kill the boy inside the man ↷ rooster

[smogstar]

Methodically-placed limbs prowl through the underbrush. The path is sandwiched between ferns and swamp reeds, and it's scarcely noticeable in the dark of the night. Smogmaw knows it like the fur on the back of his paw; it's a somewhat beaten-down trail which strays from the clearings, weaving through ponds and mud pools where prey likes to linger. It goes without saying that this footpath hasn't seen much usage throughout Leaf-bare, what with the frogs and such resigning to their season-long slumbers. But warming temperatures mark the cusp of Greenleaf, and giving consideration to the wretched state ShadowClan is in sustenance-wise, the dark-striped tom saw no harm in giving their aquatic food sources an early shot.

He dragged @ROOSTERSTRUT along for the ride. In defiance of the countless indignities his clan faced over the preceding moons, the orange warrior still carried that youthful spark with him. Paired with Smogmaw's unyielding spite, the two had all the callings of a fruitful hunting team.

When more reeds begin to brush against his face, it's a clear sign that they encroach on the juicier spots. "Alright, keep 'n eye out for movements in the shallow parts," he murrs, maintaining a discretionary volume to his words. His eyes skim over the surroundings as he speaks, unfortunately unable to spot anything of the like. "Watch for rustling bushes, too," continues the tabby, "we don't want any foxes making meals out of us."​

 

[ROOSTERSTRUT]

❪ TAGS ❫ — As much as the duo possessed much potential to yield plenty of prey for ShadowClan's benefit, a lively young tom and a resolute and hardened older warrior, a dormant volcano constantly simmered between the two males with a possibility of violently exploding. It probably wasn't much so pent-up anger from Smogmaw's behalf, but instead on Roosterstrut's, something that may come as a surprise to anyone who knew the latter as the upbeat and friendly face around ShadowClan. However, unless one possessed a sharp memory and had lived in the Marsh Colony prior to ShadowClan's founding, many tended to omit the recollection of that fateful leaf-bare day — the day of Goose's killing.

Roosterstrut had long accepted the fact that it wasn't Smogmaw's fault. It certainly couldn't have been Heavybranch's, either, given that the man was an elder and probably would have been fox food had Smogmaw and Goose not been there to put up a fight. But the internal, selfish idea intrudes on his thoughts every time he sets his sights on the orange-eyed warrior — what if it had been him, and not his father?

Focusing on the past was suffocating. He's always been encouraged to make peace with whatever has happened in his life and look toward greener pastures, but how could he make peace? Smogmaw acts like it's never even happened, simply walking about living out his days and even having the gall to make references to the very creature that snapped Goose's neck between its jaws.

The comment falls upon alert ears, to which Roosterstrut immediately folds them against his skull. He knows he should be focusing on the task at hand, acquiring food for the clan, but letting his personal emotions cloud his vision has always been a weakness of his. This is something that needs to be addressed first. "Hey, uh... you wanna not bring that up?" For Smogmaw, Roosterstrut's miffed tone of voice shouldn't come as a surprise. The young warrior rarely addressed Smogmaw at all, and should he be forced to interact with him, he usually wasn't very pleased to do so. However, today, it seems that the orange tabby possesses a little less patience than normal.​

 

[smogstar]

A crooked frown would wrench itself into his maw. Though the boy's words were passive, their underlying tone allude to a more acute bitterness simmering just beneath the surface. A desired result, if there ever was one.

Smogmaw, at that moment, absconds from the hunt. His head swivels for Roosterstrut's, vindictive eyes combing through the darkness in pursuit of the other warrior's. Locking onto the younger tom's olive hues, his gaze grows into a frenetic stare. Unblinking. Unforgiving. "I say whatever I damn well please," he asserts, his tone striking and severe.

A livid huff follows his response, which has brewed within his system since Roosterstrut earned his full name. Goose's death is but a distant memory, and yet the lad surrenders to it in every waking moment of his being. His ever-broiling angst turns him into a husk, a shell of what it means to be a warrior. He's weak, and lest he chooses to handle his emotional woes, he will forever fall short of what little potential he has.

Claws dig into the cold soil below. "Don't expect to be coddled 'cause you haven't outgrown your little state of shock," he says. "That's not my problem. Get a grip, boy."

