- Oct 22, 2022
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So.
Sootstar, contrary to her fondest desires and very best efforts, has gone the way of all flesh. The first litmus test to the stars' little clan experiment ended spectacularily and unsavourably. Flying a smidgeon too close to the sun, as it were. Smogmaw shall mark and commit her failures to memory, soak them into his pores and mind them so his own machinations are better shaped to succeed. Failure is the preeminent educator, and there remains much to be learned from the late WindClan tyrant.
First. Power, esteem, and popularity are subject to a rather fickle sort of gravity. Push too strongly and you will lose too much. Pull too sharply and you will snap your supports.
Second. Fear, as a tool, goes only as far as the loyalty you can inspire. Smogmaw would imagine loyalty a resource difficult to scrounge up when dragging one's clan through the mud and back out again, and likewise hard to nurture when you've lost your subordinates' trust.
Third. Do not become undefendable. It's just good politics. Sootstar ran herself ragged with a hundred transgressions and plots, only for her neck to meet the proverbial blade in the end. Those nips at your heels can turn into strikes aimed far higher, unless you sustain majority support and present yourself as a force worth backing. Do this, or else.
Fourth, lastly, and most importantly: do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, allow your deputy to get any bright ideas.
Smogmaw considers all this, and considers his station. He considers the moors' future, as well, the power vacuum that Sootstar's demise has wrought, and the role Sunstride will play in filling it. He considers how Sunstride will fail, how his righteous ambitions will twist, and his hubris swell and blind.
Entertaining such theories provides him an inherent satisfaction, like sinking teeth into marrow. He does so with paws, tail, and posture tucked at Clanrock's base, a passive spectator to an otherwise uneventful camp.
All this ruminating, pondering, and projecting threatens to spill over into the physical realm, and so it does when a passerby strays too near his person. "Sunstar." Abrupt and lacking context, it is sure to arrest their focus. "Rolls right off the tongue, don't it?" His spine arches into a stretch, joints popping in a manner graceless as it is worrying. "I hope he lives long enough to claim his nine lives. Certainly'd make patrols that way a bit more comfortable."
He sniffles, and settles onto his haunches casually. "But I can only be so optimistic. What do you think? About our neighbours' change in management, I mean. Any reason to be hopeful?"
He doesn't quite think so, but for the purpose of good conversation, he shall humour the concept nonetheless.
Sootstar, contrary to her fondest desires and very best efforts, has gone the way of all flesh. The first litmus test to the stars' little clan experiment ended spectacularily and unsavourably. Flying a smidgeon too close to the sun, as it were. Smogmaw shall mark and commit her failures to memory, soak them into his pores and mind them so his own machinations are better shaped to succeed. Failure is the preeminent educator, and there remains much to be learned from the late WindClan tyrant.
First. Power, esteem, and popularity are subject to a rather fickle sort of gravity. Push too strongly and you will lose too much. Pull too sharply and you will snap your supports.
Second. Fear, as a tool, goes only as far as the loyalty you can inspire. Smogmaw would imagine loyalty a resource difficult to scrounge up when dragging one's clan through the mud and back out again, and likewise hard to nurture when you've lost your subordinates' trust.
Third. Do not become undefendable. It's just good politics. Sootstar ran herself ragged with a hundred transgressions and plots, only for her neck to meet the proverbial blade in the end. Those nips at your heels can turn into strikes aimed far higher, unless you sustain majority support and present yourself as a force worth backing. Do this, or else.
Fourth, lastly, and most importantly: do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, allow your deputy to get any bright ideas.
Smogmaw considers all this, and considers his station. He considers the moors' future, as well, the power vacuum that Sootstar's demise has wrought, and the role Sunstride will play in filling it. He considers how Sunstride will fail, how his righteous ambitions will twist, and his hubris swell and blind.
Entertaining such theories provides him an inherent satisfaction, like sinking teeth into marrow. He does so with paws, tail, and posture tucked at Clanrock's base, a passive spectator to an otherwise uneventful camp.
All this ruminating, pondering, and projecting threatens to spill over into the physical realm, and so it does when a passerby strays too near his person. "Sunstar." Abrupt and lacking context, it is sure to arrest their focus. "Rolls right off the tongue, don't it?" His spine arches into a stretch, joints popping in a manner graceless as it is worrying. "I hope he lives long enough to claim his nine lives. Certainly'd make patrols that way a bit more comfortable."
He sniffles, and settles onto his haunches casually. "But I can only be so optimistic. What do you think? About our neighbours' change in management, I mean. Any reason to be hopeful?"
He doesn't quite think so, but for the purpose of good conversation, he shall humour the concept nonetheless.
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