Silence. There is nothing to disturb the stillness of the predawn chill at Camp Willow, place of the warrior otters. As the steely gray of the cloud- swollen night gives way to the daylight hours, there is only the gradual lightening from the few sunrays that pierce through the stormy sky and reflect the radiance of the new snow: whiteness building subtly upon whiteness. Not a living creature is in sight, for the cunningly disguised otter dwellings are invisible to all but the legendary residents of Camp Willow. Nary a breeze stirs the skeletal trees, trapped beneath a curtain of impenetrable frost. Winter's icy grip is upon the land; no resistance to its imminently hostile takeover is visible. But there is one left to oppose its seemingly endless death grip. Swiftly, noiselessly, pawprints appear in the snow. Yet there is no evidence of the creature that formed them. Still shrouded in silence, the invisible wraith continues its lone quest. At the edge of the river, the tracks abruptly deepen and then vanish completely. The phantom has submerged itself, though not a ripple stirs the speedily flowing surface of the water. Moments later, the apparition is revealed to be a young male otter, streaking upstream against the current like a torpedo, his movements natural and sure. Despite the fierce and deadly cold, the River Moss has not frozen over. But nobeast else will he encounter this morn. He is the only otter with the fierce confidence and skill to brave the river after the winter's first storm. He continues his solitary trek upriver for miles, never showing any signs of fatigue. At long last his sleek head breaks the surface. His sharp eyes, surpassing those of even the soaring eagle, take in the whitened woodland around him. Dawn has broken fully over the river and surrounding country, but still not a sound can be heard. With a single powerful lunge of his back paws and shoulders, he bounds from the water and lands to stand silently on the bank, the agile manifestation of stealth and competent strength. A rare sight among otters is he. The fur on his body a white so pure that it makes the newly fallen snow seem gray and squalid in comparison. The seamless white is only broken by a single diamond-shaped patch of black between his eyes, deeper than the midnights of the harsh, unforgiving northlands from which he came. And his eyes: so different from the kindly browns of so many of his fellow otters. Eyes of a dark emerald green, blazing with fierce, indomitable independence, piercingly intelligent. 17 seasons of suffering have not managed to dull the light that burns steadily in his eyes. He is young, but fully grown. Though not as tall as many of his comrades in arms, he is lithe and sinewy. There is not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his muscular body. He is clad only in a short barkcloth kilt, belted by silver-riveted black leather. Now, dripping wet, the water outlines his powerful limbs and glints off of his razor sharp claws and bared teeth. He carries no weapons. A born hunter, he needs nothing save his own body's savage efficiency. There is a taut ease about him, relaxed yet tense, like a coiled steel spring. As he begins to walk, his noiseless, rolling gait is almost catlike in its stealthy unity. Without a sound, he quickens his pace to a fast lope: the run of one whose confidence is strengthened by the knowledge of his inexhaustible endurance. It is this run that named him, for sure and strong though he is in the water, his unparalleled speed, stamina, and stealth on land earned him his title: Runnalon Ghostpaw. A name as swift and deadly as its bearer. A name that embodies fleetness of paw, power, agility, and intensity. A name that is already feared throughout the harsh northlands and the equally cruel vermin hordes that ravage them.