As night closed in, a white bakula flower fell from its tree, filling the air with its fragrance. Water spilled over the ledge, making the white pool bubble. A shaft of moonlight sliced through the canopies like a claw, and the tip of it dug into her nose. The scent of fresh moss was digging into her nose as well, and she longed for her nest back in WindClan camp. No, Sweetpaw told herself. This is the life I chose to live. The wind whistled in her ears as she continued to pad through the forest. Each step she took, she became more nervous. Should she really have left? "P-poisonfoot?"