- Oct 22, 2022
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[cw: brief mention of suicidal ideation]
Before all things are reborn, they learn the painful breath of time.
So as to not blaspheme or be labelled as such, Smogmaw keeps his pious convictions to himself. He clings onto them, however, in defiance of the pressures to expunge himself of any belief that doesn't tie into StarClan. Credences which pre-date the celestial clan's very fabrication, instilled in his budding mind ages before the Great Battle, emphasising a dogma of rebirth, enlightenment, and continued survival in both physical and spiritual realms. The passage of time has eroded the specifics, and the slow-but-zealous indoctrination into the clan's belief system only served to muddle and confuse his own. Yet, his father's core principles remain. The spirit is not hindered by the presence of death, it instead perseveres—and while his clanmates prophesise their own departed spirits to forever hunt in the heavenly plains, Smogmaw envisions his own being reborn in this world.
Being thrust onto the path of leadership has given rise to newfound doubts. Troubling himself over what the future holds is a betrayal of his general ways and means, but how can he not? Should he fail to perish before Chilledstar crosses the great divide, the tom will find himself imbued with the longetivity of nine lives at the stars' behest. When this happens, and when he dies after this happens, he shan't be reborn into a different form, but his own. This is a complete affront to his beliefs, and yet, it is inevitable. He cannot foresee himself finding closure if he is doomed to this cycle of suffering, death, and revival. Part of him would rather end it all prior to reaching that point.
The star-illuminated skies have served as the object of his focus for an indeterminate length of time. An enduring exhale decidedly breaks him from this stupor, and his gaze descends to the gloomy hollow around him. He turns around and starts in the warrior den's direction, though his intentions are severed when he glimpses an outline of someone familiar. Someone who too held scruples about their own mortality. Sniffing the moisture back into his nostrils, the deputy plods towards them and offers a heedful dip of the head. "Good evening, Silkbreath," he says. "What are your thoughts on death?"
// prompt: The Circle of Life: health, evolution, transformation, death.
// @silkbreath
Before all things are reborn, they learn the painful breath of time.
So as to not blaspheme or be labelled as such, Smogmaw keeps his pious convictions to himself. He clings onto them, however, in defiance of the pressures to expunge himself of any belief that doesn't tie into StarClan. Credences which pre-date the celestial clan's very fabrication, instilled in his budding mind ages before the Great Battle, emphasising a dogma of rebirth, enlightenment, and continued survival in both physical and spiritual realms. The passage of time has eroded the specifics, and the slow-but-zealous indoctrination into the clan's belief system only served to muddle and confuse his own. Yet, his father's core principles remain. The spirit is not hindered by the presence of death, it instead perseveres—and while his clanmates prophesise their own departed spirits to forever hunt in the heavenly plains, Smogmaw envisions his own being reborn in this world.
Being thrust onto the path of leadership has given rise to newfound doubts. Troubling himself over what the future holds is a betrayal of his general ways and means, but how can he not? Should he fail to perish before Chilledstar crosses the great divide, the tom will find himself imbued with the longetivity of nine lives at the stars' behest. When this happens, and when he dies after this happens, he shan't be reborn into a different form, but his own. This is a complete affront to his beliefs, and yet, it is inevitable. He cannot foresee himself finding closure if he is doomed to this cycle of suffering, death, and revival. Part of him would rather end it all prior to reaching that point.
The star-illuminated skies have served as the object of his focus for an indeterminate length of time. An enduring exhale decidedly breaks him from this stupor, and his gaze descends to the gloomy hollow around him. He turns around and starts in the warrior den's direction, though his intentions are severed when he glimpses an outline of someone familiar. Someone who too held scruples about their own mortality. Sniffing the moisture back into his nostrils, the deputy plods towards them and offers a heedful dip of the head. "Good evening, Silkbreath," he says. "What are your thoughts on death?"
// prompt: The Circle of Life: health, evolution, transformation, death.
// @silkbreath