.
Coldness permeates her limbs. Stiff, aching joints tense and contract, twitching into slow rebirth under the waiting eye of someone. Swallowbreeze, Flowercloud, Milkheart. Their faces swim in discordant memory, each whispering their own concern in tones not meant for Hawkstar's deadened ears.
The pointed king comes to slowly, life trickling back into her muscles as if slowed by the chilly leafbare winds. A dull ache had taken up residence between her shoulder blades again, this time accompanied by a sore neck. She had died in the fall, which meant -
"WindClan -" Hawkstar rasps out to no-one in particular. "How much did we lose?"











