A tall tabby tom with warm brown fur and bright green eyes.

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The striking image of his deceased father, Elkpaw resents his long legs and spotted tabby pelt. He knows his appearance - warm brown fur marked with a legacy of darker stripes and dots and squiggles - makes him a ghost to his mother. A ghost of a warrior who's never coming back. "You have his eyes," she said once, some of the only words she spoke to him in his final moon nesting at her side. Green eyes, pale like early dawn's grey presence over water. 

He wondered what else she saw when she looked at him. Was his square muzzle the same one his father spoke from? Did his ears, kitten-broad and always twitching in excitement, sit on his head like his father's did? Did their short fur fall down their shoulders the same, cross their chests the same, pattern their backs the same? With each step that sinks into MistClan's fog-soaked earth, he dreads the knowledge that his narrow prints would fit just inside his father's, a trail destined to be hidden by the dead cat that came before him.

CW: kit death

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You aren't yet born when the warrior says, "There's trouble at the river." Later, you will learn there's always trouble at the river. The stripe of water that cuts through mist to make room for the ridge that grows, and grows, and grows, has been a source of grief for many moons already and many moons yet to come. 

You aren't born because your mother is still in labor, breath ragged and body tearing as she prepares to bring life into the world. Her eyes seek comfort in the opening to the nursery, waiting for her mate, a warrior you will never meet. She gasps and groans and listens to other queens reassure her that she's doing well and not once does she wonder why the medicine cat isn't by her side as she experiences the first of many deaths she will have today.

The medicine cat isn't by her side because they were called by another death, a bigger death, a death by the river. "They slipped on the bank," a warrior explains, their body wrapped snuggly around the shaken apprentice who lived so your father could die. "Pinestripe went in after them."

Pinestripe never breathed again, much like your older sibling, who breathed once, twice, before choking on the fluid born in their lungs. Your next sibling dies much the same way. You are born healthy. You scream for attention, a sound your siblings could never make, and your mother, two deaths weaker than she was when she woke though she doesn't know it, presses you to her swollen belly to drink, tucked between the still bodies of the siblings you never met.

"Where's Pinestripe?" Your mother asks, looking up from her slumber when the medicine cat steps in.

"Let me check on the kits," the medicine cat says. One day, you will learn what a deflection is, and how medicine cats must master them alongside other tools of their craft.

"Where's Pinestripe?" Your mother repeats. "What - what are you doing? Where are you taking them?" The medicine cat has moved your siblings, now cold, and shakes their head.

"Focus on this one," they say, nudging the brown bundle of never-joy with their nose. "This one is alive."

Your mother wails and wails and wails and calls Pinestripe's name and doesn't settle until long after the sun does, long after the leader sits besides her and tells her Pinestripe is dead, too. "This one is alive," one of the queens repeats, begging your mother to look after you.

But your mother shakes her head, and in that moment, she is no longer your mother. "None of my kits lived," Gingerfur says as you mew at her side. "All of them died." And so she manufactures a fourth death, your death, and you start life as nothing more than a ghost.

There was a fifth death that day, too. Though Gingerfur still eats, still breathes, still walks, she isn't alive. She isn't alive.

You are named by another warrior on the eve of your first half-moon, when it's clear you'll live no matter what Gingerfur says. Elk-kit, for your brown fur and long legs that push you around the nursery before your eyes even open. You don't know which warrior it is that named you. You aren't allowed to know, out of fear you'll think Gingerfur isn't the one who bore you.

In contradiction to herself, Gingerfur's words don't match her actions. She speaks of a litter with no survivors. Of a world bleak without her mate and kits. But she stays in the nursery - she stays and she nurses you and sometimes, when the other queens sleep, she tells you she misses you. She never speaks to you otherwise.

The nursery knows further tragedy just days after your birth-death. You think the first sounds you learn are ones of grief. The tragic wail of Gingerfur as she begs her mate to come back. The frantic screams of Irisfrost as she searches for her kits. Your own pathetic whines as you seek love from someone with none to give. It's a bleak way to come into the world, surrounded by a clan in mourning. By young mothers that know too much loss. You think, maybe, your siblings got lucky.

At two moons old you're rambunctious and curious, just the way a kit should be. Other kits are scolded for their pranks and misbehaviors but the same behavior in you is complimented. Rewarded. Celebrated. Later, you will learn that no cat expected you, a kit born into death, to be full of such life. It's not your mistakes they celebrate - no, it's the fact that you lived to make mistakes in the first place. That you aren't a shell like Gingerfur. They celebrate your life and your potential, not your misbehavior, but it makes you arrogant nonetheless.

