Whiskertin grew up wanting, with a poor family and his highly peculiar fur pattern, he was neither popular nor lucky. His face, along with his feline grace led him into the shadows, where he could live and take what he wanted without the scorn of his own kind or those who considered themselves above his station.

He watched the wealthy and the nobility closely, and he “borrowed” from them often. At first it was food, coins, and shiny trinkets, which he used to decorate the crack in the wall he called home. But Whiskertin’s ambitions stretched far beyond simple thievery. He borrowed mannerisms. He borrowed style. He borrowed clothes, posture, speech, and confidence.
In time, he learned to walk among the nobles so naturally that no one thought twice about whether he belonged there.

One morning he woke up in a manor house to the sound of a butler politely asking what he’d like for breakfast. He realised that something had changed, he was no longer the thief pretending to be wealthy. The façade had become real.

Only his old name knew the truth.