Life-warmth ebbs from their form. Moment by moment, weakening, felt in his jaws where they grip the scruff of their limp body. The body goes cold in real-time. Still-wet blood cakes their moonless fur, and his fur as well—between the bumpy voyage across the swampy terrain, and having to swap positions with Forestshade to carry their body—blood clings everywhere. It connects the two leaders, past and present.
Pinning down where exactly his thoughts lay outside possibility's reach. For one, the tom can't begin to rightly process their leader's sudden death. It hadn't set in quite yet. The instructions given to Mirepurr and the apprentices, how swiftly he'd assumed control over the situation so shortly after stumbling upon it; products of a practiced mind running solely on instinct. Sentimentality for their long-reigning leader was tucked aside for the time being. They'd have a vigil, a good vigil, yes. But the moment demands other priorities. His clan must know what has happened first.
Adrenaline, excitement, shock, fear. Processing each. Knowing he ought not show any outward, negative signs, no weakness or hesitance in such a monumental circumstance, Smogmaw refuses to lift his sightline from the ground facing his paws. Furtive thoughts bleed through uninhibited as he carries his late leader through ShadowClan's territory, into camp, heart thundering. Part from exertion. Part from stress, anticipation. It's his now. Total say, total control. Responsibility beyond comprehension, but he swears to it, a dark gleam in the tom's eyes. His to claim, as he'd waited so patiently to have. His to build, mold, hone as he saw fit.
Smogmaw pauses just at the cusp of the hollow in which camp resides. Blinking, letting his surroundings sink back in as if it'd all slipped from existence a heartbeat prior. His gaze finds Starlingheart then, and flits to Forestgaze. Neither had so much uttered a thing along the journey back home, save for when it was time to swap roles dragging the body along. He seeks out confidence, examining their expressions for hints and hoping to borrow some himself. They're all going to need it.
Mirepurr and their assigned assemblage are well returned by now, and the clan should have been lifted from its slumber. Ideally, the party would have gone light on the details, kept things vague, enough truth to relay urgency but ward off too much unneeded ruckus. Smogmaw assumes, hopes as such.
Pah. He can't loiter any longer. Squaring up as he enters camp with the body, vision instantly drifting ahead.
Eyes, feelingless, notice some who'd remained in camp, those who stand oblivious to what has unfolded. Betonyfrost. Mockingbirdcry. It is reasonable to assume they've noticed him in turn. Gasps, questions, exclamations of all sorts and volume—Smogmaw elects to tune them out, and focuses solely on depositing Chilledstar's corpse where all can see: the bottom of Clanrock.
He pivots to face them all. "Everyone, gather here." Assertive, firm. Cold, too, as expected. Attention navigates through the crowd, connecting briefly with curious and fretful gazes, waiting until they've amassed completely. Mirepurr lingers not far. Smogmaw breathes steadily; in and out, to abate nerves and solidify an image in everyone's heads. "Tonight," pausing here as to not fumble over the next bit. It's so sudden. It's not real. "Tonight, Chilledstar has died. A dog killed them. A dog which has since been killed by one of our own. I did not see it happen, but know they did not suffer for very long. They're up above now, in the great beyond where our forebears dwell. No doubt they'll receive StarClan's highest regards for their leadership."
Eyes start to waver. There's much to take in at once. Smogmaw scrutinizes them, keeps steady himself, to instill faith they can manage just the same. The tom breathes out again. "Chilledstar is due their greatest farewell, and they shall have it through a vigil at moonhigh." Voice low, levelled. "Until then, do what you will. Prepare your words, stories, or memories to share in their name. I will need volunteers to help clean their body and get it ready for ceremony."
For an extra moment he bores into Chilledstar's corpse there. Fixates on the life no more inside their dead form. Wondering distantly what Chilledstar would be thinking right now, if they were present to see this. In all truthfulness, they'd snap at him for his staring. Give him an earful or two over what the clan ought to be doing instead. He exhales sharply at the notion.
It went without saying, but the authoritative tone and blank delivery should instill a unanimous understanding among the clan: the previous leadership has concluded, and a new reign starts now.