The wind howled across the moor, stirring ice crystals into motion. It flew into the woods, streaming around the trees, rattling the leafless limbs.
But tucked safely inside a hollow oak tree trunk, was a graying, old she-cat, curled gently around two kits. She listened to the wind, and shook her old head, joints stiff with the cold. "There 'asn't been a storm so strong since Finchstar's time," she said, her voice clear, but weary.
The two kits perked up, clearly recognizing the start of a story.
"Finchstar?" the brown and white tabby she-kit asked, her green eyes wide with excitement. The other kit, a tom, not to be outdone, bounced closer, his white tiptoes contrasting with the deep chocolate of all his other fur. Amber and green eyes gleamed up at the elder's own faded blue ones.
"Alright, alright," she croaked out a laugh, smiling down at the two. "Curl in, and I'll tell you the tale of Flowerstar, Ripplestar, Wrenstar and Finchstar, my mate."
