A silent group of cats stalked through the tall grass and gorse. The cat at the front, a pale orange she-cat, continued looking behind her, until the group was a safe distance from the camp. The plain land was almost completely dark, with no moon in the night sky, and only a few stars shining through the clouds. And yet, the group was wary to avoid being spotted, heard, or scented.
"Now, what's our plan?" the orange she-cat mewed. Her green gaze swept across the small group, as a small black she-cat— only 10 moons— replied.
"Gorsestar, I think we should seek to push the RiverClan border," the black cat mewed. "As far as we can."
"I agree," another light orange she-cat mewed. A jagged white streak, like a lightning strike, passed down her fur. "But won't RiverClan fight back?"
"RiverClan has far fewer cats than us," Gorsestar argued. "They don't seem to ever have enough territory."
"True, but what is our use for RiverClan territory? We hunt rabbits, not fish!" A brown tabby tom called.
A young, creamy brown tom sat in the back of the group of cats. He wasn't speaking, just listening to the other cats argue over this. For this group, no amount of fighting ever seemed like enough.
"Toadpaw, your opinion?" the black she-cat asked.
"Hm? Oh!" The young brown tom mewed, surprised, and raised his voice to speak. He hadn't been listening much, but the name of RiverClan had been thrown about quite a lot. "What about, um, ThunderClan? They have only one warrior."
"And we have three." Gorsestar mewed, twitching her tail in irritation. "All Clans are lacking warriors, including us. I just hope the apprentices finish their training..." She trailed off.
"Should we... get back to camp, Gorsestar?" the she-cat with the marking mewed.
Gorsestar nodded, and led the small group back.

Toadpaw wrinkled his nose as he watched his mentor, Brokenclaw, pick up a clump of herbs and take them over to her latest patient, Cherrytooth, the deputy of WindClan. Gorsestar had started another needless battle, and it had, once more, ended in needless bloodshed. This time it was against the RiverClan border, trying to push it about two tree-lengths.
She's lucky no cat died, he thought, looking at Cherrytooth's injuries once more. While nothing horrible had happened, she was probably going to get a scar from the slash that had been dealt to her eye.
Toadpaw, despite being the medicine cat's apprentice, still didn't know all the herbs, and as he watched Brokenclaw treat the wound, he struggled to remember what it was that she was using. He knew she was applying a poultice, and knew it was to stop infection, but it took him a few more heartbeats to remember what herb it was.
Marigold! It flashed into Toadpaw's mind like lightning, yet he didn't even smile. He simply turned and left the den, a crack in the rocks, and went out into the open camp.
WindClan camp wasn't much. It was a small dip in the land, with most dens out in the open. Not even a bit of gorse surrounded the camp— the only protection was through the warriors.
Toadpaw bounded outside, looking around at the territories. There was a great lake in the center of them, and four types of land surrounded the lake.
Moorland, which belonged to WindClan, deciduous forests, which belonged to SkyClan and ThunderClan, pine forests, which belonged to ShadowClan, and plains striped with rivers, where RiverClan sat.
Between WindClan and RiverClan were some Twoleg dens, and a place called the Horseplace, where horses lived. There were cats there, too, but they weren't all that important unless they wandered onto WindClan territory. If they did, Gorsestar would gladly tear them to shreds. At least the other four Clans were calmer.
But the peace wasn't going to last, a realization that tore through Toadpaw's heart every time he thought of it. Toadpaw was the only cat in the Clan who ever seemed to support peace, as the rest of WindClan was always searching for more ways to start battles. Gorsestar, the Clan leader, seemed to be the leader of the Fangs of Battle, the group of cats across the Clans who wanted war. Most of the Fangs were from WindClan, something that Toadpaw didn't understand.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Toadpaw walked on. He seemed to stop thinking for a heartbeat, focusing on getting away from camp. Two heartbeats. Three.
And now he was two tree-lengths from camp.
"For StarClan's sake!" he hissed to himself, realizing he wasn't far from the ThunderClan border.
It was leaf-bare, almost newleaf, but the snow hadn't melted. He was freezing, and couldn't bring himself to walk all that way back to camp.
But an orange tabby tom, looking to be only two moons older than Toadpaw, came to him, warmth in his yellow gaze.