- Oct 22, 2022
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"WindClan burns."
Smogmaw can, and will, concede that Sunstar had quite the flair for the dramatic. It's a prerequisite for any leader worth their salt, being able to conjure all eyes and ears and then hold onto the attention like an itch.
He recalls craning his head upwards, squinting to see rust and gold up on the Great Rock, matted and worn, and hearing those acrid words seep out, almost like smoke. Hazed and dubious; but all at once solid and unmistakable. He heard them, all ShadowClan had. And while the deputy could appreciate another's knack for showmanship, he found greater satisfaction in the plight WindClan was submerged in. Relative gains, after all. Smogmaw is still of the mind that a bad day for WindClan makes for an altogether brighter one for everyone else.
That was a while ago now, almost a half-moon, and having not heard from the moor-dwellers in the days since the gathering, the silver tom assumes the worst. Things never seem to blow over into calmer waters on the moors' side of the thunderpath, recent rains notwithstanding. It is out there, to the thunderpath border, where the ShadowClan deputy aims to stretch his legs and take a nice long gander with his patrol in tow. Keeping abreast on their kit-catching neighbours is as much a duty as it is entertainment.
"Stars, look at it. Burnt to a crisp." The two frogs he'd been carrying by the legs are haphazardly dropped onto the ground, settling in the sloping earth as moss and peat underpins them. Facing the patrol on the paved path's opposite end is what remains of the moorland. Dead, dry, shriveled like skin, like carrion picked clean. "Not a chance they're still kicking around here, eh?" He then asks, gaze flitting in Maggotfur and Mourningbloom's general direction, while Raggedbite lingers elsewhere in his periphery. "Place is still on fire."
Indeed, it was. Smaller plumes of smoke arose sporadically from the scorched earth. Further scrutiny revealed fiery patches burning in pockets and undisturbed. Why twolegs would torch everything in their sight and leave it up to burn lay beyond Smogmaw's comprehension, but then again, twolegs' logic was beyond most cats'.
He decides to mark his scent anyhow, even with the moors' current state in mind.
// @RAGGEDBITE. @Maggotfur. @Mourningbloom
Smogmaw can, and will, concede that Sunstar had quite the flair for the dramatic. It's a prerequisite for any leader worth their salt, being able to conjure all eyes and ears and then hold onto the attention like an itch.
He recalls craning his head upwards, squinting to see rust and gold up on the Great Rock, matted and worn, and hearing those acrid words seep out, almost like smoke. Hazed and dubious; but all at once solid and unmistakable. He heard them, all ShadowClan had. And while the deputy could appreciate another's knack for showmanship, he found greater satisfaction in the plight WindClan was submerged in. Relative gains, after all. Smogmaw is still of the mind that a bad day for WindClan makes for an altogether brighter one for everyone else.
That was a while ago now, almost a half-moon, and having not heard from the moor-dwellers in the days since the gathering, the silver tom assumes the worst. Things never seem to blow over into calmer waters on the moors' side of the thunderpath, recent rains notwithstanding. It is out there, to the thunderpath border, where the ShadowClan deputy aims to stretch his legs and take a nice long gander with his patrol in tow. Keeping abreast on their kit-catching neighbours is as much a duty as it is entertainment.
"Stars, look at it. Burnt to a crisp." The two frogs he'd been carrying by the legs are haphazardly dropped onto the ground, settling in the sloping earth as moss and peat underpins them. Facing the patrol on the paved path's opposite end is what remains of the moorland. Dead, dry, shriveled like skin, like carrion picked clean. "Not a chance they're still kicking around here, eh?" He then asks, gaze flitting in Maggotfur and Mourningbloom's general direction, while Raggedbite lingers elsewhere in his periphery. "Place is still on fire."
Indeed, it was. Smaller plumes of smoke arose sporadically from the scorched earth. Further scrutiny revealed fiery patches burning in pockets and undisturbed. Why twolegs would torch everything in their sight and leave it up to burn lay beyond Smogmaw's comprehension, but then again, twolegs' logic was beyond most cats'.
He decides to mark his scent anyhow, even with the moors' current state in mind.
// @RAGGEDBITE. @Maggotfur. @Mourningbloom
