fur, adding to the image of just how big he is. However, underneath all that fur, Summit is deceptively slender. He's not dainty by any means, just not as muscular as one might assume first looking at him. The only evidence that he's more slender than he seems is his face; he has a long, narrow muzzle and ears a bit too small for his size.
His fur is a mixed of all shades of brown covered in dark, classic tabby stripes. The most notable part of his appearance, other than his size, is his impressive mane of golden-brown fur, reaching down nearly to his stomach. His back and tail are dark in contrast. Many would regard him as classically handsome, mostly because of his composure and elegance, but Summit puts little thought into his appearance besides being clean and hygienic.
Presumably from an injury he sustained just before his memory loss, Summit has a large scar on his back leg, going up his flank. Though it looks bad, it rarely hurts, and doesn't affect his day-to-day life. His worse injury is a small scar on his face, at the hinge of his jaw, that aches like hell when it rains.
-
Summit is truly a testament to his name based on his size alone, standing taller than most cats. His body is covered in long, thick fur, adding to the image of just how big he is. However, underneath all that fur, Summit is deceptively slender. He's not dainty by any means, just not as muscular as one might assume first looking at him. The only evidence that he's more slender than he seems is his face; he has a long, narrow muzzle and ears a bit too small for his size.
His fur is a mixed of all shades of brown covered in dark, classic tabby stripes. The most notable part of his appearance, other than his size, is his impressive mane of golden-brown fur, reaching down nearly to his stomach. His back and tail are dark in contrast. Many would regard him as classically handsome, mostly because of his composure and elegance, but Summit puts little thought into his appearance besides being clean and hygienic.
Presumably from an injury he sustained just before his memory loss, Summit has a large scar on his back leg, going up his flank. Though it looks bad, it rarely hurts, and doesn't affect his day-to-day life. His worse injury is a small scar on his face, at the hinge of his jaw, that aches like hell when it rains.
description
Flashes of silver mix with churning, dark water. Starlight, he thinks, cutting through the tumultuous rapids. Or silver of another kind. Silver of someone he's losing, someone the river takes him away from.
He doesn't know. He knows cold. Ice. A chill so deep in his bones that it simply must be death. Water in his fur, his mouth, his lungs, oh, StarClan, help, he can't breathe.
StarClan? He doesn't know StarClan.
All he knows is the river.
-
The cat that drags him from the river does so with a loud grunt. It's the first noise he hears as he returns to something just shy of consciousness - her grunt, the wet sound of his body hitting the shore, and then a gruff voice muttering, "shit. He's alive."
When he wakes up again, he's surrounded by dry moss and roots. It's not the most comfortable nest in the world, but it's better than the cold waters he remembers. Nearby, two cats are sharing tongues and speaking softly. One of them, a she-cat with rich, red fur is talking about what she saw on her patrol. She has the same gruff voice he heard before passing out - this must be the cat who rescued him. Next to her is a slender, white tom who isn't saying much, just looking out into the open fields around them.
Where are they?
He falls asleep.
-
"Wake up, sunshine," comes that gruff voice again. A nose is poking into him, insistent and firm. "S'been three days. You need water."
Water. He didn't need water. There was still so much of it in his lungs. "I need huckleberry," he says, not recognizing the voice that comes from his mouth. He blames it on the drowning. He must sound choked and waterlogged.
"Huckle-huh?" The she-cat snorts. "No. Water. And if you can stomach it, Whiskey caught you a mouse." Whiskey must be the tom, standing just a few rabbit-lengths away.
"I need to cough," he croaks. "To get the water out of my lungs. Otherwise, I'll drown in my sleep." Maybe not. If he survived this long, he might be out of any immediate danger. "Then I'll eat."
"Alright." The she-cat shrugs. "Start coughing. And then start eating. We gotta get you to the barn - they got healers there. Maybe they'll have your huckle-huh."
Despite the annoyance that makes his head hurt and his eye twitch (or maybe that's the dehydration - hard to tell), he doesn't have the strength to argue.
