private A SECONDHAND VANITY [♱] SMOGMAW

[SHARPSHADOW]

In her adult life, where Smogmaw was still her superior— but more than before, they could be peers, somewhat, he was little more than a Scapegoat to him. Someone he detests so much ( And— untruthfully so; unfortunately, horribly ) That he was an easy butt to any joke. An easy culprit, someone he had spent so much time with that it was easy to point to something and say what Smogmaw would think. And who had the right to tell her she's wrong, after everything they've went through? Sharpshadow hardly sees a deputy in his place. He sees this nebulous, disgusting thing that was Smogmaw, and he would never know him as well as he'd like to believe.

It's in moments of vulnerability, that he can choose to see him as a... something - something... friend. And at times — even as she now sat here as Lead Warrior — a mentor, still.

The sky was gloomy, like it always was in this clan. Her patrol is due for dusk, and with everything that's happened lately, she doesn't mind sparing her apprentices a break. One within camp, that is. No Thunderpaths, no foxes, no... Nothing. It's humid, and her eyes sting. She finds her former mentor when she deems him alone enough to bother.

" Are you sad at all? " It's a rude question to ask, as if Smogmaw was not a cat with emotions; not a cat that felt sadness like anyone else did, but between is bored, droning voice, and the title of deputy swathing him so fully now, Sharpshadow often felt like he wasn't. Like when Smogmaw felt something is the time he should really, truly, care. He couldn't stand it. His dark face gives a twitch. Grey eyes screw strangely, as if uncomfortable in their own stupid sockets.

// OOC: @smogmaw​

 

[smogstar]

Seasons have snaked and slithered on by since the journey's end. Even now, the fact persists as a distant notion, not fully registered, its full weight yet to settle. When the voyaging ShadowClan cats trudged back to the mire at last, mouthes stuffed with lungwort and limbs weary to the bone, it signalled a paradigm shift across multiple fronts; and Smogmaw's head remains entangled in that singular moment, when his dishevelled paws breached camp limits once again, and the news struck unto him like a powerful gale.

Just short of a half-moon, every solitary familiar rhythm in his world went upended, belly-up, and disintegrated.

The one he adored most, dead. Three new kits endowed upon him, the last living glimpses into Halfshade, but to care for them outpaced Smogmaw's capacity. The pupil he'd become so acclimated to, the jittery Sharppaw who'd dogged his tracks with a maladjusted zeal, graduated and thus thrusted him into another mentorship.

Yellowcough's yoke was lifted, yet its weight continued to tighten around his neck. Not a thing remained whole, or right, or bearable, in the lightless fen he returned from the mountains to.

Oxidized and rusted at the molecular level, he is but a hollow vessel for those vestiges of ambition and vision still left fluttering inside. From nothing, he conjured a routine which vaguely resembled a purpose, and time marched onward unabated. His brood were all adults. His former student now stood as a lead warrior, and since her graduation had he fully honed another apprentice into a warrior. The cycle renews, and old age edges his peripherals.

Alone, he waits out most days. Ruminating, theorising, fantasising, much like he used to do. Productive bonds with others eclipsed him entirely. He wallows, he roams, in a party of one. How others may perceive him in this era may be a more abstract question, for he is well accustomed to the wayward glances, yet true kindness and respect radiate from a select fraction within the clan. Perhaps it is the most normal thing about him nowadays. Favoured by some, held in disdain by others.

An amicable kinship between he and his old pupil has almost fully evaporated at this stage, he thinks. They do not communicate, they do not meet. The most meaningful talks shared by Smogmaw and Sharpshadow occur outside his conscious awareness: mutual observations while out on patrol, passing exchanges in the camp centre. Were there a connection between them still, it hangs in suspense. Like a frail cobweb, weathered by the elements. Such is the nature of time.

All that to say, Smogmaw is genuinely surprised to have Sharpshadow approach him on his own volition, and her straightforward, unprompted inquiry leaves him grappling for an unscripted reply. "What?" Perplexity smudges over his glassy eyes, muzzle splitting ajar and tongue compulsively lapping at his jaws, as though to try and muffle whatever dumbfounded hums may spill forth. "We're all sad here, Sharpshadow," he answers practically, "you know that. We're grieving for different folks every moon. This moon, it's Magpiepaw and Sweetpaw. Next moon, who knows?"

He's on the defensive. Words exit him carefully, he's got one eye cocked on his junior sidelong, as if surveilling for guile or pretense. What was her angle? What could possibly be her motive, here? No clear read arises from his pallid eyes, gawking like two will-o'-wisps bobbing eerily over the bog. It's possible, he considers, he simply was his friend, and wanted to know how he's been. What a wondrous delusion. "Yes. I'm sad. Why'n particular do you ask?"

// mucho apologies for length ;3​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

Immediately, he's embarrassed. The genuineness of Smogmaw's what serves to make him feel stupider than usual. Even a mush - mouth like Smogmaw couldn't be bothered with him. Silver eyes screw up. His paws shuffle inward. It's too late to leave now. Smogmaw's asking too many questions for her to just go, right, and then slink away. He'd do so in spirit, at least. Avoid his gaze and angle his body elsewhere.

We're all sad here, Sharpshadow. Not sad enough to heed the warnings and stop wondering, apparently. Not sad enough to leave behind their freedom in the way that Sharpshadow has. Maybe they'd be even gloomier, somehow, if that was how things worked, but at least they would be alive. That would always be more important to him. Because he's a coward, probably. Next moon, who knows? Heart - wrenching, in the way that its true. He would have never expected Magpiepaw. As long as they still had that paw in their name, he supposes that was a fault on his part.

Why'n particular do you ask?

She shrinks away in all forms but physical, 'cause she's already well - trained enough to know Smogmaw wasn't someone she could just avoid. Her slouch puts her a head lower than him. " ...I just wanted to make sure, I guess, " he mumbles. Make sure it's what he's supposed to do Chilledstar and Smogmaw could live things up; do things right— and they still felt bad sometimes. That probably didn't mean as much in other clans as it did here.

Sharpshadow needs something else to say. She couldn't sulk away anymore, at this age. " I'm not— I'm not sure how sad I should be anymore, " he admits. Or maybe it's not true at all, and he's just looking for something to say. " I think my life would be a lot easier if I – If I wasn't. " Left unsaid: But of course, here I am. Maybe he could let himself believe his sadness benefitted someone else. It often did, he supposes. That's probably how he's gotten... here. On as equal of footing to his mentor as he could ever hope to be.

// OOC: SORRY THIS IS SO LATE BURSTS INTO TEARS​