HUNGER STRIKE ↷ [ garlic ]

[smogstar]

Echoes of last Leaf-bare persist to this very day. Hunger, illness, and infections, all brought by the wintry season, continue to bedevil the bodies of ShadowClan's warriors with their lasting effects. A brief skim over the camp presented enfeebled muscles, the outlines of ribs, and dull eyes which spoke of the hardships the clan had endured—and not to mention the notable absence of those who'd failed to emerge from Leaf-bare alive. Despite the arrival of Newleaf, lives are still lost to the season's aftermath, leaving the clan in a perpetual state of mourning and malaise. The thought of Dewfrost's father comes to the forefront, a harsh reminder that even a replenished fresh-kill pile was not enough to save those made weak by the unrelenting cold.

What aid came from StarClan during these harrowing times? Nothing. Not a murmur, not a single syllable of guidance. Prayers went unanswered, pleas overlooked, and his people were left to fend for themselves with nothing but empty bellies and their own staggering despair.

Thus, how quaint is it that now, in the wake of the prior season's grim spectacle of death and anguish, Starlingheart touted a so-called 'prophecy' sent from the spirits above? Had they finally taken notice of the clan's existence, and its struggles? After moons of such flagrant disregard? The very notion of it makes him scoff. It is quite telling of their own self-righteous nature to assume some sort of divine intervention would erase the scars and losses inflicted upon ShadowClan. Moreover, the prophecy itself seemed of little value:

"ShadowClan may hunt more freely with wild garlic. It is not to be plucked, but to be rolled in."

At face value, the plants StarClan alluded to were as insignificant as any other wildflower in the swamp. A cluster of the specimens jut out from the waterlogged earth before him. Their leaves, long and lance-shaped, circumscribe wiry stalks upon which bloom trusses of small, star-framed flowers. The breeze carries their pungent aroma, an unmistakable scent that stabs at his nostrils.

Smowgmaw's mouth is spoiled by a frown. StarClan's answer to his people's strife sits at his very paws, and what an underwhelming answer it is. Nonetheless, if there's more to these plants than what meets the eye, and rolling atop this flowerbed could mean the prosperity of his clan (and by extension, himself), then he cannot afford to dismiss it entirely.

With a begrudging sigh, the deputy bends his head low and descends upon the wild garlic, absorbing the unpleasant odour into the thick strands of his pelt.​

 

[loampelt]

There are a countless number of things Loampaw doubts he will fully understand about clanlife. He doesn't understand StarClan: why the dead would speak at all, why they speak to a few select cats, why that, when they say something, they don't just say it plain. He's wondered the same thing in a different time, the context of the thought long since worn away but the frustrated say what you mean vivid enough to be recalled now without want for it. Loampaw's nose scrunches at Smogmaw, the then thoughts mixing without mingling with the now thoughts.

"If StarClan was tr-try-trying t-tuh-to make you sm-smell like shit th-th-they did good." Loampaw wasn't opposed to the unique type of filth that came with living in the marsh and had even reveled in it on occasion, but at least the mud and the filmy waters and the seasons old rotted out leaf-litter didn't have such a pungent scent.

Loampaw plucks one of the flowers halfway up it's stem and, with a specific air of sarcasm only capable in youth, drops the bloom on top of Smogmaw's face, "Almost m-mmmm-missed a spot." ​

tags ∘ shadowclan apprentice ∘ solid black with hazel eyes ∘ curled front foot ∘ 10 moons​

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[Rainecho]

She cannot help the laugh that escapes her maw at Loampaw's echo of her own thoughts. "Yes our deputy is smelling quite... pungent" she says, wrinkling her nose at the smell, but the smile does not leave her face. Oh was it funny when children cursed! She does not pretend to understand the will of the stars, but apparently they had descended from their perch, had told their half-baked medicine cat that they should roll around in wild garlic, that that would solve all their problems. She, like many others, cannot help but to wonder where this magical solution was when they had well and truly needed it, when they were all wasting away to nothing but skin and bones and their leader slowly descended further and further into madness and paranoia.

She wishes they had saved them the trouble and struck him down like they had almost done to WindClan's piece of work leader.

She lets out a huff of air as Loampaw drops the flower on Smogmaw's face, then, on white tipped paws makes her way to join them. "Now Loampaw, perhaps we are being too quick to judge" she says in a mock serious tone that implies she is anything but. "Perhaps if we all stink we won't have to smell it as bad" yes, perfect logic right?
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[GECKOSCREECH]

⊵ no matter which way she looked at it the prophecy that starclan so graciously bestowed upon their medicine cat to be shared with the rest felt incredibly lackluster and others seemed to agree as well. after months of struggling through an unforgiving winter, now was the time they decided shadowclan was deserving of their presence only for them to pass on some cryptic words about garlic? unbelievable.

