private THE RED MASQUE — ghostpaw

[GRANITEPELT]

Granitepelt’s kits all have middling levels of potential, he finds. Flintpaw has the most, has always had the most, but being babied by Starlingheart first and then by Scalejaw will hardly mold him into the fine warrior his father wants him to be. Nettlepaw… Granitepelt wonders already if the white-faced kit is a lost cause. He tramps around the territory with a beaming grin on his face, his blue eyes dancing with laughter, mouth open only for whimsical purposes. Nettlepaw is too much of his mother, but perhaps that isn’t a bad thing—Starlingheart is his mate, his beloved; it’s only fair her gentle nature be passed to once of their kits. He can forgive her anything, even ruining his sons with her softness.

That leaves the she-kit, she who bears her mother’s pelt but the face of one who walked before. The name of a cat who walks in the swamp-thick shadows of his dreams. He has steered clear of her, afraid even looking in her direction will send him into a dry-mouthed panic, but she is his kin, and he must know what she’s made of.

He watches from afar, his ears listening for the honey-sweetness of her voice. Is she like Nettlepaw, warm and genuine, like lying in sunlight? Is she like Starlingheart, genuine, kind, caring?

No. As soon as Ghostpaw turns away from the cat she’d been talking to, he sees something cold gather in the night-blue of her gaze.

Granitepelt clears his throat. He can feel it constricting already, but—but he must talk to her, he must show her he’s seen… he recognizes it in himself, and he recognizes it in his daughter. “Ghostpaw.” Oh, the name burns on his tongue, accursed. “What did that cat ask you to do?” It had been one of the warriors, no doubt stammering out some meaningless command, but he wants to hear it from her little smiling lips.

What’s in your head?

[ @GHOSTPAW. ]

, ”​

​

 

[GHOSTMASK]

it's no effort at all anymore. as a younger cat, ghostpaw had worked hard to put a porcelain mask on, to fake smiles and cheery tones, to hold back the harsh-bitten venom waiting behind her girlish face. those difficult days pay off now; she wears her new demeanours like a second skin, shedding with each interaction, changing to suit each cat she speaks to. to make them feel listened to, complimented, special, is a talent ghostpaw has worked hard for. as she stands and talks to some pitiful warrior, who—regardless of their bejeweled and coveted suffix—has about as much authority as a mewling kit. they offer ghostpaw a task, and though it's phrased as a command, it's more like they're asking her.

"of course," ghostpaw mews with a smile, regardless of her internal opinions on this sad specimen of the average shadowclanner, adding, "i'll go ahead and get started on that now, in fact." dipping her head, she turns away and the pearlescent light in appropriately shadowed eyes is extinguished in an instant. ghostpaw will not be getting started on that—if she does it at all, it won't be now, and she's likely to see if she can pawn the duty off onto one of the more gullible apprentices.

"father, what a pleasant surprise," the girl greets cordially. it is a surprise, actually—she could count the number of times granitepelt has directly spoken to her on one paw. that he asks what the nameless thing had asked her to do is a strange request, but she obliges. granitepelt is far from an ignorant cat, and he'll doubtless notice the way the light in her eyes flicks back on, face flying back into palatable animation once more as opposed to the beetle-husks her gaze had been only a breath earlier. eyes are the window to the spirit, some cat had told her once, and they weren't wrong—you could read a cat by their eyes, and ghostpaw minds hers carefully.

"oh, they wanted me to collect fresh moss for the nursery," ghostpaw mews dismissively, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug. she can divulge something closer to the truth to her father, after all. "i can probably get one of the other apprentices to do it for me. they like me, they'll listen to me." she pauses, considering who might be weak-willed enough to be susceptible to that sort of thing, not that it matters much—her peers like her well enough, and she's steadily climbing the hierarchy in applepaw's pawsteps. "and if that doesn't work, i can make them," she divulges with a seemingly guileless smile. "i know things about some of them."

i found the man who created me ✶ ( and tore him limb from limb )

•  

• 

• 

  ghostpaw ; apprentice of shadowclan
  x. she/her ; 6 moons ; tags
  x. slender black she-cat with white mask & pants and dark blue-black eyes
  x. played by dejavu
  x. daughter of starlingheart and granitepelt; sister to nettlepaw and flintpaw. apprentice to her aunt, lilacfur./quote]

​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

Father, the she-kit—who is no kit anymore, whose limbs have lengthened, snow-colored and lean—dubs him. What a pleasant surprise. To his chagrin, Granitepelt finds his fur prickling under the dead shine of her indigo gaze. Upon his request, life returns to them, and they transform from dead, stagnant pools of dark water into shining gems, stones gathering moonlight. Her mew is dismissive—she regards the warrior as lesser, too, he realizes. “Warriors will always ask you to do their dirty work,” he murmurs, remembering those days well. They aren’t terribly far behind him, after all. ShadowClan cats by nature are lazy and insolent—apprentices are little more than slaves somedays.

It's her next remark that catches his attention. “I can probably get one of the other apprentices to do it for me. They like me; they’ll listen to me,” she tells Granitepelt. He studies her, the lift of her lips into the corner of either delicate cheek, the barest glint of teeth catching the light. She is lovely, but not like Starlingheart, he thinks to himself. She is shadow-and-frost, and despite appearances, the lead warrior finds nothing soft in her at all. “And what have you done to ingratiate yourself to them so?” Forest-shadow eyes narrow. He had never won the hearts of his peers in such a way, and part of him doubts she’s as popular as she imagines herself to be.

But then—“And if that doesn’t work, I can make them,” she says, and her smile is genuine. His ears flick forward. He regards the she-kit with more interest than he has since the day she was kitted, then named in blood. “Do you now?” He flicks his tail tip. “What things do you know about them?”

, ”​

​