sensitive topics HE'LL BE TORN APART ; intro/roadkill

[shrikesong]

// tw for descriptions of rot/decay

The delicate perfume of rot is what draws Shrikesong in, tatter-winged moth to an oozing flame. Her sensitive dusk-smoked nose tips upwards, fragile tilt of her muzzle belying the pearlescent glimpse of curved alligator-fangs beyond lips just barely parted. It drifts along the stagnant winter breeze of ShadowClan's marshes, a certain vulgarity to the scent that draws it apart from the general stink of the marsh—a rawness, a coarse bare-toothed smell. Rotten meat, crow-food no doubt, and Shrikesong steps obediently away from her patrol, smoky black-blue fur dipped to the elbows in marsh-muck.

"I do believe there's crow-food up here," she calls, lilting, words dancing up-and-down, over her shoulder. Shrikesong's fixation with the slow embrace of decay has, in her own experience, seemed largely mystifying to her Clanmates. A couple accusations of wanting to eat it were enough to raise her hackles; she would never do such a thing, and that ought to have been apparent to them. Not so. She advances towards the tempting source of the scent, and a last slinking step between a pair of low-hanging lichens is enough to reveal it.

A deer carcass, mouldering kingdom climbing up its ribs, lays by the wayside of the Thunderpath. Shrikesong's muzzle rumples even as the dark-furred warrior advances closer—her fixation is as inexplicable to her as it is to those around her. Something about the drying twists of white-streaked red flesh, half-leathered by the cold leaf-bare sun; something about the slick white-pearl jaw exposed by the peel of mossy, dead skin. Something. She stands over it, tries and fails to resist the temptation to prod at it.

Thank the stars, no insects in the cold of leaf-bare—or at least, none bold enough to break free and writhe across a querying paw. She withdraws it quickly, drags it through the muck to cleanse it. The dark cavity of the deer's newly emptied socket is hypnotic, and Shrikesong's eyes climb down towards its exposed molars, paws itching to wrestle one free. This time, she does resist her impulses, turning to any who might have followed her.

"Must have been a monster," she offers in her usual half-murmured tone. "I, ah, I was worried it may have been one of those rogues poaching."

"speech"

​

 

[smogstar]

The gentle stirrings of discomfort delicately tint his features not so long after the stench hits his nostrils. His muzzle clenches just a smidgeon, and lips curl back over off-yellow teeth. It is an instinctive reaction; the marshes regularly accomodate such noxious odours, and Smogmaw has long grown tolerant enough to their intrusion. Yet, this particular stink isn't so easily masked with familiarity—rancid and rotting, pungent and recent. Something spoilt festers in the territory's boggy outskirts, and already have patrolmates turned keen noses towards its discovery. As per the deputy, however, sheer revulsion has kept his pawsteps in their original motion.

"Sure smells like it, don't it?" he mouthes off, oblivious to Shrikesong's shift in trajectory. "We can mark our scents 'n check it out after- oh." A sidelong glance betrays a lack of a certain coal-coloured molly in their midst, and he halts mid-stride. Enthralled once again by putrid meat, isn't she?

Sighing, venting out the last remaining whiffs of patience, Smogmaw starts off towards the trail she's left in the snow. When clanmates diverge onto individual paths, a patrol's sacred bond is severed. And now, the ashen-furred tom must care more about ensuring that Shrikesong doesn't get more mauled than whatever stink awaits at the trail's end. Monsters are ruthless when the paved path wears its wintry coat.

Searching eyes chance upon the warrior's shadowy form, hunched less than a tail's-length over an unpleasant carcass, and his brows crinkle ever so slightly. Through a more detailed look he makes out what exactly she's up to. His throat scarcely restrains the dehydrated, humourless chuckle that comes. "Yeah, 'cause Siltcloud's gonna cull a deer all on her lonesome," he replies, drawing nearer, nostrils clasped. Paws slow to a stop at the corpse's bitter cusp, allowing his inquisitive gaze to wander around the remains.

