private he who blocked his own shot ↷ [ STARLING ]

[smogstar]

Self-sacrifice isn't part of his repertoire. Certain deeds from his history have certainly suggested a likeness to it, and notably so, given his penchant for hurling himself headlong into danger with little regard for the risk to his own pelt. Vaulting up that tree to divert the bear from Halfshade. Diving headfirst at the badger to prevent Scalejaw's demise. Such acts could be easily mistaken for the noble actions of a selfless cat. However, this is best not to be confused with genuine altruism; he is more so a creature of self-sabotage, and every now and then, self-sabotage happens with heroic undertones.

But, largely, he is a creature of self-sabotage. Impulse and compulsion take the reins most often, rendering him a mere passenger in his own body as it careens heedlessly forward, ofttimes colliding with all obstacles in its path, including itself.

He had a good thing going with Starlingheart. A good rapport. ShadowClan's young medicine cat had a keen eye for details, an open mind, and an even temper. She had her head on straight, and her heart lay in the right place. What's more, she stood out in her capacity to evoke pity in him—her aunt's abandonment thrust her into a role she was too young and ill-prepared to shoulder, and in the shadow of Briarstar and Pitchstar's passing, she bore an additional burden of grief and regret which should have made her shoulders sag and her head hang heavy. Yet, somehow, she maintained her poise and looked straight ahead, always.

Self-sabotage is an apt descriptor for what'd brought about the rift between them. Impulse got the upper paw and was raised even higher by his grief. He spoke to her in a fashion cruel and unforgiving, aimed to cut her where it hurt. To think silent bitterness and attrition has defined the threads of connection between them since. That was so many seasons ago, too.

The past moon has given him special reason to see her alone, one-on-one, removed from their typically-strained bouts of smalltalk. Congested by snot, mucus, assorted gunk and various other substances, the deputy's nose runs long and shameless like a wellspring. Relieved only by a noisy, irritating, near-endless clearing, he'd fidgetted and struggled all throughout the gathering; seeing how Chilledstar has yet to recover fully, he'd rather this ailment fixed on the off-chance he must represent the clan for a second time.

Hence, beyond being self-sabotaging, he is stubborn and proud, and unable to approach anyone with the simple goal of an apology.

Languid footfalls bring him across the moonlit, muddy clearing to the cusp of the medicine cat den. Awash in lunar luminosity, his ash-coloured pelt is discernable among the night's dark—less so when he pokes his head into the cave, and even less when he enters fully. "Starlingheart, I gotta see you." Hoarse words rebound off the stony walls. After he speaks, he begins clearing his throat. It does not help much, and the noisy sniffle to come afterwards is but a prelude for a fresh, sputtered sneeze. "Dunno if you can tell, but I gotta stuffy, runny nose. Can you fix it?" ​

 

[Starlingheart]

Whenever Starlingheart thinks of Smogmaw these days it is not with anger held deep in her heart as one might expect, but rather she thinks of him with a deep sense of sadness and regret. She hadn't known that Halfshade was sick until it it was too late, but that didn't make what she did alright by any means. Heavybranch was dead because of her choice, Halfshade too. She should have done more, should have gone to the other clans and grovelled and begged but stars knew how much they all had needed the life-saving lungwort, how much every clan had lost. She had been lucky to receive what few doses she had been given and she had squandered the gift in order to ensure her own kins surival. It is something she carries heavy in her heart every single day.

The unexpected voice of the clans deputy startles her out of a day dream, one where she watches all three of her kits - together again - tumbling about in the nursery. Ghostkit, Nettlekit and Flintkit all play some childish game in which she is not privy to the intricacies of but that she enjoys watching all the same. When she looks to the entrance of her den, her halved vision causing her to have to turn fully around in order to see if it was really indeed Smogmaw there, she offers him a small, hesitant smile. "Of course" she says. It is not even a question in her mind. As much as she had been avoiding him, mostly out of guilt but partially out of fear he was still angry with her, she would never turn down a clanmate in need. Never. "Do you-uh - do you have any other sy-symptoms?" she asks as she makes her way over to her herb stores. She didn't have anything for a stuffy nose exactly, other than some moss, but perhaps... yes. Ragwort, for strength to help his body fight off whatever illness was trying to find purchase in his blood. She hooks it with a claw and places it down in front of him. "He-here eat this, it won't-won't cure your stuffy nose but- but itll make it easier for- for you to fight off whatever sickness you got... hopefully there were some things even an herb couldn't fix, after all...

( ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. ) fly me up on a silver wing

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  STARLINGHEART SHADOWCLAN MEDICINE CAT; SHE / HER ; SISTER TO PITCHSTAR, CHITTERTONGUE, NIGHTSWARM, SKUNKTAIL, AND LILACFUR. MOTHER TO NETTLEPAW, FLINTPAW AND GHOSTPAW.
  

  A skinny she cat with short black and white fur littered with scars and one singular green eye.

  ✦ Easy in battle + has little to no formal battle training
  

​

 

[smogstar]

There she stands. Two-toned and terribly scarred, a dim echo consumed by the shadows. Merely casting his gaze upon her sparks an urge to console, grant a solace of some sort, as though lukewarm words could ever soften her lived truth. Starlingheart is due more than sympathy in any case, and come what may, any he extended to her would feel inadequate, coerced, and insincere even.

The night's chill hangs motionless around them, hushed and unreserved, the air wreathed in a murky gloom. When the medicine cat addresses him, her voice is faint against the fog and quieter than the beating in his chest. Yet, hearing her opens something there, and it is from a pool within him, suddenly viscous and thickening, an overwhelming need to mend whatever space had widened between them. He reckons she could use a friend or a confidant, realising his own need. It would be as good a place as any to make amends.

All this to say, the deputy isn't very preoccupied with his physical ailments, really. A runny nose is a runny nose, he's had thousands by this point in age. Though he's tuned into the issue under discussion, affirming her remedies through intermittent nods, he's cognizant primarily - if not wholly - upon her. Cognizant on the difficulty in choosing words he deems not flimsy nor self-conscious, on what he might say to her, how it should sound, and on whether this penance counts for something at all, to anyone other than himself.

"No," he meows initially, albeit resembling a dry grunt more than an answer, "no other symptoms." Clay-hued eyes drift downwards to the plant arranged before him, and his muzzle soon follows, plucking it from the cool floor with clumsy teeth. He chews, swallows, and suppresses a cringe. The acrid aftertaste is not a pleasant one. "Thanks," musters the tom eventually, fearing it may have been too long a silence since her final sentence.

"I'm okay," he follows up with much haste, and instantly shakes his head, a bit embarrassed now by how utterly rehearsed he sounds. "Not dying," more smoothly, though still fairly mechanical. What's he meant to say, anyway? Wax on and on about how he wishes this or the other thing never happened to her? Tell a story about himself just to keep the air filled with sound? Having given her the patent cold shoulder since returning from the mountains, he isn't too sure there's much common ground to build on. On either part, for either cat.

But there is, and he realises it in that split second of doubt. "More'n anything else, I just wanted to speak to you. I don't think we've held a conversation since the start of Leaf-bare, Starlingheart." Before the frost even bit their pelts, for moons more literally. Smogmaw's expression doesn't shift in the slightest, yet there exists an almost tender edge to his tone. Almost. "Since then, you've come to know loss like I have, and then some more. Not- Not comparing anguish, by any means. Just saying there's a familiarity there between us, now."

Husky, monotonous, but meek and genuine. Isolation's a lonely business and one not well-rewarded. Most around here are liable to brush off other's problems, if they do anything at all. "Facing loss like you have, while the world around you continues its usual rhythm, without a skip or care, and while you..." He trails off in search for the fitting phrasing, and all at once Smogmaw realizes this is probably the most open he's ever been about this. Anxiety flashes on the tabby's face, but it's swiftly wiped away.

"It's hard, is what it is," he mutters, fumbling slightly with an ear-twitch or two. "And I want to know if anyone's done anything for you, since. Anything at all." As vague an approach as any, yet transparent and benign enough, he figures. He can't say he's been doing amazingly under the circumstances, either, and being fluent in loss's language has him believing she likely isn't either. Still, those last three words didn't leave his throat easily, yet in their wake sits a calmness, as opposed to the tight sensation usually filling his chest to its core. "Because, if I can, I'll help where it's possible. I'm here, and I'm sorry about it all." ​