Ebonyclan is quiet. The dens where cats once dreamt have slowly broken down, decomposing on the nests where cats once slept. The leader's den slowly erodes away, silently as the night. The vines of the abandoned camp wall creep out into the middle, as if swallowing what was once the home of noble cats. The moonstone continues to shine, but it is different. The glow is cold and dim, like a nest long left. The ancestors speak in hushed tones, their voices moaning over the territory like cold gusts of wind. What are they saying? They are telling a story. The story of the cats that once roamed this territory. The cats who climbed the trees and scaled the thinnest branches. The cats whose paws pounded against the damp soil, leaving paw prints that as if by some magic, remain there today. The cats who swam in the river in search of tender fish. The cats who were warmed by the sun, and were kin of the moon. For these cats, who lived by the guidance of their long deceased ancestors, were all once here . The loner who lived in the hillside. The kit who nearly fell of a cliff. The tom with a taste for fruit, and a she-cat who fell in love with him. The siblings who were closer than anything. The shadows and sun dapples that kits played in. The queens who lovingly tended their kits. The patient mentors teaching curious apprentices. They have all left, and the heart of the land has grown cold as the mazes deep beneath the territory. Now the nursery and training grounds have crumbled, and now only the wind rustles through the camp enterance. But all is not lost. These cats live on, in hearts both Clear and Clouded. And, perhaps, the time will come when the nest is again filled, and the kin of the moon will return. After all, as the sun rises, it also sets. The moon always rises again.
