private FINGERS OF STEEL ↷ [ ASHENPAW'S ASSESSMENT ]

[smogstar]

His first brood with Halfshade has crossed the line into what's seen as adulthood. Twelve moons, never what Smogmaw considered to be a marker of maturity, but all the same, this coming meeting should see them gain their full names. And he feels cathartically okay with it. Teetering at detachment's edge, even as excitement thrums through him for his four. His kits, apprentices, warriors, they're grown enough to stand on their own paws now, and the thought both makes Smogmaw's pelt burn with pride and yet it leaves him numb.

They've become fine cats in their own right, and they've become better cats, stronger ones, than Smogmaw thinks he was when he was their age. What has him off-kilter is the unarguable truth: he's no longer needed. They'll thrive without him, and he doesn't know what to do with himself over the fact, because Halfshade isn't around to hold him back, to reassure him, to guide him forward, anymore.

Smogmaw wishes Halfshade had been there to see their kits become warriors. He doesn't think he understands family as much as he thought he did. Her gentle guidance always kept him grounded, always kept him certain.

Those pools of contemplation drain to the dregs when a bullfrog croaks right to his left. His hackles rise and his pelt spiked as he stiffens, whirling, to pinpoint the direction.

The deputy stands before a sodden morass, peat and water and rotting plants. A once-walkable stretch of territory, immersed deep in the aftermath of recent downpours. Ashenpaw lingers beside him at the fringe, sharing in his scrutiny, a paw's breadth away from waist-deep muck. Ignorant to how long his son and apprentice languished in the silence, he wonders if the younger tom has clued into the underlying intent here. "Damned bullfrog caught me unawares," comes a scoff, and Smogmaw hopes it sounds derisive, not sheepish.

"Anyways," he continues, clearing his throat in the following beat, "this will be your warrior's assessment, Ashenpaw. I don't need to test you in your hunting or combat capabilities, son, but rather your ability to cross this bog."

He lets the sentence settle, studying the other's expression. Who was once feared to be the litter's runt, Ashenpaw has matured into a compact, solidly-built tom. That head between those bi-coloured shoulders is level, intelligent, resourceful, and Smogmaw hopes Ashenpaw can read in his father's own countenance the faith he has in him. "I will follow closely behind. When you make it, we will head straight back to camp to inform Chilledstar that you are ready. Understood?"

Notwithstanding the forthcoming answer, a gesture brings his head flinging in the mire's direction, goading Ashenpaw onwards.

// @ASHENPAW ​

 

[ASHENFALL]

˚₊‧ ⛧ This is the day that all of Ashenpaw's training has culminated to — what will determine either his allowance into the warrior's den as a respected fully-fledged warrior, or as another disappointing super-senior apprentice. He thought it would feel a bit more... important. Rather, the day they trudge through the mire to begin his final assessment is a day like any other.

The bullfrog croaking to their left hardly causes him to flick an ear in that direction, but Smogmaw's surprise makes him pause. Did he have something on his mind..? A head full of clan politics and other deputyship crowfood is the first assumption his son arrives to — sentimentality being among the last on the list. Ashenpaw can't blame his father for his emotional avoidance, he knew more than anyone else that Smogmaw was as faithful to the teachings of Rigid Stoicism as some were to Starclan. Ashenpaw only knows family in the context of where his paws were rooted now: mother, father, siblings, mother dies, more siblings. And even from his oh-so-particular perch, he could not kid himself into thinking he was doing the best he was able to. He wasn't doing his best. He was simply... doing.

But this is irrelevant in the face of his current challenge. Ashenpaw blinks with trepidation at the ink-stripes stretching across Smogmaw's face, eyes tracing the familiar shadow-branches as their familiar companion (silence) bloats between the pair. He still stands shorter than his father, even as he finished stretching upwards and then filling out, which is something of a disappointment. His three littermates had all turned out to be impressively built, at least in comparison to his... compactness. He hadn't completely escaped the runtiness he was born with, but perhaps it would serve more useful for him to be underestimated. This would be one of those things that only time would tell. Oh well. Ashenpaw thought that just another inch would've been nice, though.

The deputy scoffs at the bullfrog and Ashenpaw thinks he spots something akin to embarrassment coloring his expression, which makes him quirk his whiskers (just a smidge) in response, "...Yup, they'll do that to you, I guess." But he straightens when Smogmaw continues. As he expected (kind of — he had been incorrectly guessing that 'today' would be the day for the past three days or so...) today was the day.

Ashenpaw almost thinks he's throwing him a softball when his task is revealed to him. Ashenpaw was born onto swampy soil, his kitten toes had known the cool feeling of mud squishing between them before he had a coherent thought inside his head. The bog was as familiar to him as the tom urging him to confront it. Really, bog was all he knew. Traversing it should be a cinch.

He couldn't trick himself into assuming that this would be easy, though. He knew that there had been plenty of dumb-dumb animals that lost themselves in the mire by underestimating its, slippery, mud-drowning prowess. Ashenpaw would not be one such dumb-dumb. Mismatched eyes find the other's dark amber and he hopes he comes off at least mildly confident when he says, "Right. Well, uh, follow close, I'll lead us out as dry as possible."

Ashenpaw swivels to face the swamp with an analyzing stare before flicking his tail for his assessor to follow. He slinks upon the hard-packed shore for a few tail lengths before leaping onto an island of mud. The squelch beneath his webbed paws make him abandon any notion that they would be making it out spick-and-span, but who was he kidding? "It's deep right there, I think. Careful..." He glances back at his mentor briefly, mostly to fill the silence and to voice that he wasn't just bouncing around the mud all empty-brained and silly. Smogmaw had known the bog before Ashenpaw had even been a thought in anyone's head, he wasn't scared the tabby tom would get stuck and drown himself from a simple misstep like that.

And so they continued.

YOULL ASK WHAT CAN I DO? ⭒☽⛧☾⭒ AND THERE WILL BE NO ANSWER

• OOC:
• 
• 
  — ashenkit . ashenpaw
  — ftm transmasc. he/him. 12mo apprentice of shadowclan. mentored by smogmaw
  — muted blue torbie w/ pale blue and amber eyes
  — smells of rainsoaked fern and swamp milkweed
  — all ic opinions!
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — pfp by meg, fullbody by antiigone, sticker by saturnid
  — penned by eezy
  

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