-
The she-cat's name is Magnolia - Maggie - he learns later that night. She and her brother, the white tom named Whiskey, live over at the barn, but lately have been taking long patrols to hunt and bring prey home. They found him in the river near the flower fields, caught on a rock in the shallowest part of the water. He listens to Maggie tell him all this as he eats, and it isn't until she starts describing how she rescued him does he realize he doesn't know anything about himself or where he is.
"I don't know my name," he says after swallowing, interrupting Maggie's story.
"Huh?"
"I must have hit my head. I have amnesia."
Maggie laughs. "You know you need huckleberry, and you know you hit your head, but you don't know your name? That's a kick in the teeth." He sighs. She's right. It's almost insulting, knowing that he's intelligent based just on the thoughts in his head, but having no self to tie anything to. Not even a name. "S'alright, the name should come back. You want one to tide you over?"
Being given a name feels... appropriate. Natural. He thinks, whatever his old name was, it was given to him, too. "Sure."
"How about big guy?"
"...no."
"Seriously? You're huge." That was saying something. Maggie was nearly his size, from what he could tell. Then again, he didn't have a good idea what he looked like. He could see brown fur on his legs and chest and that was about it. "Tallest cat I've ever met."
"Pick a different name."
"Uh. Tall guy?"
"Really?"
"Fine, fine. Tree?" No. "Hill?" Still no. "Mountain?" He grunted. Better, but not perfect. "Summit?"
"That works."
-
It's a few more days of resting before Summit follows Maggie and Whiskey back to the barn. The three of them spend the days speculating. Well, Summit and Maggie speculate. Whiskey hunts, keeping the three of them fed while also stockpiling food to bring back. Summit likes Whiskey. He's surly and easily irritated, but full of good humor not too different from Maggie's. Summit thinks he must've known a cat like Whiskey, just for how easily he's drawn to him.
Maggie's different. She's impossible to dislike, but somehow manages to exasperate, annoy, and amuse Summit all at once. His first impression of her was wrong - she's sharp as a tack and smarter than he is, she just hides it behind her brawn and a propensity for bad jokes. By the time they reach the barn, Summit is sure he wouldn't have picked any other duo to rescue him.
The barn, he's been told, is full of cats loosely held together by the safety of their home. Maggie and Whiskey were born there, which means he can rule out being from there. "There's house cats further east," Maggie says. "And all sorts of cats out west. But maybe you're from the clans?"
"The clans?"
"Bunch of weird cats who organized into clans and worship the stars." The thought of worshipping stars sends a shiver through him. "Yeah, I feel the same. I think they're a cult."
"Great," Summit says. "I'm from a cult."
Maggie shrugs. "Maybe not. They don't usually leave their cats behind. I can't imagine you floating all the way down the river without one of them finding you."
That's a relief. He'd rather not be in a cult.
-
The barn welcomes him happily. Maggie and Whiskey make space for him with their nests, near their family. They don't ask for anything from him. There's no demand to prove his loyalty. "It's just a safe space to lay your head," Whiskey says. "If you choose to leave later, that's fine." Summit fights the urge to reject their kindness. To withdraw. To be difficult. He can't think of where it comes from, except for the lingering traces of who he used to be.
Did he really used to be so untrusting? Maybe it's better the cat he used to be drowned. Maybe the barn is where he always was meant to be.
-
Within his first moon at the barn, Summit makes friends from all walks of life. There's a healer named Partridge who Maggie sets him up with. The old cat is happy for the help around the barn, since, in his own words, all the other healers up and died. Young cats, according to Partridge, aren't interested in learning about medicine.
It doesn't surprise Summit that there's not much for him to learn. He knows things before Partridge does sometimes. "Oh, bright-eye," he says, surprised to see the delicate flower preserved so perfectly in the barn's stores. "That's good for cough, since we're low on catmint."
"Cough, really?" Partridge eyes the dried flower. "Just thought it was for sticky eyes."
"You make it into a poultice for eyes, yes. But eating it with licorice helps a cough." Together, they save more than one life in the barn that leaf-bare, using tricks Summit pulls from memories he no longer has.
-
His next friend is a passionate she-cat named Persimmon, Percy for short. She's one of many cats in the barn with a distaste for the clans, and boy, is she loud about it. "We could use you, y'know," Percy says one warm new-leaf evening.
