can't forget the taste of my tongue ↷ [ granite ]

[smogstar]

The wind howls like a bruised wolf. It tugs at the treetops with the utmost ferocity, and blasts billows of loose pine needles along the breadth of the hollow. Thank the stars he isn't among the sorry few out and about in the greater marsh, toiling away on some dusk patrol or other, for keeping his paws steady within the camp presents a sufficient challenge in itself. His expression is locked in an ugly wince, weathering the violent gusts which make every pawstep feel like a precarious dance. He needs shelter, and he knows full well that the warrior den's brambly branches won't so much as shield a mouse from the winds outside.

Instead, his gaze descends upon Starlingheart's cave. It's perhaps the sturdiest of structures inside the territory, save for the sycamore itself. As far as the deputy is concerned, he and the medicine cat dwell on good terms—it is with the faintest amount of optimism that he supposes she wouldn't mind a brief pop-in, at least until the storm subsides.

Though trivial in length, the trek there was treacherous and shiver-stirring. Thus, as he draws to a halt at the mouth of the den, Smogmaw sighs noisily. Shaken, but relieved. "She's rabid tonight, Starlingheart," expresses the tom, referring to the aggressive nature of the wind, "I hope none'f your herbs have blown away." His words are muffled somewhat by the roaring gales, and with how dim the lighting was inside, he can't quite make out her figure amidst the shadows.

When his vision does become accustomed, though, he finds that it isn't the young medicine cat who resides within—rather, it is her mate.

"Granitepelt," he meows simply, his tone no longer carrying the enthusiasm he'd forced in the words prior. "How fortunate you are, to sleep somewhere so snug and sheltered." He welcomes himself inside, until he can no longer feel the gusts yanking on his fur. "I don't imagine that you miss the warrior's den the foggiest bit." ​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

The shrieking gusts outside the medicine cat’s den disturb his already troubled sleep. Granitepelt sits just at the mouth of Starlingheart’s sanctuary, gazing into the darkness in a state of what looks to any onlookers like solemn reflection. Smogmaw’s appearance causes the façade to melt somewhat, though the gray tom’s eyes reveal nothing. “Smogmaw. Good evening.”

The deputy’s intrusion is an unwelcome one, and Granitepelt has to exhale in order to get a grip on his anger. This is another cat on Chilledstar’s council, one he believes his mate is at least somewhat fond of. It will not be beneficial to have Smogmaw express ill will toward him. He flicks an ear, hiding irritation the best he can. “I am fortunate to have Starlingheart’s love, yes.” He smiles enigmatically. “But you forget yourself, deputy. I’ve never slept in the warrior’s den. She and I began sharing nests when I was still an apprentice. Bonejaw’s absence made it a lonely place for her.”

Dark green eyes flick from the tabby’s ears to his paws, studying him. “But you’d be correct. I don’t miss sleeping among the rest of our Clanmates at all. Surely…” He smiles, but it’s small and almost imperceptible, “you are looking forward to the day when the leader’s den becomes yours for that same reason?”
​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

 

[smogstar]

His chin slants downwards in response to the younger tom's address, registering a tinge of familiarity in how Granitepelt articulated himself. Plainspoken, matter-of-factly, refusing to flower up his words or tiptoe around what he intended to convey. It's a directness that pierces through the veil of ambiguity, and exists as a common thread shared between them both, despite the contrast in their ages. Yet, whereas Smogmaw developed his candour through experience, his counterpart still sat upon the bare cusp of warriorhood. It is something to be wary of, for bluntness of one's words oft denoted one's callousness—and for someone so young to possess such callousness was a precarious position.

Brows crease as he's reminded of the immediate move to Starlingheart's cave. Forgive him for the mistake, the deputy scarcely troubles himself over the affairs of apprentices. "Right," he meows, hardly hearing himself over the whirring winds in the beyond, "you spared no time in finding yourself a more privileged class of sleeping arrangements." Again, he harbours little concern for the personal lives of the clan's adolescent population, though he cannot help but impeach the notion of a youthful Granitepaw's rapid attachment to their medicine cat.

Idle eyes drift in the trajectory of Chilledstar's den when the emphasis is placed upon him. "For more reasons than one," he attests, "but I cannot lie and tell you every moment in that den doesn't make me want to rip my own fur out." Granted, biding his time in the warrior's den has proven to be leagues easier since Betonyfrost made herself a nest in the nursery. Had she given a go at her pathetic pleading a second time, Smogmaw would have decorated his bedding with what remained of her ears. "We're a special breed here in ShadowClan, a clan united by mutual loathing. Those'f us who've found someone special in this StarClan-forsaken place are a rarity. I would do everything in my power to protect my mate, and I can only envision you would do the same for your own; and knowing Starlingheart's family, (or the meagre residue of it which yet clung on) she is blessed to have someone like you as a fixture in her life."

That poor, poor girl. Never was there a more capricious bundle of nerves, and if the slate-pelted tom before him served as her only crutch, her struggles were destined to be amplified. ​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

Smogmaw sounds unimpressed, and his expression reflects that. Granitepelt does not allow himself to be offended by the deputy’s implications—that he’d moved into Starlingheart’s den because of her position in ShadowClan and not because of the devotion he holds for her. An ear flicks, but his smile does not waver. “The privilege is getting to be with her. Protecting her. Guarding her. And she can rest easy knowing I’ll not let another cat harm her.”

