Well then.

The tom looked around in confusion, his green and blue eyes narrowed. He got to his feet, his ginger tail waving like a flag.

He was in Starclan.
He, of all cats. What had he shown the world? His ability to fail when the ones he loved needed him most? What an excellent trait.

He shook himself and began grooming his white fur. The last thing he could remember was lying there, on the side of the Thunderpath, broken and bleeding. An honorable death for an honorable warrior.

He hadn't even made it past apprenticehood, but he was as old as any fit warrior. He had seen and done things that he still cursed himself for, but he still made it here.

Gingerpaw, for that was his name before he left, finished calmly putting his fur into order before looking slowly both ways, turning, and trotting off.