An elegant white tom with striking features and amber eyes.

-

Catching sight of Whiskey at a distance, it's easy to mistake him for something not of this earth. He moves through the world like a spirit: quick and nimble, his paws hardly making a sound as they touch the ground. Some might call him ethereal, with a perfectly crafted lithe figure, ears well balanced atop his handsome face, and fur so white it seems spun from the brightest daylight.

Except, any illusion of etherealness is shattered the moment he opens his mouth. In fact, Whiskey doesn't even need to open his mouth - often, his resting face is twisted into a permanent sneer, like he was born into the world finding it lacking and has yet to change his opinion. 

Whiskey isn't a large cat, especially compared to his sister, Maggie, but he is a tall one. From nose to tail, Whiskey is narrow and long, with well-kept white fur evenly distributed across his body, except for his tail, which fans out in an elegant plume. His facial features, even his sneer, are particularly handsome, with a sharp line to his jaw and bright, amber eyes, always looking for something to complain about.

It's a warm day in leaf-bare when Clara goes into labor, tucked away safely in the dim light of the healer's rest. Surrounded by the familiar walls of the barn and the warm scent of her mate, she quietly gives birth to two healthy kits, both writhing and mewling for their mother. "Magnolia and Whiskey," she says when her mate asks what to name them. He smiles at her in response - a little skeptical, a little amused.

"Magnolia, really?"

"My sister's stories just sound so fanciful." Clara sighs, a dreamy sound that betrays how resolutely she's claimed to never want to leave the barn. She was born to cats born to the barn, and now her children are just the same. "Trees with flowers that bloom like dawn? Isn't that so evocative?"

"Caoimhe does have a way with words. And Whiskey?"

Clara nudges her second born carefully. "After the whiskey barrels outside. They look so frail, don't they? I hope they grow strong, like the barrels."

"Barrels don't grow, love," Mortimer says with a laugh, before settling close to his mate to keep their kits warm.

-

Despite being the only two in their litter, Whiskey and Maggie have an abundance of playmates to chose from as they grow. Clara and Mortimer both come from large families, and one by one those families have kits, until the family - already a large one - amasses a herd of vibrant personalities in the barn. Whiskey is surrounded by love the moment he opens his eyes, and from a young age is determined to protect it.

Love doesn't soften him, though. His parents joke about it even when he's young. "Like an old man in a kit's body," Mortimer says, watching young Whiskey scold Maggie and a few of their cousins for interrupting one of the healers.

"He gets that from you." Clara nudges her mate's shoulder with so much love, the barn nearly shakes. 

"No," Mortimer gasps, mock insult in his eyes. "I'm not old." The two of them share an amused laugh, rippling under their pelts like a force they can't contain. "No, if anything, he gets it from your sister."

"That's true." Caoimhe, gloomier than most of them, somehow ended up as both Whiskey and Maggie's favorite cat. Whiskey likes her sourness. How she can be terse and loving at the same time. How she always has an answer for a problem, and even better, always has a story for him and Maggie to listen to.

In her younger moons, Caoimhe traveled; she was the only one from their family who ever left the barn. As the story goes, she wasn't much older than Whiskey and Maggie when she first strolled away from the barn's safety, only to be scooped up by a two-leg who called her Lulu and took away her chance of ever having kits of her own. She made her way back, but not before exploring a world beyond the forest - somewhere with lakes of cranberries, herds of bison, and land so flat you could nearly see the curve of the earth.

Caoimhe isn't old, but she speaks like the elders of the barn, and she's just as cantankerous as them, too. "Do you think he'll take after her in more ways?" Clara asks, nerves betraying her chipper attitude. Mortimer presses his nose to her shoulder reassuringly.

"Time will tell."

-

Both Whiskey and Maggie train under Caoimhe, as well as whatever other barn cats are available, learning how to hunt and track and even fight, though neither of the siblings like sparring much. "Clan cats start training at six moons," Caoimhe explains after a patrol of PrairieClan cats leave one day. "A little older than you are now, but I see no point in delaying."

"Will you take us to the bison?" Maggie asks, her eyes wide and hopeful. Caoimhe dashes those hopes with a shake of her head.

"My wandering days are behind me, sweetpea. Maybe when you're older, someone will take you."

"We're not leaving the barn," Whiskey says, tail flicking in the same annoyance he has whenever Maggie talks about exploring. "This is our home."

Maggie pouts. "Yeah, but the bison."

