"Let's go gather some moss," meowed Sharpfang, "The Clan forces us to nurture the weak, to reject the strong. When I'm leader, you will be deputy. The Clan will be strong then. Elders will finally be killed. Everything would be perfect.

Fluffypaw nodded.

Padding to a tree, he unsheathed his claws and scraped some moss down.

"It helps you with hunting and fighting," he explained, "Fighting, more importantly."

Fluffypaw did the exact replica, gathered up the moss, but it fell off.

"Fox dung!" he cursed.

"Well, you gather it up in your teeth, you know," growled Sharpfang, biting his ear so that blood spilled down the tips. "You need to be smart. Not mouse-brained. Next time I'll bite it off. After that you will have a wound on your flank that's infected. Clear?"

Fluffypaw nodded, wincing.

He gathered up a clump of the moss, and Sharpfang the other, going back to camp.