He shares in the morbid allure, for the living can always glean wisdom from death. It is an unlikely instructor of circumstance; all one need do is watch, observe, and apply. Be it a monster-torn deer, or a ThunderClan warrior lying strewn in a scarlet puddle, the lesson remains the same regardless of iteration: be sure to watch your back. Little Wolf certainly didn't. Smogmaw chuckles, once.

"Gonna share with us?" asks the deputy dryly, unsure on the depth in his own words. He's engorged on worse-off carrion, and the territory is rather scant for prey. Oh, what to do. ​

 

[CHILLEDSTAR.]

DON'T YOU GIVE ME UP, PLEASE DON'T GIVE UP​

---

"eugh. don't be a mousebrain, smogmaw. we cannot eat something killed by a monster. and it... smells like crowfood. surely to get all of us sick."

they turn with disgust, as nausea bubbles within them. gross. disgusting, and filthy. they were always a desperate bunch, shadowclan, but not this desperate. they much rather steal a rabbit from windclan, and defy the stars wishes of staying off territories than to eat this. they couldn't bare to look at it, and yet they don't look away. something about this piece of prey is... familiar.

the way it sits in rot. the visceral images are hard to get from ones mind, but it's so so familiar that it's almost comforting. dead. dead and nothing more. silent. cries can no longer be heard for a dead deer does not weep. would that be how they went? torn from the world so violently, unable to cry out in pain or fear? just gone. like that. leaving behind a clan and hardly a legacy. leaving behind bones and blood splattered against a path that rumbles with thunder. loud and sickening, and yet somehow their body would manage to be stronger than the filthy scent of oil? would this be how their life truly ends?

no one can predict those things, except maybe fate herself. but is it a prediction, if she already knows? no. not really. but they digress. their tail flicks as they gently part their jaw, sniffing the air more clearly, trying to get over the scent of rot.

"can hardly smell anything fresher. crows will come for it soon enough."

the sooner, the better. some prey knew better than to stay away from the flowery scent of death. and that did not work well in shadowclan's favor.
​

 

[lilacfur]

Crowfood was not an uncommon stench around the marshes, at this point in her life the in's and out's of these scents were of no specialty. As a very young -paw the molly would scrunch her nose and hold her breath, but Fleabounce was no coddler. She was expected to hunt and patrol in the same bog as the rest of her Clan regardless of who her mother, brother or aunt were. It was quelled the once taut, princess-like attitude she held for herself. Rounded her into the warrior she was now.

"Uck, must be well rotted to smell like that in leaf-bare." She commented mostly to her two shades, @CATERPILLARPAW. and @pipit !!. "The neat thing about greenleaf is that carrionplace isn't used so much since prey's typically returned the rest of the territory. But some days you can't escape the smell." Lilacfur looked over as Shrikesong dipped away and sighed.

"I think he was joking." Hope he was joking, but the molly is gentle when she regarded Chilledstar. She's careful not to get any closer than she has to, though, not keen on shoving her nose into the rot. "Let's try to bring home something fresher, yeah everyone?"​

[ i need the clouds to cover me ]​

 

[pipitclaw !!]

Pipit could be heard gagging before they even got close enough to see the damn thing. He turned to his 'mentor' figure with a face twisted and contorted in dismayed disgust many times. She offered little in the way of help, other than to suggest this is an inescapable hell of her clan's territory in some reasons and totally avoidable in others. Smogmaw... that weird deputy guy with a bad attitude... had the actual gall to suggest they eat some of it.

"You can just say you hate me," he suggests, mostly in joke. Though... there is a part of him that is blatantly positive Smogmaw would turn around right then and say it with the world's most unwavering gaze and flattest tone. "I'd rather you killed me with your claws than try to trick me into eating rot."

He casts a golden-gleaming gaze to Lilacfur, who tries to usher the conversation towards something more positive, a suggestion they not eat something that even the worms had already found and begun to slither around. Even goes so far as to declare their dour-faced silver advisor to be a regular prankster... a nice cop out but not one that the chimera really believed.

"Uh... yeah..."​