A brooding cloud cover, an atmosphere fraught with moisture, and whispers of a coming rainfall rustling through the treetops. It created a mood that was nothing short of melancholic, to put it mildly, though Smogmaw did not mind. In his eyes, the promise of an impending downpour held only good tidings for the clan. When it rains, the swamp rejoices, and in the swamp's joy, prey thrives abundantly. What's more, weather conditions such as today's keep his nerves sharp, his eyes peeled—glimpsing subtle movements in the underbrush was made all the easier without the shadows brought by sunlight.
Venturing forth alongside his patrolmates, the ashen tom carries himself with marked repose. The hunt has proved to be a fruitful one, for clenched in maw is a duo of frogs; seeing as both were caught in an extraordinarily short span of time, perhapse they were friends, or cousins, or simply two very kindred neighbours. And based on a cursory glance towards the warriors around him, it would seem his efforts outstripped those of some of his companions. Knowing this gives rise to a shrewd grin along corners of his mouth, whilst he scoffs inwardly at their incompetence.
Smogmaw presses ahead in the company of Ravenwatcher and Chilledstar, but - as it would soon become apparent - not Needledrift. Struck by the realisation, the deputy halts in his tracks, and pivots his head over a shoulder to scan the marsh behind him. He finds it a tad hard to believe that the lockjawed she-cat would trail so far behind, especially considering she couldn't catch much beyond snails. Nonetheless, her failure to reappear within the ensuing moments leads him to interpret she had, in fact, found something worth while. In this case, maybe she required assistance in completing her catch.
The frogs are placed in a recognisable divot along the ground. "I'll return shortly," remarks the tom, before his paws depart the dew-steeped soil in the direction Needledrift had been spotted last. At a mercurial pace, he maneuvers around the puddles that lay in the path they'd walked, paying close heed for any indication of grey strands amidst the reeds.
He persists in his search until a vague, almost sputtering kind of noise seizes his attention. His head swivels, and there, just off yonder, he espies the stiffened form of his clanmate. Paralysed with nervousness, by the looks of it. What had she seen?
"You," Smogmaw expels, approaching with a graveness which mirrored her own. "What are you doing?" he then asks in a somewhat accusatory tone. Tarrying on hunting patrols is apprentice-esque behaviour, something a seasoned warrior should have long grown out of. Any verbal response from her was less likely than a frog sprouting wings, and thus his vision wanders to the fronds nearby, whereupon he notices a recent disturbance in the manner they stood—as though they'd been moved by a sudden motion.
His focus deviates from the she-cat then, and he instead moves to push his head through the ferns.
The appalling sight that'd awaited him brings his eyes to an equally widened, equally stolid state.
Unlike his comrade, who'd presumably jerked back upon observing the corpse, Smogmaw remains transfixed to the turf beneath his paws. Aghast and bewildered, silent and still, morbidly fascinated, and stunned by the grotesque mockery of Ghostpaw's form. It was swollen, marred, bloated in a manner he couldn't have ever dreamt of.
"This complicates things a little bit," he mutters with bated breath.