His tail lashes harder. "There's some cows over by the two-legs. Go see those."

Both kits miss Caoimhe's knowing, tired sigh.

-

Whiskey's best friend is a clan cat: an apprentice named Silverpaw, who often comes on diplomatic patrols with his mentor. The two first meet at seven moons old. Whiskey stands besides Caoimhe as she greets the patrol, immediately catching eyes with the apprentice, who perks up in turn when he sees Whiskey. "Does your boy want to see the barn?" Caoimhe asks after the older cats - warriors, Whiskey learns they're called - swap news with her. "Whiskey can show him."

Being volunteered for such a thing makes Whiskey roll his eyes, but he doesn't protest. "I'm Silverpaw," his new friend says as he strides alongside Whiskey. No longer frail, like he was as a kit, Whiskey's rapidly growing legs make it easy to outstep the PrairieClan tom.

"Whiskey."

"What's that?"

Ugh. "My name."

"No, like, what's whiskey?" Silverpaw looks at him with a charming smile that annoys Whiskey even further.

"It's a liquid," Whiskey snips. "They keep it in barrels. Two-legs."

"Cool."

-

They're not best friends right away. At least, Whiskey doesn't view it as such. But Silverpaw comes back a few days later, and then a few days after that. Whiskey knows the leaders of the barn are planning something with PrairieClan. There's no other reason for so many visits. But he doesn't mind - as much as he pretends Silverpaw annoys him, with all his questions about life outside the clans, Whiskey can't help but look forward to his visits.

At 11 moons old, Silverpaw asks him to join PrairieClan. It's casual. So casual, Whiskey thinks it's a joke, until he sees the determination in Silverpaw's blue eyes. "I'm not leaving the barn," Whiskey scoffs. "This is my home, and PrairieClan's yours."

"...right. I thought you'd say that."

-

"He doesn't really have the disposition for it," one of the older barn cats says. Whiskey's ears flatten and his jaw tenses around the prey he was bringing to Caoimhe. He hadn't realize her meeting was still ongoing. "His skills are better spent hunting."

They're discussing him. Whiskey can tell by the chill in his bones as the elder keeps speaking. His pelt prickles in embarrassment, listening to the cat laud his hunting abilities while disparaging him nonetheless. He has half a mind to storm in there and demand the elder apologize to him but Caoimhe speaks first - always in his corner, bless her. "I disagree," she says.

"You're his aunt."

"And I oversee the diplomats," Caoimhe snaps back. "He's curious. Friendly." A few cats make a noise of amusement. "He is. Maybe he grumbles more than his sister, but he's not unkind." Less rejection of that. Whiskey hates to think his sister might be used against him, like a standard he could reach, if only he was nicer. Maggie was plenty grumbly when she wanted to be. "And he likes the clans."

Likes, Whiskey thinks, is a strong way to put it. He likes Silverpaw and his mentor, as well as the other clan cats they bring along. But likes the clans? Most days, they're nothing more but a curiosity that takes up space. "It doesn't matter how much he likes them. We need him hunting."

"I can do both things." Whiskey sets the prey in his mouth down as he reveals himself to the gathered council. There's awkward shuffling from nearly everyone, and plenty of cats who don't meet his eyes. "I will do both things."

It's not like anyone could stop him, anyway.

-

"Silversong," Silverpaw, who keeps insisting he has a new name, says the next time they meet. It's been a while since they last saw each other - nearly two moons. Silverpaw is even more handsome after his last growth spurt and Whiskey feels a defensive sneer rise to his lips without the PrairieClan cat even doing anything. "It's my warrior name."

"Silversong." Whiskey doesn't understand how the clan names work, but he has to admit the name feels right for his friend. "Good for you, I guess."

"Do barn cats get new names?"

Whiskey shrugs. "If you pick one."

"But your leader doesn't give you one?"

"We don't have a leader. Not like that." 

"Huh. Neat."

He's a moment away from asking Silversong to visit more when Silversong mentions her - Swanfeather, another warrior of PrairieClan. His mate. Whiskey can't call it heartbreak, because he hadn't even acknowledged his heart was involved until this moment, but the feeling washes over him anyway. "Is that why you stopped visiting me?"

"I can only visit when I'm told," Silversong says. Whiskey hears the message underneath. Maybe once, Silverpaw snuck to the border so they could chat, but Silversong would never do those things. Silversong had responsibilities. A mate. A clan to feed. Whiskey was just some loner in the barn.