"For what?" Summit already knows what she's going to say. It wouldn't be the first time a barn cat tried to get him to join their cause, just for his size alone. The amount of times he heard someone say he must be a good fighter was starting to piss him off.
"When we push back against the clans. Last winter was brutal." She uses a word for leaf-bare he only learned from her. Most barn cats call the seasons by strange names, actually: winter, spring, summer, and fall. It's not the names he has for these things in his head. He doesn't tell anyone, though, afraid of the way they might react when he reminds them he's different.
Or maybe he's afraid of remembering.
"They take up so much space. I know they have a lot of cats, but they don't need all that territory," Percy is still saying. Summit nods along, not particularly interested. He likes the quiet life he leads in the barn. Likes living with Maggie and Whiskey. Likes working with Partridge. He doesn't really want to dismantle that just when he started getting comfortable. "Foxglove says we should attack soon. While they're weak."
"I'm not interesting in fighting," he says. Percy tries a little harder to win him over, but Summit doesn't budge, and eventually she gets the picture that he's not changing his mind. He's glad. He likes Percy, so long as she's not talking about fighting the clans. Easier to keep being her friend that way.
-
He wonders why Percy and her friends (a cat named Foxglove, plus others who agree with him - he doesn't know them all, since they left the barn) think the clans are weakened right now. Sometimes, he listens to the patrols from PrairieClan when they come speak to the barn to try and gather more information, but nothing he hears explains why the clans are weak. If he spoke to the clan cats, maybe he'd learn more. But he's not ready for that.
-
Green-leaf (summer, the barn says) comes and goes, bringing with it a vibrant, colorful leaf-fall that blankets the forest and meadows in autumnal colors. Summit likes the yellow leaves the most. He likes to watch them twirl down from their trees, forming a pile of sunshine on the ground. Maggie finds him admiring the trees one early leaf-fall day. "You still don't remember anything, huh?"
It's not entirely true. He remembers flashes of starlight and silver from under the river's surface. He remembers the pain of another cat slashing through his back leg, leaving him with the scar Maggie compliments all the time. He remembers a cat named Wolf. He remembers trusting him, and he remembers that trust being shattered. "No."
"Well, you're always welcome here." Maggie knocks her shoulder in Summit's and warmth blooms under his skin.
"Thank you, Maggie."
-
It's late in leaf-fall when he hears them. Mewling. The sad sounds of abandoned kits. Summit rushes toward their helpless cries until he finds them, tucked under a fallen log not far from the barn.
Not abandoned, he realizes, his stomach dropping out from under him at the scene. Orphaned. Their mother is dead, whether from sickness or exhaustion he doesn't know. She lays curled under the log, three kits at her side, and no breath left in her lungs.
With Whiskey's help, he brings the kits back to the barn. Partridge and some of the nursing cats offer to watch over the kits, but once Summit confirms they're old enough that they no longer need nursing, he takes them in himself. He feels for them. They're welcomed into the world without family, without knowing who they are. Who they should be. He thinks he can relate to that.
"Flicker," he says, pressing his nose to the smallest cat's forehead. For her tortoiseshell coat. "Snowflake." He touches his nose to the only tom, a scraggly little thing, white like snow. "Balsam." The she-cat looks like him - tall and brown, with thick tabby stripes. She looks like her mother, too, the tabby he and Whiskey buried back by the log.
One day, when they're old enough, he'll take them to meet her.
-
"Dad," Balsam says, wrinkling her tiny nose at the biting cold. "Where are you going?"
"We need more columbine," he explains to his daughter, gently encouraging her back to the safety of the barn. Leaf-bare's chill is no place for a kit only four moons old to be. "Go back to Whiskey. He'll tell you stories." Flicker and Snowflake were always happy to stay with their aunt and uncle - Maggie and Whiskey - but Balsam, who Partridge called his little shadow, always has to follow after him.
"Whiskey's grumpy today," Balsam complains.
"I'm grumpy, too," Summit says. His daughter huffs, but doesn't disagree. "And the weather's grumpy. It's too cold, little one."
"Fine! But when you come back, tell me what columbine is."
"Deal."
He doesn't know. He knows cold. Ice. A chill so deep in his bones that it simply must be death. Water in his fur, his mouth, his lungs, oh, StarClan, help, he can't breathe.
