One of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do was keep up the friendly act around Moonblight and Sagebristle’s little brats. He was harmless Uncle Kier — and he hated them. He wanted to take them out of camp, so trusting, so naïve, and drown them in the river. But he didn’t. He refrained, as they clambered over him and bit his ears, as he forced jovial laughter, because corrupting the last of the Loyal Guard’s kits, over months and years, would be so much more rewarding — because playing the long con would be so crushing, so much more fitting a cruel punishment for Moonblight than just having done with his kits. For him to come back one day, to see his children all lined up with Kier, to see them so devoted and loving and brainwashed, to have them turned against him, the treacherous father they didn’t even know… For that, that perfect image of the future, he had to endure playing the benign, smiling innocent, so worthy of trust. It’s what he’d played at most of his life; he could do it again now. He’d thought seizing power would free him from insufferable performances, but that was never going to be true. There was always reason to play pretend.

“Ah, Wheatkit,” he greeted cheerily, internally groaning and thrashing around at the falseness of it, at the sick bile that churned in his gut. He used to love acting, used to love being someone he was not — and so much of his leadership still was false, even if the joy of it now came from the fact cats could so easily see through that falseness, from the fact it was a screen designed to glimpse the real cruelty beneath. But this felt beneath him; this just felt frustrating. He was meant for more — for war and crowns — than manipulating kits — but such was the cruel rivalry that had arisen between Moonblight and himself. Kier had progressed so far past this, and yet for Moonblight he regressed. For Moonblight, he went back to small-scale deceits. The ex-Loyal Guard always did have a way of blinding him, of making petty schemes seem of worldly importance, of making him insane. Kier smiled as he padded up to Wheatkit. “Siblings have abandoned you, have they? You can never rely on them.” Still smiling, his voice a relaxed, amused purr, he settled down on his stomach beside her, in front of the pool. Janus, this was so far beneath him; he would have rather been in a four hour meeting with Snowblister and the Superiors than this. “Now, I was going to ask you something very important — might you like to accompany me out of camp? Twilightdance is overrun collecting spring herbs and I thought — well! Who better? I know just the responsible assistant. I know it’s not usually permitted for kits, but for such a well-mannered one, I’m sure we can make an exception.” He smiled at her, internally gagging. He hated kits so much.

When she looked to him for approval, Kier just smiled back calmly. Leave them hanging for a moment, let them wonder — it made the relief of the approval all the greater, and the addiction to receiving it all the stronger. Finally, his smile grew; silent agreement. It was good if she abandoned them, if she was taught that was a fine thing to do; if dissension spread through the three — likely from Magpiekit, whom he trusted the least; too much like his father — it would be easier to contain it if they were separate. Truthfully, it wasn't all pretend; despite his irritation, Wheatkit had become his favourite of Moonblight's kits. He found himself growing fond of her. The affection he had for the kits was almost greater than the affection for his own kits; he'd raised these ones just as much as he had his own — which was to say, hands-off and repulsed, but willing to take all the credit for his pseudo-foster kits, as any tom should — and while the others were soured by his own expectations, these had no role to play but being perfect puppets. And so far, they hadn't disappointed him. I thought there could be better things to do than being lazy! Kier surprised himself with a laugh, even more so because it was genuine. For a heartbeat, he looked vaguely startled by it, like he'd briefly lost control of his body.

At her ladylike correction, at her wary deference, Kier smiled. "Your manners are coming along nicely," he praised her, voice light with approving surprise and brows slightly raised as he looked down at her. "Soon you'll be a perfect little lady." Smiling at her enthusiasm, Kier padded with his signature unhurried, hunched gait from the pool and back into the main cavern. "Alright," he broke the silence as she hurried up the slowing path ahead of him, up towards the night-time world above; his voice was that of a brusk, impatient instructor's, already disappointed and doubting his decision to take her out before a word in answer had been spoken — any kits of his started to learn early and learn well, and herbs were within a she-cat's jurisdiction: "white baneberry, false hellebore, wild brassica — which of these is safe to eat?"

