A dark grey tom gently opened his mouth before leaning down gently, where a pile of three sparrows were sitting gently. He lowered his face, curled up his lip, stretched his jaw wider than I had ever known a jaw could possibly stretched, and attacked the poor, dead sparrows. There was a silent moment, before he pulled his face back up, nothing remaining on it, but small scraps of blood and feathers plucked of the prey. It looked exactly like the state of our poor Clan. It's not like they had much better to do. And the scent of prey would be a reward if nothing else. But fate would. My Clan...