- Oct 22, 2022
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- 261
- 63
When Smogmaw awoke, he found himself greeted not only by the usual malaise, but as well a percussion of pounding stiffness in his skull. A sensation which replicated a blunt-force impact, such that even with his eyelids closed, his vision was being assaulted by tracer lines of purple and red. The previous night remained largely obscured, and clarity refused to break through the lingering mist. Had he overslept, or merely stolen a wink or two? It hardly seemed relevant, since the dawn light was so brutally blinding through the warrior den's wall.
Ah, fox-dung—whatever the case, he'd slept in. The deputy preferred to start the day well before the swamp got its first taste of sun. Always.
Bones crackle with little fanfare as the tom pushes from the den. Inwardly, Smogmaw groused at the mistreatment his joints had undergone, aging against his will, weathered by humid air and the strain that came with traversing this muddy landscape. Outwardly, he looked just as sullen. Having an unpleasant frown on show for passerby, as his amber regard skimmed the dew-laden air.
Whatever disposition wrapped tightly around him diverged significantly from his usual irritability. His nerves do not urge him forward with the compulsion they often channeled through him. That alone gave the tabby more pause to stare blankly across the morning clearing. It leaned closer toward sadness. Hell, it was sadness, through and through. Later on tonight would he take the reins as pseudo-leader and represent his clan as envoy, in what was the second time he'd be standing in for his wounded leader. Smogmaw should be ecstatic, overjoyed at once more assuming such an esteemed role atop the Great Rock.
He did not feel excited. Just sad. Which is a shame. A loss, even.
It was Halfshade who'd emboldened his aspirations for greater heights. It was Halfshade who'd injected into said aspirations her confidence and her pulling power, tugging him along without a lick of effort. He may not have vocalised it, may not have openly showed how her enthusiasm affected him in a positive light, but it did. It truly did. She lived as the touchstone to his ambition, the wellspring from which he'd drank deep whenever his morale flagged.
Without her presence amongst the crowds at the gathering, watching him speak loud and clear through those gorgeous bi-coloured eyes, he might as well sit mutely in some darkened corner, and nurse his grudges from afar. The longing for her cuts deep, and the wound becomes more pronounced as time moves on.
Smogmaw sighs, before lowering his head and beginning the mundane cycle of self-assuring licks that brought his fur flat against his chest. His vision drifts skywards when a clanmate encroaches on his person, muzzle lifting sluggishly, peeling into a false, yet placid smile for their sake. "Morning," he coaxes out, exhaling sharply shortly thereafter. "Gathering's tonight, yeah? Gotta - (he clears his throat in a symbolic gesture) - ahem, gotta get my speakin' voice ready, heh."
Ah, fox-dung—whatever the case, he'd slept in. The deputy preferred to start the day well before the swamp got its first taste of sun. Always.
Bones crackle with little fanfare as the tom pushes from the den. Inwardly, Smogmaw groused at the mistreatment his joints had undergone, aging against his will, weathered by humid air and the strain that came with traversing this muddy landscape. Outwardly, he looked just as sullen. Having an unpleasant frown on show for passerby, as his amber regard skimmed the dew-laden air.
Whatever disposition wrapped tightly around him diverged significantly from his usual irritability. His nerves do not urge him forward with the compulsion they often channeled through him. That alone gave the tabby more pause to stare blankly across the morning clearing. It leaned closer toward sadness. Hell, it was sadness, through and through. Later on tonight would he take the reins as pseudo-leader and represent his clan as envoy, in what was the second time he'd be standing in for his wounded leader. Smogmaw should be ecstatic, overjoyed at once more assuming such an esteemed role atop the Great Rock.
He did not feel excited. Just sad. Which is a shame. A loss, even.
It was Halfshade who'd emboldened his aspirations for greater heights. It was Halfshade who'd injected into said aspirations her confidence and her pulling power, tugging him along without a lick of effort. He may not have vocalised it, may not have openly showed how her enthusiasm affected him in a positive light, but it did. It truly did. She lived as the touchstone to his ambition, the wellspring from which he'd drank deep whenever his morale flagged.
Without her presence amongst the crowds at the gathering, watching him speak loud and clear through those gorgeous bi-coloured eyes, he might as well sit mutely in some darkened corner, and nurse his grudges from afar. The longing for her cuts deep, and the wound becomes more pronounced as time moves on.
Smogmaw sighs, before lowering his head and beginning the mundane cycle of self-assuring licks that brought his fur flat against his chest. His vision drifts skywards when a clanmate encroaches on his person, muzzle lifting sluggishly, peeling into a false, yet placid smile for their sake. "Morning," he coaxes out, exhaling sharply shortly thereafter. "Gathering's tonight, yeah? Gotta - (he clears his throat in a symbolic gesture) - ahem, gotta get my speakin' voice ready, heh."
