Sunninghill

The old ginger tom sits perched on a narrow sandstone ledge, his tail tucked neatly over his scarred paws. He doesn't turn his head as you approach, his clouded amber eyes fixed on the way the shadows stretch across the canyon floor.

You walk with heavy paws, young one. The stone here remembers the soft step of Cloudstar, and it finds your rhythm... unfamiliar. I was wondering when the scent of a new apprentice would drift up to my heights. Tell me, do you come seeking the strength of the moor-runners, or are you here to learn why the sky belongs to us alone? The wind is shifting, and the stories are waking up.