StarClan? He doesn't know StarClan.
All he knows is the river.
-
The cat that drags him from the river does so with a loud grunt. It's the first noise he hears as he returns to something just shy of consciousness - her grunt, the wet sound of his body hitting the shore, and then a gruff voice muttering, "shit. He's alive."
When he wakes up again, he's surrounded by dry moss and roots. It's not the most comfortable nest in the world, but it's better than the cold waters he remembers. Nearby, two cats are sharing tongues and speaking softly. One of them, a she-cat with rich, red fur is talking about what she saw on her patrol. She has the same gruff voice he heard before passing out - this must be the cat who rescued him. Next to her is a slender, white tom who isn't saying much, just looking out into the open fields around them.
Where are they?
He falls asleep.
-
"Wake up, sunshine," comes that gruff voice again. A nose is poking into him, insistent and firm. "S'been three days. You need water."
Water. He didn't need water. There was still so much of it in his lungs. "I need huckleberry," he says, not recognizing the voice that comes from his mouth. He blames it on the drowning. He must sound choked and waterlogged.
"Huckle-huh?" The she-cat snorts. "No. Water. And if you can stomach it, Whiskey caught you a mouse." Whiskey must be the tom, standing just a few rabbit-lengths away.
"I need to cough," he croaks. "To get the water out of my lungs. Otherwise, I'll drown in my sleep." Maybe not. If he survived this long, he might be out of any immediate danger. "Then I'll eat."
"Alright." The she-cat shrugs. "Start coughing. And then start eating. We gotta get you to the barn - they got healers there. Maybe they'll have your huckle-huh."
Despite the annoyance that makes his head hurt and his eye twitch (or maybe that's the dehydration - hard to tell), he doesn't have the strength to argue.
-
The she-cat's name is Magnolia - Maggie - he learns later that night. She and her brother, the white tom named Whiskey, live over at the barn, but lately have been taking long patrols to hunt and bring prey home. They found him in the river near the flower fields, caught on a rock in the shallowest part of the water. He listens to Maggie tell him all this as he eats, and it isn't until she starts describing how she rescued him does he realize he doesn't know anything about himself or where he is.
"I don't know my name," he says after swallowing, interrupting Maggie's story.
"Huh?"
"I must have hit my head. I have amnesia."
Maggie laughs. "You know you need huckleberry, and you know you hit your head, but you don't know your name? That's a kick in the teeth." He sighs. She's right. It's almost insulting, knowing that he's intelligent based just on the thoughts in his head, but having no self to tie anything to. Not even a name. "S'alright, the name should come back. You want one to tide you over?"
Being given a name feels... appropriate. Natural. He thinks, whatever his old name was, it was given to him, too. "Sure."
"How about big guy?"
"...no."
"Seriously? You're huge." That was saying something. Maggie was nearly his size, from what he could tell. Then again, he didn't have a good idea what he looked like. He could see brown fur on his legs and chest and that was about it. "Tallest cat I've ever met."
"Pick a different name."
"Uh. Tall guy?"
"Really?"
"Fine, fine. Tree?" No. "Hill?" Still no. "Mountain?" He grunted. Better, but not perfect. "Summit?"
"That works."
-
It's a few more days of resting before Summit follows Maggie and Whiskey back to the barn. The three of them spend the days speculating. Well, Summit and Maggie speculate. Whiskey hunts, keeping the three of them fed while also stockpiling food to bring back. Summit likes Whiskey. He's surly and easily irritated, but full of good humor not too different from Maggie's. Summit thinks he must've known a cat like Whiskey, just for how easily he's drawn to him.
Maggie's different. She's impossible to dislike, but somehow manages to exasperate, annoy, and amuse Summit all at once. His first impression of her was wrong - she's sharp as a tack and smarter than he is, she just hides it behind her brawn and a propensity for bad jokes. By the time they reach the barn, Summit is sure he wouldn't have picked any other duo to rescue him.
The barn, he's been told, is full of cats loosely held together by the safety of their home. Maggie and Whiskey were born there, which means he can rule out being from there. "There's house cats further east," Maggie says. "And all sorts of cats out west. But maybe you're from the clans?"
