It was the most wretched blizzard the clan had seen in years. Only the elders could remember a worse storm, and that was the fabled Legion Storm that had wiped out half of the clan many, many moons ago. The sky was nothing but white, and visibility was less than a few inches from the tip of a cat's nose - that is assuming one could open their eyes amid the whipping winds. It was frightful to be blinded by the elements, and it placed the clan in a dire situation. To not be able to see was to not be able to hunt, and with the storm having raged for five days with no signs of slowing, the clan desperately needed food. They had managed to make a small stockpile when the sky had first turned bleak, but it had run out by the second night. The average cat could feel the hunger taking its' toll, but none so much as Finchfeather. She was more fatigued than the others, and although she had been given first priority of the food, she was still feeble from the cold and insufficient food. For Finchfeather was pregnant.
And so it was on the eighth day that the storm raged that Finchfeather delivered her litter. Despite her hungry and weakened state, she bore three healthy - and hungry kits. The first was a light grey, almost white tom with black points. His delivery was the most difficult of the three. Finchfeather struggled in her den while outside the wind howled and roared - sending ice-capped snow from the trees overhead crashing into the camp. When at last the kit lay squirming on the ground, Finchfeather seemed too weak to go on. However, the second kit, a light tan shecat with white chest and paws was delivered swiftly and effortlessly compared to her brother. After her birth, Finchfeather's contractions slowed, and the new mother was able to regain some of her strength. Had she had to struggle any longer, it seemed improbable that her frail body could take the strain. She nursed her children briefly, but then her fatigue forced her to sleep.
Several hours later, Finchfeather awoke to a fresh wave of contractions. These prolonged for several hours, but for the weary shecat it felt as though it were days. While Finchfeather worked, the weather outside was changing. The wind stopped howling. The snow ceased to fall. And then, something miraculous happened. The clouds parted to reveal a midnight sky and a deep orange harvest moon, so low to the horizon the cats feared it might crush them. It was under this moon that the third kit was born, a long-haired orange tom.
Despite the harsh conditions under which they were born, the kits thrived and grew as any others. The grey tom would be named Glacierpaw, for the largest chunks of icy snow that fell from the sky during his birth. The shekit would be named Hopepaw, for if her birth had not been so forgiving, her mother would have surely perished. And the third kit, the orange tom with the amber eyes, would be named Emberpaw, for the flame-colored moon under whose eyes he was birthed.
And thus began the tale of the three great warriors: Glacierfall, Hopespur, and Embermoon.