"Good. Maybe I'll stop dealing with your stupid questions, then."

-

Silversong never comes back.

-

The river is loud as it breaks through the restraints that held it down, an unseasonably warm winter morning shattering the thin layer of ice that formed over the last few days. Whiskey is crouched low to the river, watching for signs of fish freed from the thaw, while Maggie paces further upstream. He doesn't bother asking what his sister is looking for, but twists his ears in her direction when she makes a noise of confusion.

"Huh?" That might be a fish he sees, but it could be a dense piece of ice. "Wait, fuck." Maggie's panic makes Whiskey look her way. "Oh fu- Whiskey, there's a cat in the water."

-

The cat Maggie drags from the water is bigger than any cat Whiskey's ever seen, even soaking wet. He stands a few tail-lengths back while Maggie tries to groom life into the cat before finally giving in and joining her. The cat probably won't live, but he doesn't want to take any chance of being haunted by their ghost.

Later, when the cat wakes up, Maggie calls him Summit. Whiskey thinks he might've gone with bear, but the mountain reference seems fitting, too.

-

The next moon, late in winter, he meets a she-cat on the PrairieClan border, with fur as white as his own. "Swanfeather," she says, introducing herself. Whiskey is proud at how his fur doesn't bristle. He knows this cat. "Are you Whiskey?"

"Could be."

Swanfeather beams at him, and Whiskey realizes he has nothing against this cat. Silversong chose her - she must be lovely. It's Silversong who broke his heart, not his mate. "Silversong talks about you all the time," Swanfeather says. "You're much prettier than I thought!"

"Oh?"

"He says you're grumpy." Swanfeather has a beautiful laugh. "And sour, like bile."

"How flattering."

-

They meet a few more times until Swanfeather is swollen with kits. She says she'll visit after the birth, once she's recovered. She'll convince Silversong to come that time. It sounds like a promise.

But, like Silversong, Swanfeather never comes back.

-

Foxglove is a cat Whiskey didn't pay much attention to until he was suddenly a problem. He's 18 moons old when Foxglove lays claim to the cabin, and he hates that his first thought is what Silversong thinks about it. "It's not right to settle on clan territory," Whiskey says, tail twitching in annoyance as he shares a meal with Maggie and some of their cousins.

"Isn't it?" One of his cousins doesn't seem convinced. "The clans do take up a lot of space."

"There's a lot of them," another cousin says.

"They've been here longer," Whiskey says. "This land is in their blood, and their blood feeds the land in return." Sometimes, he feels that way about the barn. But Whiskey knows only a few generations have really called this place home - nothing like the cats of the forest. His cousin, reluctantly, can't argue. "Besides," he grunts, hoping to appeal to another side. "If he picks fights with the clans, we'll all suffer."

"That's true."

-

PrairieClan comes around less after the winter they find Summit. From the few patrols that do come, Whiskey learns a war broke out amongst the clans, and now the forest quivers in the wake of so much violence. He tries to fish for more information - is Silversong okay? Is Swanfeather? But PrairieClan is different now, hesitant to share anything with the barn, and Whiskey swallows back disappointment each time their patrol leaves.

His diplomatic work focuses inward. For each cat Foxglove convinces to join him, Whiskey convinces two more to stay. He loses friends to the cabin, but manages to keep his family with him. It must be easier for them, he reasons, with how long his family's been here. Maybe longer than anyone else.

But why, then, does he catch his sister looking to the horizon so often?

-

"You're leaving." Whiskey's tone isn't harsh or prickly, like it so often is. It's bland. Tired, even, as he approaches his sister, who sits on the edge of the old fields, eyes locked on something far away. Maggie doesn't answer him right away, which is almost an answer itself. "I knew it."

"Aw, calm down, stinker," Maggie says. Whiskey blinks at how amused she sounds, almost like she expected him. "I'm not going anywhere. Gotta make sure Summit gets his shit figured out first, yeah?" That's... a relief. Whiskey wishes it was him or his family or devotion to the barn that kept Maggie here, but he'll take Summit - practically a brother to them, at his point - as a fair substitute. "And you know if I do leave-" Immediately, Whiskey's on edge again. "I'll come back? I won't go far."

It's a promise she can't keep and they both know that. "Tsk." Whiskey rises to his feet, ready to head back to the barn. "Do what you want."