"The clans?"
"Bunch of weird cats who organized into clans and worship the stars." The thought of worshipping stars sends a shiver through him. "Yeah, I feel the same. I think they're a cult."
"Great," Summit says. "I'm from a cult."
Maggie shrugs. "Maybe not. They don't usually leave their cats behind. I can't imagine you floating all the way down the river without one of them finding you."
That's a relief. He'd rather not be in a cult.
-
The barn welcomes him happily. Maggie and Whiskey make space for him with their nests, near their family. They don't ask for anything from him. There's no demand to prove his loyalty. "It's just a safe space to lay your head," Whiskey says. "If you choose to leave later, that's fine." Summit fights the urge to reject their kindness. To withdraw. To be difficult. He can't think of where it comes from, except for the lingering traces of who he used to be.
Did he really used to be so untrusting? Maybe it's better the cat he used to be drowned. Maybe the barn is where he always was meant to be.
-
Within his first moon at the barn, Summit makes friends from all walks of life. There's a healer named Partridge who Maggie sets him up with. The old cat is happy for the help around the barn, since, in his own words, all the other healers up and died. Young cats, according to Partridge, aren't interested in learning about medicine.
It doesn't surprise Summit that there's not much for him to learn. He knows things before Partridge does sometimes. "Oh, bright-eye," he says, surprised to see the delicate flower preserved so perfectly in the barn's stores. "That's good for cough, since we're low on catmint."
"Cough, really?" Partridge eyes the dried flower. "Just thought it was for sticky eyes."
"You make it into a poultice for eyes, yes. But eating it with licorice helps a cough." Together, they save more than one life in the barn that leaf-bare, using tricks Summit pulls from memories he no longer has.
-
His next friend is a passionate she-cat named Persimmon, Percy for short. She's one of many cats in the barn with a distaste for the clans, and boy, is she loud about it. "We could use you, y'know," Percy says one warm new-leaf evening.
"For what?" Summit already knows what she's going to say. It wouldn't be the first time a barn cat tried to get him to join their cause, just for his size alone. The amount of times he heard someone say he must be a good fighter was starting to piss him off.
"When we push back against the clans. Last winter was brutal." She uses a word for leaf-bare he only learned from her. Most barn cats call the seasons by strange names, actually: winter, spring, summer, and fall. It's not the names he has for these things in his head. He doesn't tell anyone, though, afraid of the way they might react when he reminds them he's different.
Or maybe he's afraid of remembering.
"They take up so much space. I know they have a lot of cats, but they don't need all that territory," Percy is still saying. Summit nods along, not particularly interested. He likes the quiet life he leads in the barn. Likes living with Maggie and Whiskey. Likes working with Partridge. He doesn't really want to dismantle that just when he started getting comfortable. "Foxglove says we should attack soon. While they're weak."
"I'm not interesting in fighting," he says. Percy tries a little harder to win him over, but Summit doesn't budge, and eventually she gets the picture that he's not changing his mind. He's glad. He likes Percy, so long as she's not talking about fighting the clans. Easier to keep being her friend that way.
-
He wonders why Percy and her friends (a cat named Foxglove, plus others who agree with him - he doesn't know them all, since they left the barn) think the clans are weakened right now. Sometimes, he listens to the patrols from PrairieClan when they come speak to the barn to try and gather more information, but nothing he hears explains why the clans are weak. If he spoke to the clan cats, maybe he'd learn more. But he's not ready for that.
-
Green-leaf (summer, the barn says) comes and goes, bringing with it a vibrant, colorful leaf-fall that blankets the forest and meadows in autumnal colors. Summit likes the yellow leaves the most. He likes to watch them twirl down from their trees, forming a pile of sunshine on the ground. Maggie finds him admiring the trees one early leaf-fall day. "You still don't remember anything, huh?"
It's not entirely true. He remembers flashes of starlight and silver from under the river's surface. He remembers the pain of another cat slashing through his back leg, leaving him with the scar Maggie compliments all the time. He remembers a cat named Wolf. He remembers trusting him, and he remembers that trust being shattered. "No."
"Well, you're always welcome here." Maggie knocks her shoulder in Summit's and warmth blooms under his skin.
