Backstory

Creepingquill was nothing more than a black bloody lump of fur at the colony borders, laying in the warm sunlight exhausted and tired. The voices of others calling, the faces of cats he didn't recognize- it all seemed like a blurred hallucination. One he didn't think was real as his clouded over dull gaze looked back at them. It wasn't until they called names he didn't recognize and he felt their paws on his fur did the panic set in and he realized this wasn't starved tired images his brain had made up. But who was he to stop them? They carried him, fed him, gave him a nice bedding and only asked a few questions.

“What's your name?”
"Where did you come from?"
"What happened?"

He didn't have an answer- not one worth saying. He didn't have anything worth saying in the end, only a dull gaze fixed onto the ground as the cats around him discovered the blood on his fur was not his own. But still, they welcomed him as one of their own if he wished. The odd remarks they made about him and distrusting sideglances others gave never bothered him much. He was here now and it didn't seem half bad here considering he was ready to lie down and die on their borders

Others around the colony started to give him his own name. Creepingquill. An ironic fitting name that he didn't argue against. If that's what others saw him as, who was he to say otherwise. Creepingquill, that's his name and even though he’s here now...it seems whatever cat he was before truly died on the borders that day.