-

At 24 moons old, Whiskey's paws collide into Persimmon's side. The two yowl as they tumble down the small hill that leads up to the barn, but it isn't a pained sound. Their claws are sheathed - they're not trying to hurt each other, not now, at least. "Why?" Persimmon hisses when they stop tumbling, splitting apart lightning-quick.

"Stop coming here," Whiskey hisses back. "Foxglove isn't welcome, and now neither are you." It's the first time he's used his body to defend the barn. Whiskey isn't sure any cat born here knows what it really means to fight - it's been so peaceful for so many generations. Blood races under his pelt, hot and burning and demanding more as he stares Persimmon down.

"I'm here to help," Persimmon insists. And Whiskey winces at the truth. When Persimmon isn't running her mouth about Foxglove's mission, or her distaste toward the clans, she is helping. She tends to the injured alongside Summit, she hunts, she patrols, she helps lost cats. Losing Persimmon to Foxglove's nonsense is a harsh blow that Whiskey isn't sure the barn can take.

"Then do it quietly." He draws himself up to his full height - much taller than Persimmon, much taller than many cats. "If I hear you espousing violence again, you'll regret it."

Persimmon's tail lashes, but Whiskey thinks he's won this fight.

-

"A shame," Whiskey says as he pushes the last of the dirt over the dead mother's body. "I wish we knew her name."

"As do I." Summit's voice rumbles with more sorrow than Whiskey thinks he's even felt in his life. "Her children deserve to know."

There's nothing else to say. Summit returns to the barn to tend to the kits he's adopted, and Whiskey sits by the grave until long after the sun rises the next day.

-

Whiskey isn't sure what amuses him more, the way Caoimhe dodges around the point of their meeting, or how she's the third cat in as many days to pull him aside for this same topic. "You're retiring," he says, breaking the ice for her. Caoimhe relaxes, her fur settling down her spine in thanks.

"Not fully," she says. "I'm stepping away from the barn." His heart rate speeds up, not expecting that admittance. Other barn elders told him he'd be taking on more diplomatic responsibilities - specifically, with the clan cats. He assumed it was because Caoimhe was ready to retire, even if she wasn't particularly old. "Just for a few moons. I've heard an old friend of mine is in the two-leg place, and I'd like to see him." Whiskey tries to relax, but doesn't manage it until Caoimhe adds, "I'll be back in the summer." It's mid-winter now. Half a year without Caoimhe seems impossible.

"And I...?"

"Will have my role. If you'd like it."

Whiskey thinks of Silversong and Swanfeather, and how he still doesn't know what happened to his friends. "I'd like it." Maybe this way, he can get some answers for Summit, too.

More importantly, maybe he can warn the clans of Foxglove's violence before it's too late.

Pre-Plotting: Foxglove and his gang are the bane of Whiskey's existence. Their very presence threatens the way of life Whiskey was born into. Thus, Whiskey is a staunch supporter of Prudence, believing that Foxglove and his supporters must be confronted and stopped in order to preserve peace in the forest for both clan and non-clan cats alike. He will serve as a foil of sorts for Foxglove, having a positive and productive relationship with the clans (especially PrairieClan). 

Whiskey also comes from Summit's wanted ad, Carving Through the Dark, as well as filling one of the Belladonna roles from Persimmon's wanted ad.

Family: There are few things Whiskey values more than family, both blood and chosen. He thinks it's important to honor and respect family, but also believes that honor and respect must go two ways, and thus doesn't disparage cats who struggle with their own family. His closest ties are with Maggie, his sister, and Caoimhe, his aunt, as well as a handful of cousins that he'd go to war for without second thought.

Friends: With so many of his friends coming from his family, it's easy for Whiskey to forget the difference between familial bonds and platonic ones. Often, his friends end up being more like chosen family, such as with Summit. However, he does still think friendship, especially casual friendship, is an important thing to cultivate, even if he struggles with it himself.

Romance: The only time Whiskey felt romantic stirrings was too late - his unrequited crush had chosen someone else. He was young when he dealt with that heartbreak and the pain of it was too difficult to process. Thus, Whiskey isn't interested in romance, nor is he interested in admitting he's terrified of being hurt again.

Rivals: With a short temper, Whiskey has made more accidental rivals than he'd like, but luckily nothing serious. If anything, those rivals end up becoming friends once they realize Whiskey's just like that, rather than holding any actual hostility toward them. The exception is Foxglove and his gang. Whiskey will never trust cats who come together under a banner of violence, and thus strongly dislikes the cabin sect.