SeaClan had long been a Clan of proud cats, producing only the finest kits and the strongest warriors. It was during the reign of Sleetstar that Fishkit was born and, like all others before him, he grew into an ambitious apprentice. When he received his warrior name, Fishpelt, it was all the tom could do to keep his excitement hidden, which he did by burying it under annoying remarks instead.

    This became the standard for the silver tabby. Where the cave that housed SeaClan's camp had once been peaceful and quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of crashing waves, it was now home to the loud and cocky voice that belonged to none other than Fishpelt. There was not a moment when he was not crowing his own praises, practically singing about how he was the strongest warrior in all of SeaClan. Many of the older warriors rolled their eyes at this, but remained silent, letting the young warrior have his fun.

    The stories that accompanied Fishpelt's crowing were exaggerated at best, but would have been better described as fantastical. The tom would tell anyone who would listen, which was often just the kits, about how he had fought off an entire MoorClan patrol by himself. The telling of this story had earned the Clan some minor casualties, as the silver tabby would become so engrossed in the telling of it that he would swing his paws about as if he were fighting the patrol all over again.

    Another tale told of how Fishpelt had chased a badger off of SeaClan territory and returned to the camp without a single mark on him. Many of the kits would then ask about the scar that ran across the tabby's chest, to which the tom would reply with yet another story of how he had escaped a seal, just barely managing to get away from it before the tide washed it back out to sea.

    To the kits, these stories seemed just as real as the ones told by the elders and they would listen with their eyes stretched wide, mouths often hanging open in awe. The queens would roll their eyes, but felt grateful to Fishpelt for taking the kits off of their paws for what little time he did. Stormfang, the only elder, would joke about how he was already being replaced.

    The warriors, however, had their own take on Fishpelt's stories - the true version. It became a sort of tradition for the Clan to sit about with their freshkill at dusk, listening to the tom's voice echo about SeaClan's cave and adding their own whispered comments.

    "That MoorClan patrol was made up of Greyleaf and Sootfall," Honeypool would drawl.

    "Isn't that their medicine cat and one of their younger warriors?" Mintfang would ask, to which the Clan would respond with sarcastic nods.

    "He may have escaped that badger without a mark, but if I hadn't been there to save his skin..." Swiftclaw always trailed off there, as there was no need to finish his comment. Everyone knew that, if it hadn't been for the bicolour tom, his apprentice would have been off to join StarClan before he even had a chance to turn into the annoying warrior he had become.

    "Isn't that my story?" Frogheart would wonder as mention of the seal passed through the cave. His mate, Swanstream, would roll her eyes, while others would look at the stump where Frogheart's tail had been before his encounter with the sea creature.

    And so the evenings went until, one leaf-bare day, the cave was suddenly silent.

    Though the cats of SeaClan still gathered in the cave to share their freshkill, there was no story-telling or commenting. Instead of the tales that usually filled it, the air was saturated with grief. Greencough season had just passed and, try as Rainberry did, two of their own had been taken.

    It must have hit Fishpelt hard, losing Swiftclaw, his mentor, and Stonekit, the kit that had always listened to his stories so intently. It seemed as if all of his arrogance had been wiped clean away and he was left with nothing but the untrue stories he had taken to telling, a fabricated version of himself that did not truly exist.

    He did not sleep; he did not eat. When the remaining four kits begged for a story, the tabby would send them away to Stormfang, claiming that he no longer knew any stories. Even his mate, Heroncloud, was unable to coax him out of his slump.

    The tradition the Clan had come to think of as their own began to slowly fade away, dying with those SeaClan had lost to greencough. Freshkill was still shared, but in silence, and whispered comments were a thing of the past. The main cave took on what seemed like a permanent eerieness, an almost ghost-like reminder of the past.

    A moon later, the cave once again rang out with voices but, this time, they were those of Heroncloud and Rainberry as she gave birth to Fishpelt's kits. SeaClan was once again sitting in the main cave, though it seemed everyone's appetites faded more with every screech that sounded from the nursery. The whispered comments of today, however, were not much different than they had been during Fishpelt's stories.

    "How many kits?" Rockclaw asked. "I think three would be the perfect number."

    "I think two would be quite enough," Littlestorm responded.

    "Depends on whether they'll be more like Heroncloud or Fishpelt," Swanstream said, which put a halt to all other comments. With baited breath, the Clan waited for the arrival of the kits.

    Finally, around moonhigh, Rainberry emerged from the nursery, looking rather haggard in comparison to the tabby tom who stood tall and proud beside him.

    "Cloudkit and Wavekit will be the best warriors SeaClan has ever seen," Fishpelt announced.

    A groan sounded from the assembled cats and many of them exchanged exasperated looks. Some of the younger warriors had the good grace to look offended, as did some of the older kits. Yet, though no one said it out loud, one common thought could be found in everyone's minds: it was nice to have Fishpelt back.