It didn't matter that she didn't know yet — he'd quiz her anyway, because the failure of that first time would shatter them a little and make them desperate to never fail again. That was how kits learned: through a garnish of cruelty. Kier didn't use the same names the Clan-born medicine cats used; he'd learned in other places than they, and his words were harsher. The damp, fresh smells of the dark pine forest flooded down to meet them, the air growing colder the higher above the body-warmth of the cavern they got. Kier waited for her to surface ahead of him, and then slipped out after her.

sorry for the late reply!! <333 vexing_ode

I’m gonna be the best lady ever. Kier smiled, indulgent in the light and ominous in the dark, but said nothing. He still hadn’t really decided what ought to happen with her — what ought to happen with any of them. He had no hopes whatsoever for Magpiekit, harboured the same resentment for the son that he held for the father, but Wheatkit — he wasn’t sure. If she ended up being a perfect devotee, ought he to let her waltz about the upper echelons? A prize of his own, of uncle Kier’s, to parade in Moonblight’s face if ever he came back to see his daughter? Beyond that, beyond the revenge, she might also simply be worthy of it, of being a Superior. But, by the same token, ought he to leave her to the lower classes? Could he ever truly trust her? Which was better: setting her along the path he wanted her to be on by dangling that life of the best lady ever just out of reach, a criticism here, a disappointment there — or utterly encouraging her, indulging her, so she was so much more truly loyal to him and to NightClan than she would ever be to some father she’d never known? She could truly be devoted, especially if he found a certain bead of latent cruelty somewhere in there. He just didn’t know. If it weren’t the latter option, he’d really be quite sad — he liked the girl. It wasn’t even so much about punishing Moonblight anymore as it was about giving this kit’s potential the right sort of tutelage. A new protégé, since Laertes had turned out so wonderfully, surpassing all his expectations. He rather missed that feeling.

Wild bras- Brassica. Kier’s ears pricked in surprise as he padded out to join her in the moonlight, stopping beside her. “My, well, you do have a head for poison,” he replied, and it was clear from the uncommon note of genuineness in his voice that he was thinking quickly, his mind swelling with opportunities, with potential. His eyes darted slightly as he spoke, side to side. “Very good — very good.” Clearly, she’d just picked the least ominous-sounding name — but it did make one think. Then, realising he should explain, he glanced down at her, still unused to being able to look down at someone. After a pause, he explained quickly, like he didn’t quite know how to dumb poison down for a young mind, “wild brassicas are all perfectly good to eat — cabbages, turnips, you know.” He realised once again that that may be just as foreign to anyone who hadn’t grown up around farms and barns, sounding faintly uncertain as he continued. “You might not. No matter — no one really needs to know about their leafy greens, do they?” He gave her a little grin, like they were equals.

Still smiling, he hooked his paw around her and drew the kit closer. “You know, Wheatkit, I think the medicine cat’s herbs can rather wait.” He turned his head to smile down at her. “Don’t you? All that stock wasted on a few cats no one would care if they lived or they died — it’s maddening after a certain point, I find.” He nudged her along, hard enough that the kit stumbled forward along the damp sawdust path between the pines and ferns. Kier followed along behind, his prowl dark but his voice light and cheery. “No — so I was thinking a more beneficial lesson than just cabbage might be in order. A cat with a broken leg; a cat who can’t rid themselves of a particularly nasty cough — what use are they ever going to be? Truly? It’s sad, yes, but life is sad — and sometimes, all life itself needs is a little help. A little push.” He smiled down at her from where he’d fallen in at her side. “Tell me, Wheatkit, which of these do you think is better for the Clan — to use up valuable herbs on someone who is never going to get better, or to slip a painless little poison into their water and watch them fade away? Which is kinder — ten years of terrible pain that’s a drain on those left alive, or a gentle dose of sleep?” His voice was tender, but there was clearly only one possible answer he wanted to hear.