"Thank you, Maggie."
-
It's late in leaf-fall when he hears them. Mewling. The sad sounds of abandoned kits. Summit rushes toward their helpless cries until he finds them, tucked under a fallen log not far from the barn.
Not abandoned, he realizes, his stomach dropping out from under him at the scene. Orphaned. Their mother is dead, whether from sickness or exhaustion he doesn't know. She lays curled under the log, three kits at her side, and no breath left in her lungs.
With Whiskey's help, he brings the kits back to the barn. Partridge and some of the nursing cats offer to watch over the kits, but once Summit confirms they're old enough that they no longer need nursing, he takes them in himself. He feels for them. They're welcomed into the world without family, without knowing who they are. Who they should be. He thinks he can relate to that.
"Flicker," he says, pressing his nose to the smallest cat's forehead. For her tortoiseshell coat. "Snowflake." He touches his nose to the only tom, a scraggly little thing, white like snow. "Balsam." The she-cat looks like him - tall and brown, with thick tabby stripes. She looks like her mother, too, the tabby he and Whiskey buried back by the log.
One day, when they're old enough, he'll take them to meet her.
-
"Dad," Balsam says, wrinkling her tiny nose at the biting cold. "Where are you going?"
"We need more columbine," he explains to his daughter, gently encouraging her back to the safety of the barn. Leaf-bare's chill is no place for a kit only four moons old to be. "Go back to Whiskey. He'll tell you stories." Flicker and Snowflake were always happy to stay with their aunt and uncle - Maggie and Whiskey - but Balsam, who Partridge called his little shadow, always has to follow after him.
"Whiskey's grumpy today," Balsam complains.
"I'm grumpy, too," Summit says. His daughter huffs, but doesn't disagree. "And the weather's grumpy. It's too cold, little one."
"Fine! But when you come back, tell me what columbine is."
"Deal."
personality
Positives
| Negatives
|
relations
Pre-Plotting: Summit aligns best with the Temperance plot role, preferring to continue to enjoy his quiet life with the barn cats. As he starts to get flashes of memory back, mostly about Wolfstar's leadership, he finds himself agreeing with the Prudence cats. The details are foggy, but he knows he inherently distrusts a charismatic leader who calls for violence against another group of cats.
Family: With no memory of anything that could be understood as family, Summit just doesn't know how he feels about these things. He does like helping out the families in the barn - raising kits, tending to pregnant cats, taking meals with them when he's invited, and so he thinks he probably had a loving family once. Probably.
Friends: This is easier. Though none of his friends in the barn are cats he'd die for, Summit has plenty of friendships with cats he likes just fine. Some of them he'd even call close friends, like Maggie and her brother, Whiskey. Sometimes, though, he feels disconnected from them. It's like if he doesn't really know himself, how can he expect any other cat to know him?
Romance: A few attractive cats have caught Summit's attention in the last 12 moons, but no one has stirred him in the way he thinks romance should stir you. He's not sure he's ever felt this emotion before, honestly, and he's not really looking. Maybe one day.
Rivals: Does being constantly annoyed at Maggie count? His growing distaste for Foxglove and his followers might count as a rivalry at this point, but Summit doesn't really see the point in being too antagonistic with anyone.
Family: With no memory of anything that could be understood as family, Summit just doesn't know how he feels about these things. He does like helping out the families in the barn - raising kits, tending to pregnant cats, taking meals with them when he's invited, and so he thinks he probably had a loving family once. Probably.
Friends: This is easier. Though none of his friends in the barn are cats he'd die for, Summit has plenty of friendships with cats he likes just fine. Some of them he'd even call close friends, like Maggie and her brother, Whiskey. Sometimes, though, he feels disconnected from them. It's like if he doesn't really know himself, how can he expect any other cat to know him?
Romance: A few attractive cats have caught Summit's attention in the last 12 moons, but no one has stirred him in the way he thinks romance should stir you. He's not sure he's ever felt this emotion before, honestly, and he's not really looking. Maybe one day.
Rivals: Does being constantly annoyed at Maggie count? His growing distaste for Foxglove and his followers might count as a rivalry at this point, but Summit doesn't really see the point in being too antagonistic with anyone.