Pathwalker

(If you would like a translation of what they were saying, I suggest translating it in Google translator. Putting the translation here would ruin the story a bit! However, the language is only in the introduction, so no need to have it ready at all times.)

Introduction
A tom, whose coat was the color of storm clouds and pelt the length of hanging willow leaves. He sat rigidly upon his haunches, his cold gaze fixated forward. His ripped ears stood erect, his tail crookedly placed over his worn paws. Before him was an amber creature, whose claws lashed and licked at the crisp night air hungrily. It swayed and fluttered among the pile of dried wood and leaves, tinging them black.

"Fire". "Fire" is what the tom told the younger cats, who laid patiently on the other side of it. "Fire" was its name, and its amber figure danced in his orange optics. It crackled and hissed like a pile of angry snakes, warning the group of felines to not approach, or they'd get bitten.

The fire would tell them, he had stated, of the far, far past. Now the young cats stared through the flames to his wavering figure, watching every wrinkled feature upon his cold expression. When the tom seemed to be satisfied with their attention, he turned and staggered to his arthritic limbs. He was weak. It would soon be his time. But not before he would inform yet another generation to cherish the past, and to also cherish their luck for living in these quieter, more pleasant times.

His grizzled face faced the stone wall behind him. His kinked tail swayed, and his brows furrowed. The only noise that could be heard was the popping of the flames and the chirping of the crickets in their grassy surroundings. His feet shuffled against the soft blades, and he leaned onto his right paw. With a grunt and a twitch of his whiskers, he placed his left foot into the inky blue liquid that was pooled within the carved stone.

His pads were bathed in the thick substance, and yet he was not bothered. He lifted up the paw to the stone wall, and with this he began to draw shapes and figures. He began to speak, his voice raspy and deep, "Lig dom a insint duit ar ár am atá caite," He breathed in the smoke-filled air as he continued. "agus ar conas a tháinig ár ngrúpa a bheith."

The young cats perked their ears and nodded, aside from one pale orange tabby. "Ach cén fáth? Ní féidir liom gá a fhios ag an stuif!" The young one exclaimed, and his sister hushed him. However, the elderly tom had heard this remark, and glanced behind him briefly. The blue liquid dripped from his paw.

"Ah, ach ní mór duit." He rumbled, blinking. He pointed to the wall. "Just a éisteacht, anam restless, agus ba chóir duit a thuiscint," All the felines stared at the figure the shaman had drawn. It was the dark blue silhouette of a cat, who seemed to stand with pride and dignity. The elder smiled gently.

As their surroundings quieted once more, he began the old tale, locking in everyone's attention. In the background, gleaming eyes pierced the darkness of nighttime, listening in, as well.