The deputy’s admission does not surprise Granitepelt, but the candor does somewhat. Smogmaw confirms he looks forward to living in Chilledstar’s den “for more reasons than one.” The gray warrior nods. “Yes, I could picture you as the ShadowClan leader. Is that something you’ve always wanted?” Innocent enough question, isn’t it? Doesn’t every warrior, young or old, consider what it would be like if they were put in Chilledstar’s position? After a moment, he adds, “You hardly have impressive pawprints to fill.”

“We’re a special breed here in ShadowClan,” the tabby tells him. Granitepelt listens without emoting, but he finds himself agreeing. “Yes. You are so fortunate to have… Halfshade.” He puts subtle emphasis on the she-cat’s name. “Another cat who found themselves elevated based on who they mated with.” Any queen with the privilege of calling the Clan deputy the sire to their kits is privileged in many ways, in his eyes. It’s a pity Smogmaw had chosen Halfshade to carry that honor.

Sly, teasing, fox-faced Halfshade. Granitepelt despises her.
​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

 

[smogstar]

Protectiveness. Posessiveness. A claw's edge separates the two, straddling the delicate balance between affection and control. Had the older tom harboured a deeper understanding of love and all of its fine intricacies, perhaps he'd be able to discern Granitepelt's rightful place along that spectrum. But, Smogmaw was a cat of more unalloyed ambitions, unfettered by the workings of empathy or kinship. Hence, he'd remain blind to the mechanics overseeing Starlingheart and Granitepelt's relationship. What matters most to him is their bond not undermining the medicine cat's allegiance to the clan, as it had with her ill-fated predecessor. So long as the slate-toned tom before him can guarantee this, the deputy will tolerate his presence in her life.

The junctions of his maw crook low at the other's probing. That Granitepelt felt no qualms in speaking so poorly of his leader in the heir apparent's company, it stimulated his skeptical proclivities something awful. "Leading this clan is my self-decided purpose," he assurts, blunt in tone and poise, "the groundworks for it have been lain for seasons. It's inescapable. Time, and nine remaining lives, are the only things postponing it." A weighty sigh bursts from his throat as he settles onto his hindquarters. He looks upon the younger warrior with a carping scrutiny. "And Chilledstar's mettle will not determine my eminence." He does not see ShadowClan's figurehead as weak. Flawed in the control of their own emotions, perhaps, though not weak in spirit.

He finds his breathing growing more acute when Halfshade's name slithers from Granitepelt's jaws; particularly when it's voiced that her spot in clan hierarchy thrust upwards after they'd mated. "I'd forged my connection with her before taking a higher position," Smogmaw reminds him, which, to his recollection, couldn't be said about the other warrior's relationship. "Besides, she's resigned herself to the nursery until further notice. If she does reap any benefits, they're few and far between."

Eyes scrunch as a swift gust of wind penetrates through the cave's opening, but it quickly subsides. "You've a... keen eye, Granitepelt," he coaxes himself to say, yet there's not a shred of any falsehood in his words. "You're perceptive, quite so for someone who's just left their apprenticeship. Knowing that Starlingheart will vouch for you, as any mate would, I anticipate the day where we consider you for an elevated spot in this clan."​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

Granitepelt listens to Smogmaw’s coolly-delivered explanation with a staunch expression. Self-decided purpose, indeed. He knows about those. Like an angel of death, he’d self-decided Pitchstar’s demise, even if his messy delivery had needed assistance from Siltcloud. He’d self-decided Ghostpaw’s untimely ending, too, and though he now shares a den with a freak-eyed trash kit, he knows he’s safe from the unsightly white tom’s advances on Starlingheart.

“Mettling, you say.” He swipes his tongue around his lips, as if earnestly dislodging a tasty morsel of left-behind prey. “What sort of mettling are you talking about?” He doubts Smogmaw would tell him anything—but his curiosity gets the better of him.

The deputy does, of course, quickly rush to defend his mate from Granitepelt’s vague ridicule. The young warrior only flicks an ear. “How quaint of her. I wouldn’t have expected a life dedicated to rearing kits to be her style.” His own mate would always be safe from such a fate—Starlingheart walks with StarClan, chosen by their warrior ancestors to heal ShadowClan. “A noble pursuit. Certainly not one I’d ever opt for.”

Are Smogmaw’s compliements genuine? Granitepelt cannot imagine they are. Still, his slitted eyes widen imperceptibly at the mention of an elevated position. “I’ve never imagined such a thing for myself.” His ambitions lie elsewhere, don’t they? He decides suddenly that he isn’t sure. “My duty is to protect Starlingheart, and… ShadowClan, of course.”

✧ INFO.

•  
• 
  — granitekit . granitepaw . granitepelt
  — he/him ; warrior of shadowclan
  — heterosexual ; taken by Starlingheart
  — short-haired gray tom with white and green eyes
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by Marquette
  — chibi by Meg

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