- Oct 22, 2022
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Ulterior undertones govern Smogmaw's day-to-day decisions. Who he speaks to, why he speaks to them, and what he's striving to gain is a constant calculating game. Though to call it a game suggests there's a framework to be followed, an end goal to work towards, when really it all bleeds together in an incessant conflict to outmaneuver, outsmart, and undercut the other cats he lives amongst. He plays it as a game nonetheless, making up the rules as he goes along, aspiring only to come out on top.
Such a fanatical passion for tactics and subterfuge lays a fragile terrain for genuine connection and dialogue, should he ever permit it to occur. It's isolating, living in the eye of his own tempest when nobody else speaks his particular language.
There is one, though, who's almost fluent in the dialect.
One who he sought to bury the tendrils of his jaundiced perspective into.
Because, at the crux, Smogmaw's best-kept company is his own, but having a confidante — a lackey, really — he can find parallels in grants a different flavor of validation. More than that, it bars the doors to loneliness.
And yet, even as he endeavours to seek out Sharpshadow on this dreary, repulsive Leaf-bare morning (the slush living in his pawpads is doing his disposition no favours), ulterior motives steer every step. Halfpaw had gifted upon him the give-and-take formula for prevailing over her in conversation: a reason to talk, a reason to listen, and a latent threat to dangle if constructive discussion falls short. The planned conversation marinates within those guidelines as he crosses the snowy clearing, tail dragging an ice-crusted line behind him.
He's maintained an amicable rapport with his former apprentice, or so he likes to perceive. Thus, the words spill easily when he initiates conversation. "Hullo." His expression exudes ease, perhaps even nonchalance as he gives the all-black feline a once-over. "Let's talk," the deputy continues, with nary further elaboration, tail flicking once to indicate a private discussion should commence.
Escorting the younger warrior away from the hollow, the ash-toned tom ventures into the snowy, slushy, unpleasant expanse beyond camp's confines. It isn't a confidential dialogue that awaits, and he doesn't wish to give the impression. They're both cats who prize their privacy, and Smogmaw sees reason to afford it as they traverse side-by-side. "You've been a warrior for a season's length of time, or thereabouts," he muses once he's certain no clanmates were dropping any eaves nearby. "A fine warrior, if I may add. No trouble's come outwardly from your paws; if any has in secret, you've done well to keep it so." A smattering of pawsteps guide him a smidgeon forwards, before he halts and turns to face him proper. "So how're you holding up, Sharpshadow? Still looking for your purpose?"
@SHARPSHADOW
Such a fanatical passion for tactics and subterfuge lays a fragile terrain for genuine connection and dialogue, should he ever permit it to occur. It's isolating, living in the eye of his own tempest when nobody else speaks his particular language.
There is one, though, who's almost fluent in the dialect.
One who he sought to bury the tendrils of his jaundiced perspective into.
Because, at the crux, Smogmaw's best-kept company is his own, but having a confidante — a lackey, really — he can find parallels in grants a different flavor of validation. More than that, it bars the doors to loneliness.
And yet, even as he endeavours to seek out Sharpshadow on this dreary, repulsive Leaf-bare morning (the slush living in his pawpads is doing his disposition no favours), ulterior motives steer every step. Halfpaw had gifted upon him the give-and-take formula for prevailing over her in conversation: a reason to talk, a reason to listen, and a latent threat to dangle if constructive discussion falls short. The planned conversation marinates within those guidelines as he crosses the snowy clearing, tail dragging an ice-crusted line behind him.
He's maintained an amicable rapport with his former apprentice, or so he likes to perceive. Thus, the words spill easily when he initiates conversation. "Hullo." His expression exudes ease, perhaps even nonchalance as he gives the all-black feline a once-over. "Let's talk," the deputy continues, with nary further elaboration, tail flicking once to indicate a private discussion should commence.
Escorting the younger warrior away from the hollow, the ash-toned tom ventures into the snowy, slushy, unpleasant expanse beyond camp's confines. It isn't a confidential dialogue that awaits, and he doesn't wish to give the impression. They're both cats who prize their privacy, and Smogmaw sees reason to afford it as they traverse side-by-side. "You've been a warrior for a season's length of time, or thereabouts," he muses once he's certain no clanmates were dropping any eaves nearby. "A fine warrior, if I may add. No trouble's come outwardly from your paws; if any has in secret, you've done well to keep it so." A smattering of pawsteps guide him a smidgeon forwards, before he halts and turns to face him proper. "So how're you holding up, Sharpshadow? Still looking for your purpose?"
@SHARPSHADOW
