private BLOODY WELL RIGHT ↷ [ Stryker ]

[smogstar]

Smogmaw's movement is wearisome. Slow, plodding steps, his hind paws leaving faint trails in the dew-laden soil. It is a subconscious manifestation rather than a reflection of actual fatigue; when his mind was lost in lofty reverie, the deputy could not synchronise the body to keep pace. His gaze seems to be perpetually nailed to the earth, eyes bright as new wet blood but dim in their sockets, fixed and stern. The fact lends him an oafish appearance, easily misconstrued as dull-wittedness.

He mulls over Stryker, ShadowClan's latest inductee. A rogue, or loner, or whatever he'd once been, brought into their fold with remarkably little hesitation—in other terms, unprecedented ease, Chilledstar's harsh-spitten words notwithstanding. No blood bond that might've perhaps justified his entry, no ties to anyone beyond Forestshade's fascination and favour. This irregular, downright haphazard procedure only served to stagger the silver tom, yet he held not a speck of resentment. Just genuine, objective curiosity. What factors contributed to Stryker being the outlier? Or, if he's not as much an anomaly as Smogmaw made him out to be, had the precedent been silently rewritten while he wasn't paying attention?

His musings stemmed mostly from the desire to verify a hypothesis rather than to rebuke or condemn. He wants a greater understanding, plain and simple. Attitudes change over time, the tides and the erosion always in motion. Bearing that in mind, it is his solemn deputorial duty to keep up with the shifts in mood for better or worse. So long as he can garner insight into what made Stryker so special, the stranger's inclusion may not feel so bizarre after a period of time.

Inhale, exhale, then escape. With a heavy-drawn breath, the deputy lifts his head and blinks away the stupor. The late-mid Newleaf sun has begun to dip below the horizon, and the oncoming dusk chases away what amber light remained. The rustling of fronds and reeds in his periphery indicates a returning patrol. Smogmaw glances behind his shoulder to catch sight, ears perked, tail flicking, and who does he spot entering the camp but Forestshade and her unfamiliar protégé.

Once the inbound patrol has deposited its fresh-kill haul, they disperse, presumably to retire for the evening. Only then does the shadow-striped tom make way for the newcomer, ambling over, jaws agape in a lengthy, open-mouthed yawn. "Stryker," he addresses the other, "I've a question, if you don't mind." Nostrils pinch and release compulsively, as though he were sniffing out prey amid underbrush. "Is sharing tongues sum'n you're used to doing? There's this disloyal tuft on the back'f my neck, been bothering me since sunhigh."​

 

[BLACKSTRIKE]

➼➼ Nobody (and especially not Forestshade) told Stryker when he joined that he’d be exhausted all the time. How do these ShadowClanners hunt and patrol all day long, and still seem to have energy when they return to camp? The black and white tom’s paws are practically dragging by the time he returns to camp alongside Forestshade and the rest of the patrol. A shameful heat prickles at his shoulders when the warriors deposit multiple frogs each onto the fresh-kill pile, but he only has one. It’s better than his complete failure from the day before, but still isn’t anything to be especially proud of. It would likely be more impressive not to have returned with a frog at all, given the sheer amount of them traipsing their way through the marshland.

He’s on his way to his nest when someone calls his name. "Yes?" He straightens at the deputy’s voice, prepared to receive orders—or a tongue-lashing, whichever Smogmaw sees fit. He really just wants to go collapse into his nest, lying outside of the den where the warriors sleep, but if duty calls then who is he to ignore it? Stryker tilts his head to meet the tabby tom’s eyes, amazed by the sheer weight of his presence. The deputy exudes an aura of pressure, one that makes Stryker feel as though he should cower away, making himself smaller to appease the other tom. He doesn’t do so, however, and instead continues to make eye contact.

Smogmaw’s tone is casual, but his characteristic gruffness is a bit offputting. Thankfully, he only asks whether Stryker is used to sharing tongues. "Sharing tongues?" What an odd term… it must be a clan thing. "Oh, like grooming? I’ve never done it on anyone except myself, but I can try. The back of the neck is the worst spot for all those little annoying knots." He can only imagine the struggle Smogmaw has gone through attempting to twist and turn himself to reach it.

➴ i think i found a home

• ooc: —
• 
  STRYKER ❯❯ he/him, former carrionplace loner
  ➼ thin black and white tom with mismatched blue and yellow eyes. calm and nonchalant, difficult to anger.
  ➼ currently on a probationary period; shadowing forestshade.
  ➼ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ➼ penned by foxlore

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