In the center of a clearing, a black tabby tom sat there, flicking his tail impatiently. The sun was setting, turning the sky deep blood-red. Half of the toms body was shrouded in mist and fog. He secretly hated it. It made it so impossible to see. Black trees were silhouetted against the red sky, and the ground was marshy and peaty underfoot. There was a rustle in the bushes surrounding the clearing as a spiky-furred grey-and-white tom emerged. The tabby growled "You're late." The grey-and-white tom just flicked his tail. "You were always so time-sensitive, Nightfang."