You first hear the words at three moons old. "He's just like his father," a warrior says with a swell of pride in their voice. This is your grandmother, one of the queens tells you when she introduces you to Mousewhisker. Your father's mother. You want to ask her where she's been and why you're only just meeting now. You want to tell her there's much you could learn from each other, as a mother without a son and a son without a mother. But these aren't words you yet have so instead you ask her to tell you about the scar on her flank and she tells you about when the ridge collapsed into the mist, and zealotry forced innocent cats to shed blood.

"Pinestripe was so brave," Mousewhisker tells you as she grooms you, flattening the tuft of fur on your head that Gingerfur never bothers to fix. "You look just like him, you know." You've only just met this warrior and already you've lost count of how many times she's told you that. "You'll be just as brave."

Was that a good thing, to follow in the path of a cat you didn't know? You'd rather be like Hailstar, elegant and calm. Or like Lotusfire, protective and sharp.

"His fur did the same when he was young," Mousewhisker continues. "And your stripes - those are the same, too."

By the end of the day, you wanted to tear the fur from your pelt and make yourself someone new.

At four moons old you start to think of life as an apprentice. You and the other kits speculate to who your mentors might be. You tell them you want someone tough. Someone who will mold you into a strong fighter, a deft climber, a skilled hunter, and every other talent you think a warrior should have. Not just a warrior - a warrior bound for greatness. In your four wise moons of life-death you realize the only other cats in the forest who know an experience like yours are the leaders, who walk with one paw among the stars already. You're just like them. Dead and alive. Ghost and mortal.

Deep down, and only in the lonely hours of the early morning, you admit all you want is a mentor that will be kind.

At five moons old you busy yourself with the youngest kits MistClan has. They're too young for you to play with them, but they can play with you, batting at your tail while babbling in kit-speak you once understood. It's here you catch Irisfrost watching. It's here you come to understand that the queen still prays every day for her kits to return safely. It's here you realize what a mother is. Irisfrost has never once given up, and Gingerfur gave up the day you were born (the day you died).

Irisfrost is a good mother. You think it would be nice to be a good son.

A good son would do whatever it took to make his mother happy.

Irisfrost isn't your mother, but she's a mother that needs her kits and you think, as a kit that needs his mother, you understand her better than anyone. So you swear to make her happy. You swear to find her kits even though you haven't a clue where to start looking.

(Your youthful arrogance hasn't let you down yet.)

Like all kits before you, your sixth moon bestows on you a new name. You sit eager and pretty as Hailstar calls you Elkpaw, welcoming you to the apprentice den. You touch noses with him. Your mentor. You greet the other apprentices, some faces you recognize from the nursery, some cats strangers to you (but not for long). You begin a new life, one not marked by death.

You notice Gingerfur watching.

You wonder if she sees you, or if she still only sees a ghost. 

Pre-Plotting: As a young apprentice, Elkpaw has only just begun to understand MistClan's position among the other clans. He doesn't have a solid grasp on his clan's history or inter-clan relationships. All he knows is that MistClan is his home and has been wronged by other clans in the past - RidgeClan with their violence and PrairieClan with their potential kitnapping. Because of this, he currently falls into the Roots role, but will eventually grow into the Leaves role.

Additionally, Elkpaw is obsessed with the idea that he'll be the one to bring Irisfrost's kits home. This obsession is based on nothing but youthful confidence that he can do what other MistClanners have failed to do so far. Though he might be too young to officially hold the Oak role, he fancies himself the assistant to whoever takes this role.

Family: With a distant mother, deceased father, and no siblings, Elkpaw didn't grow up with a strong concept of family. His closest connection to family is the other queens and their litters while he was in the nursery. Notably, as a kit, Elkpaw developed a parasocial attachment to Irisfrost and her (missing) litter. To him, Irisfrost was the opposite of his detached mother. She was desperate for her kits back and determined to do whatever it took to find them - nothing like Gingerfur, who barely looked at him once he finished nursing. 

Friends: Having little actual family to rely on, Elkpaw finds validation, support, and love amongst his friends and mentor. He's molded himself to being the sort of cat others want to be around, making him one of MistClan's most popular apprentices. It's good, he thinks, to have so many friends. But sometimes, he feels like he's just playing a game and not actually opening himself up to the cats around him.

Romance: At six moons old Elkpaw doesn't really think about romance. He may soon get his first crush. In the future, he would flourish with someone who can scheme with him while balancing out his ambitious nature with a more level-headed, no-nonsense temperament. 

Rivals: Elkpaw currently views the other two clans as rivals just on basis of them not being MistClan. As he grows out of his Root beliefs, he'll eventually become more favorable of other clans. Within MistClan he has friendly rivals only - Elkpaw isn't interested in making enemies of his clanmates. That being said, some cats just can't help but get on his nerves...