This one is mine [Middy]

    Whitewolf had been gone from camp long enough for his fur to have dried from crossing the ring of water that surrounded RiverClan’s home. The midday sun makes his alabaster pelt dazzling, rather unsavory for prey that relied on their eye as opposed to their noses. Perhaps I’ll blind them, he muses.

    In his jaws is a fat water vole, and it smells absolutely delicious. The coming of greenleaf is when prey is at its healthiest, plumpest. His mouth waters on its own accord, dampening the vole’s mussed hair. He buries it in the soft dirt close to the riverbank, ensuring that he would return for as he rounds back to camp, whenever he finishes, that is. Whitewolf prefers to spend as much time as possible away from camp; hunting alone is peaceful and, truthfully, time spent on his own is his sanity’s keeper.

    The white tom stays close to the river, about a tail-length from its edge. Sunningrocks comes into view soon, just across the other side of the water. Nowadays, ThunderClan had control of the territory. Whitewolf sighs to himself, half-wishing they would fight for it back again. Besides, did ThunderClan cats even sun on them?

    Oh, but then, there is one there now.

    At first, Whitewolf’s plan is to turn tail and go back the way he came; the last thing he wants is a presumably awkward exchange with a ThunderClanner. Is it just him or do most ThunderClan warriors have too sunny of a disposition? Then, the wind shifts in his favor because the scent of the cat is most certainly one of his own Clan. Inwardly, he wants to moan aloud. Maybe he should turn around anyway, leave some other responsible warrior to deal with some cat from his own Clan trespassing.

    Deciding to recheck just how separate his sense of duty is from his own self-preservation at a later time, Whitewolf reluctantly presses forward. As he nears the ruddy-colored cat, a stronger smell wafts towards him like… like she’d just marked a border? Once he is directly adjacent to the smooth, round boulders and the she-cat in question—a mouse-brained apprentice, of all cats!—, he spies just beneath where she’s squatting, a distinct wet spot on the rock’s surface.

    Alright, this is way awkwarder than making small talk with a ThunderClan moron.

    "I see ThunderClan is making good use of Sunningrocks." Whitewolf calls to her. He recognizes her now, Foxpaw, he thinks her name is, but why not play idiot with idiot?

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    Whitewolf lets out a breath that sounds like a dry laugh, though his face betrays his exasperation. While ThunderClan isn’t his favorite Clan, per say, the kit-tier behavior makes him want to gag. He does not have time for games or jokes; what well-respected warrior does? However, apprentices and kits seem to have the blessing of most around them that enables their unsavory decisions and behaviors. Then we get upset when they’re out of control, Whitewolf thinks, shaking his head to himself. If he thinks enough, he could probably dissect Foxpaw and find what her problem is, no doubt authority issues (he can sympathize with this a little but honestly could give less of a mouse’s tail what her problem is).

    Well, best be a good warrior and reprimand her—or, whatever.

    "Mm-hm" He hums, maw flickering awkwardly. "If you're quite done, 'suggest you come back on, you know, the side of the border you actually belong to."

    The warrior has a feeling it will be a miracle if she complies. Whitewolf doesn't really care about punishing her, not his job. It will be his job, he decides, to get her back onto RiverClan grounds. He'll drag her across the river if he has to, though he would prefer not getting wet more than he has to, really. He takes a moment to reflect on how truly awful young cats could be. 'Should put them all in a guarded den until they're old enough to think without being stupid.

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    "Could come quietly," is his first suggestion, his preferred option, really. Her voice seems to wrack his ears like a squawking crow. But, "Or, on the other paw," Whitewolf fans his paw out with pink pads facing up, translucent claws unsheathed, "'Could drag you to camp by your tail, if you'd like."

    Heh, he likes that one.

    Foxpaw is at least right about one thing, with the whole Sunningrocks being a ThunderClan-RiverClan issue. Whitewolf personally misses being able to stretch himself out on the flat boulders, soaking in the sunshine to soothe aching joints, old wounds. It had tended to be a socialite place though, something he had not been a fan of, but the delicacy of being able to spread one's bones across the warm rocks had been well-worth the pointless small talk. He nearly loses himself in a reverie, picturing himself there on the other side of the river, no Foxpaw in sight. In fact, in this fantasy, she doesn't even exist...

    Whitewolf brings himself back to the present, regretfully, trying really hard not to abandon this whole endeavor. He waves his tail in a dismissive way, large shoulders shrugging. "Not ours right now." He meows simply.

    "Would be pretty pathetic if you got carried off to ThunderClan for pissing on a rock." Whitewolf tells her, staring as he sheathes and unsheathes his claws in a bored way, hilariously pathetic, he adds to himself.

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    Either Foxpaw is truly delusional or has a head full of slugs. To be sure, the scent of ThunderClan along the opposite bank is stale, maybe by a couple sunrises, but the smell of markings is still noticeable. In no timeline would ThunderClan not mark their borders, and the battles for Sunningrocks were fierce on the behalf of both sides; while Whitewolf does not think the most highly of them, he knows that they are not completely daft. He would expect something careless from airy WindClan or perhaps the tree-climbing mousebrains from SkyClan. Rather, he supposes, squirrelbrains.

    "Unfortunately for your... heroic endeavor, we are not currently at war with RiverClan." Whitewolf says, his eye twitching a little when she hops back to her piss rock, sprawling out just beside the offending wet spot. This is not at all how he expected to spend the remainder of the day's sun.

    He really, really doesn't want to swim over there. Other than the fact, that this apprentice just isn't his problem, which, is any cat responsible for her? Does she even have a mentor? Warriors are probably requesting left and right not to have mischievous Foxpaw, or perhaps, maybe the opposite, maybe they want the challenge of an unruly idiot. Whitewolf does not have time for unrewarding pursuits, especially the headache-inducing kind.

    The great white warrior exhales in an exasperated way. "Three options." He calls to where she's sunning herself with such an insolence about her that it's enough to make even his skin crawl. "One: you come back to camp, with me, I get credit for catching you doing something bad and every cat's happy. Two: I swim over there and drag you kicking and clawing, which would make you neck-deep in mouse dirt. Or, three, and you'll love this one: I don't let you come back across and leave you for some ThunderClan patrol to find."

    Eh, so he's a little more unconventional than the next Clan cat, but Whitewolf puts efficiency before 'what a good warrior should do'.

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