Gratification burns in a hysterical blaze within his gut. Out of all the theoretical scenarios that he has obsessed over and rehearsed for, this is one roused him the most. ​

 

[ROOSTERSTRUT]

❪ TAGS ❫ — Roosterstrut figured that Smogmaw wouldn't take his words well, but admittedly, the older man's retort admittedly stings a bit. He has always been the sensitive type, one to let words and actions fester in his brain until they threatened to overtake it completely. The orange tabby wasn't the type to have any sort of drama with anyone, so exchanging tense comments and bitter glances with one of his fellow clanmates was unfamiliar territory. He didn't like it, but if he had stayed silent, then he would have driven himself up a wall.

He knows that he is a distracted warrior. He knows that he has yet to unlock his full potential. And yet, in the heat of the fight, Roosterstrut always fails to act instead of think. Carelessness and a lack of awareness had gotten his father mauled to death. Recklessly launching oneself at an opponent is what's gotten countless other clan cats killed. Call him a coward, but Roosterstrut doesn't want to face an early death, not like Goose had. Was that so ridiculous of him?

Smogmaw has always been the gruff, older warrior, grumpy at his best and icy and cynical at his worst. Roosterstrut faces the brunt of the ashen tabby's coldness now, holding his head high, though tension wracks his jaw and shoulders as if he's trying not to lose his composure. Being an emotional young man, it's not easy to speak of such a personal topic without feeling the need to lash out or even cry. "I'm not asking you to coddle me." He states. His deep-rooted anger is brewing steadily within, though he knows that it would be wrong to fight with a clanmate, no matter what they had done to deserve it.

It's utterly appalling, how Smogmaw treats this delicate subject so insensitively. Does he have a heart at all, Roosterstrut thinks to himself, his jaw only clenching tighter as he blurted out, "Little state of shock? I was a just a kit, Smogmaw. Do you think it's easy for me to just forget what I saw that day? To be reminded every day that every cat on that patrol survived but him?" There is clear pain straining his voice, a cocktail of resentment and sorrow weighing his words.

An olive-hued flame rages within Roosterstrut's eyes as he stares the man down, a shaky breath inhaled accompanied by a deep exhale. "You may have forgotten, but I haven't. It's haunted me every waking moment." The orange-striped warrior emphasizes. "And all I ask, as a clanmate, is to spare me the tiniest bit of decency." He is practically pleading at this point, now. This wasn't just about the constant joking about foxes, but about Smogmaw at least acting like he cared to some capacity. Roosterstrut isn't sure if that would ever be achievable, though, not with the mackerel tabby.​

 

[smogstar]

Smogmaw does not make a display of the indulgence he was getting out of this exchange. He is an avid observer of his clanmates, harbouring a keen interest in their intrinsic imperfections. The dominant weakness Roosterstrut faces is the seasons' worth of pent-up grief in his system. It hinders him in such a way that the ginger tom's self-pity forms a blockage between the warrior he wants to be, and the whelp he truly is—and yet, for him to demonstrate he can fight back after a meager amount of prodding, it shows he's capable of being redeemed.

Brows furrow, the corners of his maw souring even more as Roosterstrut delves into his tragic past. His tail thrashes out whilst a storm of words string together within his mind, every syllable pounding, grappling to escape. "I haven't forgotten," he assures the other tom, a grating undertone to his words. "Matter of fact, it's all I ever think of whenever I look at you. You're stunted, Roosterstrut. Inside your head, you're still that terrified little kit, holding back everyone else, waiting for someone else to do the work for you." His thoughts hark back to the hunting patrol Roosterstrut had led into ThunderClan's territory, and the scant, outright pitiful results from it.

"So, grow up!" Smogmaw shouts. "Grow a damn spine!" Whereas his anger was typically contained to a mild simmer, he now unleashes it in a vicious outburst. Ears pivoted backwards, tail thrashing out, he casts an alkaline glare upon the orange-furred warrior. The boy will submit to the harsh treatment, contend with the level of severity, or finally come to terms with his own strife. Either way, Smogmaw is forcing him to act. "You wallow in your own misery like you're the only one with a troubled past," he continues, tone subsiding by a nominal degree. "You aren't. Life is fucking awful. But everybody else? They've gotten over themselves, and they don't let their troubles get in the way."

The intensity in his gaze lessens a little. "Get over yourself, Roosterstrut," he insists pointedly. "Get over yourself. Don't let something as stupid as words bother you." ​