CONDITIONS OF MY PAROLE ↷ [ chitter ]

[smogstar]

Sticking out like a sore tail amongst the paltry treeline, the burnt sycamore towers above the low-lying boglands. Smogmaw cannot remember a time without it—the sycamore has stood there for a significant measure of moons, its presence predating the life of his daddy, and then the daddy before him. It's just about the only thing in the territory worth noting beyond the boundaries of camp, and the deputy puts an effort to pay the tree a visit during his periodic jaunts into the greater marsh.

The sycamore certainly has its uses. Aside from using its premises to train the unenlightened, Smogmaw finds utility in its ragged outer sheath. Made coarse by age and ruptured by a long-forgotten lightning strike, the tree's tough texture is the ideal surface to hone his claws on. For one of his nails to catch in its tough surface and hold steady is immensely satisfying, and the knowledge that he's increasing his own danger further gratifies him. One might joke the bark worsens his bite. In a way, they'd be correct.

Thus, the dark-splattered tabby finds himself at the sycamore's base on this day. Front limbs, outstretched outwards, anchor into the tree's skin by virture of his claws; all the while the sun's rays collect in the black furs along his back.

// @CHITTERTONGUE ​

 

[CHITTERTONGUE]

જ➶ They sycamore is an interesting place. The tom remembers when it wasn't split by the lightning that created fire and also created death. He remembers how unmarred the tree had been but now it stands with a reminder of what happens when the elements become angry. It forced Shadowclan out of their home and raced fire into Thunderclan. At least someone shared in their burden. Grinning as widely as ever the tom finds his way toward the tree, imagining a moment of quiet self reflection and maybe training when he hears the scratching of someone else. Each scritching sound seems to male his muscles move and jerk reflexively. Funny. As he steps long limbs over mud he emerges from the foliage with his eyes set on that black marked back. "Smogmaw! Good morning!" He greets with a soft chuckle in his throat. The deputy always seems so stone faced but that hardly bothers the lilac tom.

Instead he saddles up beside the other and unsheathes his long claws, flexing them before pulling them against the bark of the tree. His claws catch and peel some of the bark off in small flakes but it hardly bothers him and probably doesn't bother the tree. "You having a good time out here all alone? Normally you and Halfshade are inseparable." He laughs then but only because he is happy for them. Shadowclan seems happier and that is what matters to him.​

 

[smogstar]

A jolt shoots through his system when a chipper tone shatters the morning ambiance. The tips of his claws become caught at an awkward angle because of the sudden movement, embedded deep in a rupture along the sycamore's peel. His focus is effectively split in two by the encroaching footfalls, which belong to someone whom he had yet to identify. Yellowed teeth reveal in a snarl as he yanks hard, trying to dislodge his nails from their wooden confines, but to no avail. They're stuck between the bark and a hard place. Ass on the ground, front limbs outstretched against their will; the deputy's position is a graceless one.

Fortunately, it's merely Chittertongue who draws near. Smogmaw's head swivels to glimpse Briar's spawn, and a frown is made manifest as he ponders the words of the other. Inseperable? Surely, he gives off a more dignified impression than that. "Good morning," he returns, dipping his head as best he can. "Grand ol' time, lack of my mate aside; 'cept for this pickle I now find myself in." Eyes return to the sight of his wedged claws, which haven't budged even by a whisker's length. It's nigh on impossible to remove them from where he sits. Should he climb up the side of it, though...

"Welp," Smogmaw says, looking to the pallid warrior to his side, "I'm gonna climb to the top of this thing. Feel free to join me, by all means." Rear legs then kick off the ground, and his ascent commences. A sigh as heavy as it was relieved rushes from his throat when his claws are extracted, just as he'd predicted.

After a matter of mere moments, the smoky tabby finds himself among the gnarled branches at the summit. He seizes a branch for himself, one thick enough to comfortable stand upon, before his gaze drifts downward in search of Chittertongue. ​