This one is a bit longer, and I've also divided it into sections so that it's easier to read, as one of my reviewers suggested. Anyway, enjoy! And if you do, review!

-Jules

Runnalon sped toward Camp Willow, vaulting effortlessly over the low barrier that separated the western fringe of the otter stronghold from the pervading vastness of Mossflower Wood. Breathing lightly, he crested the hill and paused, gazing down the steep slope upon the seemingly haphazard assortment of now snow-covered mounds. Baring his fangs into a grin of anticipation, he sprinted a few taillengths and then threw himself forward, sliding down the hill on his stomach, traversing the seamless ocean of white like an arrow from a bow, invisible against the newly fallen powder. Gathering speed, he veered off to the left, using his thick, streamlined tail as a rudder until he was headed straight for the largest of the mounds. In the instant before collision, he ducked his head slightly and shot down the concealed tunnel entrance into the mess hall of Camp Willow.

Runnalon emerged from the tunnel in a controlled skid and bounded up, shaking the snow from his sleek, muscular body in one smooth motion. He threaded his way through the crowd, his pure white fur distinguishing him starkly from his fellow crew members. He was greeted enthusiastically by many, for his skill in combat and the sure, confident demeanor asserted in his blazing eyes set him apart as a warrior to admire. He responded tersely, with respect devoid of affection. Runnalon's attention went out to only one among the multitudes of otter troops: a young male by the name of Ashdark Trueflight.

He too stood out from the throng, with fur so deeply brown it was almost black, completed by eyes of a dark, steely gray. It was for these unusual features that he was named. Born of healer parents devoted to peace, Ashdark nonetheless became fascinated by the art of war at a young age. Cast out by his kin, Ashdark wandered to Camp Willow, where he became Skipper's protégé and Runnalon's only friend. Said to be descended from the legendary Inbar Trueflight of Ruddaring, Ashdark was the most deadly archer in Mossflower, surpassing the accuracy of even the squirrels with his longbow and black-feathered arrows. Standing half a head taller than Runnalon, he carried his lean frame with a loose, easy grace and had a reputation for being a joker. But behind those laughing gray eyes, Ashdark Trueflight carried cold death in his capable paws.

It was he with whom Runnalon now conversed. Ashdark elbowed his friend in the ribs and commented, "lovely morning." "Aye, good for a bit of a run." Runnalon spoke with a broad northland accent that he could barely conceal. "A bit of a run?" Ashdark inquired incredulously, raising his eyebrows until his face was wreathed in an expression of amused disbelief. Ashdark continued, "when you say a bit, mate, you mean a trek that would have the rest of us crawling by midway." Runnalon shrugged. "Even so," the irrepressible Ashdark went on, the beginnings of a mischievous grin playing across the corners of his mouth, "you have your fun. But next time, mate, warn the kits first, so that they don't fall into the trench that the biggest dibbun of them all made when he went sliding down the hill this morning!" Runnalon gave Ashdark a playful shove that nearly sent him sprawling. "Ah, gerrout of it, Ash, and tell me where Skip is," Runnalon growled in a mock-stern voice. Ashdark winced and staggered dramatically, finally pointing to the corner of the hall. Runnalon gave a single short, barking laugh and bounded over the serving table in the direction his friend had indicated, snatching an oatscone laden with raspberry preserve and meadowcream as he went.

Licking crumbs from his whiskers, Runnalon stiffened into an immaculate salute when he came into the presence of the brawny otter leader. Skipper, however, seemed distracted, only waving a big, tattooed paw to acknowledge the wraithlike warrior's presence. His only words were "Runn. Patrol duty. Make a wide sweep to the nor'east. Funny tracks thereabouts. Doesn't feel right." Runnalon responded with a terse "Aye, sir," saluted again, turned sharply on his heel, and strode rapidly from the room, noting well the fitfully gusting winds and swirling snowflakes upon his emergence to the wintry outdoors.