Clayclan

The world before him was a dazzling show of shifting lights and fogged up shapes. It was like the stars had come down from the night sky to meet him, even if the warmth on his pelt told the little tom that it was still day. Though many times he had tried to explain the way he saw the world, to his parents, his siblings, even to himself, there was no perfect word for it. Instead of crisp outlines he saw the feelings of things, broad interpretations, poetry, or that was how he called it. Really, the inexplicable mist that had always covered his sight was the source of most of the kitten's problems, of his bumps and scrapes and loneliness. And it was the reason he had to abandon caution for instinct and track the soft voice of a cat he could not see as it coaxed him over brambles and roots through a forest that was little more than a blur of grey.

The Clayclan camp, Resinstar's words not his, was hard for the newly dubbed Fogpaw to navigate even with his "ghost", again the way Resinstarput it- somehow explanations always served to make a concept more confusing rather than clearer, Webwing's aid. The ground consisted almost entirely of roots that twisted in ways that made it impossible to tell if what he saw before him was due to double vision or there really were two obstacles. He could hear the low, lilting rumble of an older tom and the quick, teasing retort of a younger shecat in the background but to his surprise, Resinstar didn't introduce him to them. Instead the Clayclan leader led him by tail-tip to a root den that he identified as the medicine cat den in his light, sunny tone. Within there were five- no, only three, cat-like blobs crouched inside. He could imagine their expressions easily. A taut frown on the smallest cat, whose voice was brisk and strained as they were pried from a whimpering patient to examine him. A look of disgust on the largest and deepest-toned cat who couldn't stop muttering about organization. A dizzy grin on the patient who insisted that they were fine but kept stumbling over the words. It was overly loud and crowded in there and Fogpaw felt his muscles tensing up as he attempted to stay still until the smallest occupant chased out Resinstar and the advocate for organization and they both could breathe again.

The river, if it could be called that, smelled of decay and muck as Fogpaw was led there by Resinstar and Webwing, and yet the dazzling gleam reflected off what little water was left entranced the apprentice. He could get used to this, he thought. Get used to Clayclan and its loud inhabitants and grey-pole forests which Resinstar had sworn to teach him every corner of even if Fogpaw did have what Driftstep had declared fog-eye. He had a family now, in a way. Maybe it was a bit scattered and a bit spooky, and maybe he didn't know everyone's names yet, but it was still a better one than he had had before. So Fogpaw would take it.