hollowpaw, shadowclan apprentice.

Eerily quiet, Hollowpaw has no taste for socialization. His tendency to isolate himself from his peers gives off the impression of a materializing bad habit in the making at a young, prosperous age like his, but on the contrary it’s purposeful and he’s undying in his devotion to it. He's (to the surprise of many) a fluent if not sensuous wordsmith, but it's a skill he tends to only utilize in matters of necessity. The blink of an eye can mean he’s amused just as easily as it can mean he’s irritated, and with that in mind, those around him should be conscious that his age hardly reflects an undeveloped mind; his observational skills are on par with a clever hawk (although he wields it like more of a sophisticated owl) and he’s constantly and wordlessly assessing his surroundings for a point of weakness or fault. A mind like Hollowpaw’s metaphorically feeds off of the aforementioned weakness or fault of others. He doesn’t strive to be unsurpassed in every aspect like the cliché who thirsts for power or control, but he entertains the inhumane ability to devalue those around him; he keeps his findings close to his ice cold heart in the chance he’ll one day need them for the purpose of exploitation. He doesn’t actively seek to harm anyone mentally or physically, but he likes to have options. As of now he’s renowned by his Clanmates for level-headedness, sharpness and buckets of potential, if not a bit of unsettling, calculative and asocial mannerisms. It’s in popular faith that he’ll grow into a brilliant warrior, but Hollowpaw has nobody to impress. His mind is undoubtedly his greatest weapon, but it’s also his most formidable opponent.

Formidable enough, in fact, that it can’t be exposed for what it is in nature. His self-induced need to isolate is directly related to an inability to fathom the concept of friendship or romance. It’s immutably difficult for him to unwind, or let alone enjoy or place his trust in companionship; he’s inflexibly selfish (no matter how small in dosage to the eye) which prevents him from desiring a reliable ally at his side unless it’s in some way, shape or form opportunistic or advantageous for him. He grasps that simply being a ShadowClan cat requires him to trust ShadowClan, and to vice versa be trustworthy to ShadowClan, and he abides by the rules and regulations of Clan life for no greater purpose than to keep his position secure. Hollowpaw is blindingly obedient to the naked eye—like a well-trained, unconquerable soldier—but it’s because he lusts the thrill of deception. He knows who and what he is unquestionably, but to be other than who and what he is in the eyes of a separate being is like attempting to satisfy an unquenchable thirst or scratch an unreachable itch. It’s a game. He makes the rules, and every single one of his peers (even his authority figures) becomes a pawn.

Anyone that found him out would likely think of it as a game, and even though it is in more ways than one, he thinks of it as more of a test in which the oblivious participants are his subjects. Hollowpaw values knowledge so largely that it’s stationed above life itself. The power of his memory alone suits him to the life of a medicine cat, but his disinterest in health is almost alarming—and it’d be a shame for ShadowClan to lose such a lethal, manipulative snake for a cat on the battlefield. His lethality, frankly, is prominent enough in certain cases that it requires elaboration. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a sadistic cat, but he acknowledges the ways in which he’s a danger to society nonetheless; morality, after all, is a point of interest for the otherwise uninterested tom. Hollowpaw will voraciously fight to preserve a threatened ShadowClan life, but only as long as he has an audience. His own life is far too important to him to be needlessly put on the line, so if there’s ever a grim situation in which it’s him and one other cat, it’s in high favour that he’ll turn his back without batting an eye; the only thought he might spare is how it’s unfortunate to miss out on evaluating an untimely demise. After all, it’s the limitless extent of his fascination with death in the flesh. He doesn’t necessarily like to cause it, but he likes to witness it, analyze it and break the process into steps. It’s in the best interest of those around him to keep in mind, however, that he has never been the type to avoid something based on as simple of a principle as dislike.

Morality is one thing, but pain is another. Hollowpaw, known to be a rather unfeeling tom, feels an insatiable admiration for combat. There’s next to nothing in terms of emotion to be gathered from his expression, but when he’s fighting, he becomes coherently expressive through his claws. It’s a skill he’ll master easily and effortlessly, but if it isn’t honed properly, it’ll become problematic because he won’t be able to control it. Hollowpaw prides himself upon his self-control, and his overall self-awareness—but he’ll be uniquely conscious of this when it’s in motion. It’ll be a matter of wanting to stop, and of knowing when it has gone too far. He’s far from a cold-blooded killer, but combat crawls under his skin and overtakes him, and as long as he’s doing ShadowClan a service he’ll be driven onward and onward until it’s sometimes too late to be corrected.