geckoscreech watches alongside loampaw and rainecho with knitted brows as their deputy flops unceremoniously into one of the flowering patches and rolls around until the overpowering stentch clings viciously to his mackerel tabby coat. the molly cannot help but recoil a little at the biting scent before taking a brief minute to brush a paw over a ruddy nose as if it'll help dispell the harshness of it. "i think i'll pass on covering myself head to toe in a such a foul ordor but atleast it seems to fit smogmaw perfectly." she casually quips before continuing. "now what, do we just wait and see how hunting goes now that you're covered in this stuff?"
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【 THERE'S SO MANY FAKE ASS PEOPLE PREYING ON YOU.】

 

[smogstar]

Words spoken with an awkward tongue seize the deputy's attention. With a grunt, a noise nearly as unpleasant as the odour he resentfully wore, the tom's head lifts from the ground and takes aim at whoever lingered nearby. He is taken aback initially—it is not the full figure of another that he sees, but rather the contours of Loampaw's chest. The dark-toned apprentice looms over him, and before he can so much as jerk away from his reach, or perhaps return to all fours where Smogmaw's height proves superior, a flimsy something collides with his schnozz.

"I'd appreciate your humour more if it were matched by skill," meows the tabby, who lurches his noggin to dispose of the flower. The young feline ought to consider themselves fortunate. With as little as an instruction, he could have Loampaw rolling around in the plants instead. As he passes over the notion of it, his focus expands to include the two she-cats who too seemed to enjoy the sight before them. "If StarClan says this'll fix all of our problems," he continues, a sardonic twang christening his tone, "then someone has to do it. I don't see any of you heeding our gods' words."

A roll, a stretch, and an unsteady ascension to his paws, the deputy recalibrates his attention towards the blasphemers in his midst, particularly in the direction of his Lead Warrior. She questions on where they should go from here, as if to see StarClan's guidance may very well be of their benefit. Smogmaw finds himself highly sceptical of the idea, what with his newfound stench practically announcing his presence to the noses of potential fresh-kill. "I dunno," he merely states alongside a shrug, "our medicine cat didn't say nothin' about it making hunting easier. Just 'more freely', whatever that's supposed to mean."

He doesn't find himself preoccupied with thoughts about his next move, however. Rather, the entirety of his focus adheres to what Geckoscreech had said. If Chilledstar has decided that their authority transcends the mockery of their clanmates, however casual or trivial it may be, Smogmaw deems it appropriate to follow his leader's example. "Why don't you give it a whirl, Geckoscreech?" propositions the tom. His gaze is intense as he speaks, and his manner of speaking now lack the satire of before. "Stars know that you could spice up that personality of yours. Perhaps a new perfume?"

A laugh follows shortly thereafter. Not a hearty, long-drawn one, but rather a singular, shallow chuckle. "That's an order," he says, "from both me and StarClan." ​

 

[loampelt]

“Uh-and I’d apprecia-cia-ciate your face muh-more if it wasn’t matched buh-buh-by stench,” Loampaw shoots back, unperturbed.

He listens silent as Rainecho and Geckoscreech join him, and then scrunches his nose as Smogmaw tries to justify his assault on their collective noses. Right, these were directions directly from StarClan, told to them through the mouth of Starlingheart. Loampaw didn’t know much about his supposed warrior ancestors — they lived here until they died here, and now they occasionally offered advice to any cat with an interest in berries. Loampaw feels a certain solidarity with Starlingheart; the two of them standing on the same proverbial branch when it comes to their voices, but that doesn’t equate a reverence for her words.

Loampaw’s head tips and an ear pivots as if he is listening to something distant, “I-eee-uh hear them nuh-now!” He gasps, “They say— well, cuh-cuh-can’t repeat that. Or that. Wuh-wow, StarClan’s sure opinion-on-ionated. On you, specifi-fi-fi…”

But there is something to this, isn’t there?

Realization comes over Loampaw’s face abruptly enough that he straightens like he’s stepped on a thorn, “You duh-don’t smell like a cuh-cuh-cat with that on. N-nnnnnnn-no need t-tuh-to stand downwind.” ​

tags ∘ shadowclan apprentice ∘ solid black with hazel eyes ∘ curled front foot ∘ 10 moons

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[Ravenwatcher.]

So I walk alone down the darkest roads​

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"Careful, he might drag you down with him, and then you'll smell exactly how he does if you keep calling him smelly"Ravenwatcher stated smoothly as she approached the scene, dark blue eyes narrowing onto the form of their deputy who ranked of garlic and Ravenwatcher couldn't help wiggling her nose at it. If Smogmaw was attempting to smell worse than what Pitchstar had smelled like, it was working, but... Starclan had said this stuff would work.

"Perhaps we should give it a try, see if it works" the warrior stated calmly before settling down to look at the others before returning to look at Smogmaw, who was bathed in the smell from the wild garlic and she hummed a bit. It certainly hid his normal scent so... it could help them out more than what they thought it would, but...none have yet attempted to hunt while covered in the smelly stuff, so perhaps Smogmaw would love to volunteer since... he was already covered in it.​

"speak""Thoughts"​