Ice stretched over the land and the islands were connected as one. The cats that roamed the Apostles were large, hostile creatures with thick fur, and the innate, ravenous desire to survive. Bloodshed was inevitable. The cats lived like this for seasons and then, over moons, the ice melted and the land broke apart in an event that is now known as the Great Waters.

The melted ice and snow became water and that water rose and rose and rose. The cats that survived the Great Waters were far and few between. Those that survived had little resources and cried out - searching for answers. One old cat, donned Tide, called out, his voice louder than the rest; and earth, full from his call, answered. The ancestors led him to a vision; and that vision showed him the islands cast out across the water like stones, and on these stones, were cats.

He then called out to those who would listen and led those cats to the furthest side of the known land that was still above water. Tired from their trek, the cats became restless and threw accusations at Tide. Some assumed he was leading them to their death. Others believed he had fabricated the entire vision altogether. With mistrust in their hearts, half of the cats turned around and abandoned Tide and his procession.

This angered the ancestors.

The water then rose and rose and rose and then cut the land into scattered stones - the cats severed from one another forever. Those that first refused to follow Tide were consumed with civil unrest and bloodshed; limited to the island that soon became their home; and those who turned around were killed in the Great Waters and forever cast out at sea.

As moons passed, the land formed into islands, and the cats who had followed Tide became the tribe. The tribe named themselves the Tribe of Floating Stones, for the numerous islands that dotted the lake. Tide was their first leader; the first Teller of the Stars, and he showed his fellow tribe cats how to listen to the earth around them.

Soon the tribe flourished on the island, which is now known to two-legs, as South Twin Island.

Across the water and on the horizon, the cats who had refused to follow Tide, remained on the mainland in hostile colonies. This new island was known to the two-legs as Rocky Island; and while the land was no longer covered in ice, it was still harsh. Leaf-bare stretched for moons at a time; and as it waned, new-leaf warm in the water, few made it to the next season alive.

Peace was unthinkable. The cat colonies were entrenched in bad blood and primitive traditions that kept them estranged. There were no rules, guidelines, or honor. Death was merciless. But as moons turned into seasons, their numbers dwindled. Cats were slain without reason. Kits were born dead. And the stars, once fat and full in the night, were gone.

The cats were bathed in an unrelenting darkness.

Under the new moon, cats across the island watched as the water in the sandy creek, nearly dried in its bed, trickled into one, heavy river that ran into the lake. It was a sign from their ancestors. They would not survive on their own. The remaining cats established an oath, stronger than the bad blood that had separated them for seasons, to ensure their survival. This oath called for peace, and soon it flourished into what is now known as the warrior code.

This oath lasted for several seasons, but then, bad blood, the same blood that had divided them for moons, returned with a vengeance. It first manifested in petty fights; squabbles that would end with torn fur and minor cuts; arguments over mates and duties. The clan cats found themselves divided into two separate parties. There were those who felt that the code should be read as their ancestors intended. There was no room for interpretation. And those who felt that the original oath was outdated and should be rewritten as the clans changed.

Then their elected leader was found disemboweled near the waterfall. There was no conclusive evidence. Her death was shrouded in the same darkness that had once threatened the ancient colonies. Their ancestors were angry; but no one was listening.

Aimless accusations birthed themselves between the cats until the trust they once shared was gone. There was no peace, and the cats could no longer live together as one banded clan. While the two parties divided themselves further apart, a third group emerged from the shadows. The pacifists; those who tried to listen to the ancestors without luck.

Desperate for answers, the pacifists left the forest and ventured into the caves that lined the shore. There, the cats found the Mooncave. Encapsulated in ice, stalactites hung from the ceiling in threatening points; but at its center, glistened a temperate pool; somehow its water unfrozen in the dead of leaf-bare.

One cat, the first medicine cat on the island, waded into the pool and received a vision. The cats would need to separate in order to survive. This wound would not mend in mere time. The medicine cat relayed this message to the pacifists, and the boundaries were drawn.

The cats who believed in strict adherence to the code remained in the original redwood forest. The newly elected leader named themselves Redwoodclan for the tall trees that populated their land. The cats who believed that the code should be altered retreated into the dense pine and fir forest and named themselves Thistleclan. The pacifists decided to remain in the caves on the shore, their senses devoted to the messages that their ancestors, now Starclan, sent to them. These cats became Lichenclan; named for the lichen that grows from the moisture on the trees.

The cats declared a new oath. Once a moon, when the moon shines full and fat in the night, the clans will come together under the waterfall to honor the original clan and the cats who lost their lives in their recklessness. The cats also decided each half-moon that the medicine cats would meet at the Mooncave and wade into its depths, listening, so that Starclan never goes silent again.

Now many moons have passed. The tribe has lived alone, while the other cats that had refused to follow Tide were far from their memories and in a distant land...or so the tribe thought. The winds have started whispering a word from the mainland, one the tribe does not understand.

Clans.

For now, the tribe watches from the safety of their secluded home, peaceful and steady in their old ways. But even the youngest of kits is starting to feel it. Change is in the wind, the ground, and the water.

And the clan cats on the mainland can feel it too. South Twin Island, once distant on the horizon, seems closer than ever before.