- Oct 22, 2022
- 714
- 261
- 63
His mind strays freely over the past few days, recalling every discussion and brief encounter in-between. As ever, Smogmaw has thoughts aplenty about clan happenings, about clanmates both present and past, about leadership and duties as they lay. Eminent on this list rests the matter of setting this transition in stone; setting off for the Moonstone, and, just as importantly, ensuring that ShadowClan is still intact upon his return.
Chilledstar's vigil, burial, and the first council meeting after the fact—it all depleted his words and the mental energy necessary for their expression. He's had his fair share of fanfare, and the tom must imagine it is a two-way exchange. The tom thusly prepares to conclude things concisely, in as few syllables as he can muster. Every iota of time and vigour saved is an iota preserved for the night ahead. Starlingheart is already well aware to what awaits her on this night, and so, having fetched her from the medicine den and brought her to where he now stands at camp's entrance, Smogmaw readies his throat and vocal organs.
He hardly ponders delivery—he speaks, and it happens. "All cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather!"
It goes without saying anymore, but the clan is greeted by an expression so numb, a countenance so thoroughly stripped, devoid, and detached to feeling. A cat who, on surface-level, looks entirely unconcerned with any current or forthcoming obstacle; established prowess notwithstanding. Through a turgid blanket of fog, the cresting moon shines in orange, eerie through the haze overhead. A disarming spectacle.
Lips purse in fleeting consideration, then flatten moments thereafter. "It's about high time I made off for the Moonstone and became your leader truly," the tom would begin. A sideways hasty glance towards the medicine cat separates his words, as does a secondary clearing of his throat. "Starlingheart and I will be gone for the night. In the meantime, I entrust ShadowClan's welfare to its council of lead warriors. @MIREPURR, please gather cats for a patrol out WindClan ways. @FORESTSHADE, all the while, I need you to assemble your own crew to stand guard at camp."
His vision then sweeps over the clan before him, brows brought taut. He seeks out clanmates of a rank not known for receiving and carrying out official tasks, yet the duty envisioned for them holds equally supreme significance in his mind. "@mockingbirdcry, @MOLTFACE, @HARRIERTEETH ." Queens, all. "While the clan's kits are still awake tonight, make use of this opportunity to teach them on StarClan; what we understand of it, the powers it lends to the clan's leaders, what happens when a cat passes away. Answer all questions they have, and don't shy away from mentioning Chilledstar's departure. Do this well enough, and you'll have 'em all asleep before you can say 'Smogstar'."
He has said enough. Having listed tasks by order, spoken his expectations, and fulfilled a diplomatic standard toward communicating with clanmates, his next breath exudes in full all the burdened exhaustion kept pent up until now. Shoulders raise up ever slightly, then relax in steady succession as his last message concludes. "Goodbye."
Chilledstar's vigil, burial, and the first council meeting after the fact—it all depleted his words and the mental energy necessary for their expression. He's had his fair share of fanfare, and the tom must imagine it is a two-way exchange. The tom thusly prepares to conclude things concisely, in as few syllables as he can muster. Every iota of time and vigour saved is an iota preserved for the night ahead. Starlingheart is already well aware to what awaits her on this night, and so, having fetched her from the medicine den and brought her to where he now stands at camp's entrance, Smogmaw readies his throat and vocal organs.
He hardly ponders delivery—he speaks, and it happens. "All cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather!"
It goes without saying anymore, but the clan is greeted by an expression so numb, a countenance so thoroughly stripped, devoid, and detached to feeling. A cat who, on surface-level, looks entirely unconcerned with any current or forthcoming obstacle; established prowess notwithstanding. Through a turgid blanket of fog, the cresting moon shines in orange, eerie through the haze overhead. A disarming spectacle.
Lips purse in fleeting consideration, then flatten moments thereafter. "It's about high time I made off for the Moonstone and became your leader truly," the tom would begin. A sideways hasty glance towards the medicine cat separates his words, as does a secondary clearing of his throat. "Starlingheart and I will be gone for the night. In the meantime, I entrust ShadowClan's welfare to its council of lead warriors. @MIREPURR, please gather cats for a patrol out WindClan ways. @FORESTSHADE, all the while, I need you to assemble your own crew to stand guard at camp."
His vision then sweeps over the clan before him, brows brought taut. He seeks out clanmates of a rank not known for receiving and carrying out official tasks, yet the duty envisioned for them holds equally supreme significance in his mind. "@mockingbirdcry, @MOLTFACE, @HARRIERTEETH ." Queens, all. "While the clan's kits are still awake tonight, make use of this opportunity to teach them on StarClan; what we understand of it, the powers it lends to the clan's leaders, what happens when a cat passes away. Answer all questions they have, and don't shy away from mentioning Chilledstar's departure. Do this well enough, and you'll have 'em all asleep before you can say 'Smogstar'."
He has said enough. Having listed tasks by order, spoken his expectations, and fulfilled a diplomatic standard toward communicating with clanmates, his next breath exudes in full all the burdened exhaustion kept pent up until now. Shoulders raise up ever slightly, then relax in steady succession as his last message concludes. "Goodbye."