A dainty white she-cat walks onto the stage. Her steps are quiet, airy and somehow poetic, drawing the eye to her with nothing more powerful than the sheer softness of her momentum. At first, the lights are too bright for her pale eyes, but she rapidly blinks until she can see the man behind the camera clearly. She wants to smile, but she’s a little hesitant.

“I don’t mean to seem rude, but I tend to do better when I’m with those I know personally. Uh, my name is Icepaw. I-I’m a ShadowClan apprentice, and my mentor is—do you already know all of this information?” She tilts her head to the side, humour playfully dancing through her eyes in an attempt to cover up her uncertainties in regards to the interview. “I suppose you’re not here to talk about me. I was told this interview is about my brother.” She seems to struggle forcing out the word, and then she notices how the man behind the camera shifts curiously. It causes her to panic. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. We’re just not as close as I wish we were. Y-you won’t tell him I said that, will you?” She searches desperately for confirmation before continuing. It’s easy enough to discern from her body language that a small part of her is afraid of her brother. “He’s the only family I’ve got left. Our mother, Snowstorm, died because of complications during birth. We were taken care of by another queen in the nursery. Our father, Blackthorn, was alive until shortly before our apprenticeship ceremony, but it was hard for him to be around us after our mother died—he told me I looked so much like her.” She smiles after her revelation, but sorrow taints what would otherwise bring her joy. “I’m happy that I share something with Snowstorm, but I think it’s my appearance that made it so hard for Blackthorn to be near us. When he died… I was sad, but it already felt like he was gone anyways. Does that make sense?” It’s becoming clear that she constantly seeks reassurance about her thoughts. Her shoulders are set in a way that portrays self-confidence, but it appears to be for show at this point. “I don’t know how Hollowpaw feels about their deaths. He didn’t seem to care that Blackthorn kept his distance from us, and he didn’t seem to care when he died, either. He doesn’t seem to care about anything. I grew up with him, but it feels like I hardly know him at all.” Her shoulders droop. It’s becoming harder and harder for her to pretend that she’s doing okay. “I’m alone. I have my brother, but not really. I-I don’t mean to sound like I’m desperate for sympathy. I have friends, I guess, but it’s not the same as having family. Now that we’re apprentices, I see even less of Hollowpaw than I did before, but it isn’t like we have anything in common to begin with. I think he’ll be there if I ever really need him—I mean I know he will be—but I’m hesitant to need him. I-I don’t really know why.” The man behind the camera presses for her to explain, but she shies away from him. The conversation suddenly and all at once becomes too much for her to handle, and feeling too anxious to catch her breath, she exits the stage with a polite, apologetic twitch of her tail.

The stage isn’t empty for long. A different apprentice is quick to take Icepaw’s place: where she exerted something almost angelic with each and every step, he somehow makes walking look menacing and cold. His eyes find the man behind the camera with sharp, snakelike precision.

“Did I miss her?” His question sounds innocent to the ears, but it’s clear he already knows the answer. He doesn’t bother to ask why she left in such a hurry. Frankly, her well-being doesn’t seem to cross his mind. “I presume she covered Snowstorm and Blackthorn. Whatever information she gave you will suffice. We’re mere days into our apprenticeship, and with Darkstar as my mentor, I’m confident I will learn everything there is to know in order to become a warrior in a quick, timely manner.” He speaks with practiced ease. It feels like every word that slips off of his tongue is prepared prior to his arrival. The man behind the camera asks him about his sister, Icepaw, in the hopes of drawing out a more emotional response, but it fails miserably. “Was the information she gave you not suitable?” He answers questions with questions of his own. The man behind the camera thinks he’s deflecting any topic that could become personal, but his expression gives him no cues to follow. “We were exposed to loss at a young age, and I did what was necessary to move forward and ensure that I would be still be successful in my Clan. Icepaw should be doing the same.” His voice falters when he speaks about loss, but the man behind the camera struggles to take it at face value. His presence alone makes the air feel colder. “If you’ll excuse me, my attention is needed elsewhere. It was a pleasure to be here.” He embodies politeness naturally. It’s difficult to be suspicious of him, or uncomfortable with him, but the need to be cautious remains long after he’s gone.