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XXXXXThe moon is rising, silvering the harsh mountainscape they've begun to descend. Against the backdrop of ivory peaks, the sight is beautiful, but hauntingly lonely. Iciclefang lays on a cold, gravelly road, piercing snow-blue eyes taking in a sight she would never forget—and wondering about the cats she's left behind, staring at that same moon. "The Gathering is tonight," she says to no one in particular, sure more than just she is thinking about it. She turns to the nearest cat, her expression soft, smeared with nostalgia. "I wonder if they're thinking we'll come back tonight."
XXXXXThe thought makes her paw pads prickle, but they have traveled far today, and their bodies no doubt ache with the collective exertion of the descent, of the grief they share over Little Wolf's death and vigil. Iciclefang closes her eyes, exhaling—her breath plumes before her in a soft cloud. "What do you suppose is going on at the Gathering right now? Any arguing yet?" Her tone, brisk now, dry with amusement, accompanies a sly look through moon-silvered eyes.
XXXXXThe thought that there could be Clanmates not well enough to attend, ones that had been healthy when she'd left, leaves her colder than the chill in the air. Perhaps Cicadastar is bedridden—stars forbid, perhaps Smokethroat is, or Ravensong. Who would even be well enough to attend from RiverClan? Would her Clan be there at all?
XXXXXThe idea is haunting, but she does her best to retain her smile.
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