- Oct 22, 2022
- 714
- 261
- 63
Just shy of two moons ago, curtains fell over the journey's final act. Claw, fang, and spirit waged battle against the elements to ensure the lungwort's retrieval and return to the swamp, thus safeguarding ShadowClan's continued existence, as was foretold in promises and woe-bidden prayers alike.
It was supposed to be a spectacular occasion, an emotional release of the most cathartic calibre. No corner within Starlingheart's cave would go untouched by life-saving herbs, nor would those suffering inside sense the nearness of death's shadow any longer. Hopeless tides were meant to recede, and carry with them the blight they'd all known so intimately for far too long. The journey's end should have spelt a turning point towards healing and renewal. Towards growth.
As it happens in this rotten corner of the woods, though, fate simply mocks the best-laid plans. The expected script was rewritten with its complete opposite—loved ones left an empty space in newfound voids, clanmates whom he'd watched grow from kithood were unmasked as murderous spectres, all while warriors and apprentices upheld the perpetual pattern of dying young. That's just how it is here, in this stars'-forsaken mud pit. A legacy of grief renewed upon every new sunrise. His folly lies in ever expecting anything different.
The days post-journey were coloured through a jade filter, and the deputy has all but lapsed into a regimen of routine indifference.
The resolve to visit his mate's final resting place yet eludes him, while those rare occasions that he strays near it find him wrung thin of any feeling he has to offer.
The warmth in his gaze varies towards his young ones, being more pronounced for his older litter than for Halfpaw, Laurelpaw, and Thornpaw. Halfshade's passing has chipped away at his once-unconditional parental affection. In them, he is too consistently reminded about her loss and how it weighs like stones upon the hollow pit in his core.
On an opposing, extreme end of the spectrum, Smogmaw harbours no lingering resentment towards Granitepelt and Siltcloud. Their lives would be forfeit should they step into his sight, but there is no rage that sizzles beneath his skin to singe fur and char flesh. They're as good as dead, and the dead are not worth the wasted thought.
He's merely treading water beneath a moonless sky until he isn't anymore, detached and dispassionate in a hollow mimicry of survival. And who can he turn to for support? For a listening ear? For a helpful paw? For a shoulder to lean on?
No one. Because he is Smogmaw. He's done it to himself, he knows. That's just how it is in this stars'-forsaken mud pit.
Footfalls herald a path paved with thorns and buried bones. He found it easier to walk when Halfshade was with him. But his paws hurt now. His heart, even moreso.
Tail rests idly atop front paws, resting on snow made solid, glazed over by ice. Half-lidded eyes stare listlessly ahead at drooping pine trees burdened by icicles, hanging low, swaying gently in bitter winds. At the hollow's mouth he sits, haunches sunk into frozen white, in solitude that does little to numb an interior ache. He doesn't know what to do anymore.
It was supposed to be a spectacular occasion, an emotional release of the most cathartic calibre. No corner within Starlingheart's cave would go untouched by life-saving herbs, nor would those suffering inside sense the nearness of death's shadow any longer. Hopeless tides were meant to recede, and carry with them the blight they'd all known so intimately for far too long. The journey's end should have spelt a turning point towards healing and renewal. Towards growth.
As it happens in this rotten corner of the woods, though, fate simply mocks the best-laid plans. The expected script was rewritten with its complete opposite—loved ones left an empty space in newfound voids, clanmates whom he'd watched grow from kithood were unmasked as murderous spectres, all while warriors and apprentices upheld the perpetual pattern of dying young. That's just how it is here, in this stars'-forsaken mud pit. A legacy of grief renewed upon every new sunrise. His folly lies in ever expecting anything different.
The days post-journey were coloured through a jade filter, and the deputy has all but lapsed into a regimen of routine indifference.
The resolve to visit his mate's final resting place yet eludes him, while those rare occasions that he strays near it find him wrung thin of any feeling he has to offer.
The warmth in his gaze varies towards his young ones, being more pronounced for his older litter than for Halfpaw, Laurelpaw, and Thornpaw. Halfshade's passing has chipped away at his once-unconditional parental affection. In them, he is too consistently reminded about her loss and how it weighs like stones upon the hollow pit in his core.
On an opposing, extreme end of the spectrum, Smogmaw harbours no lingering resentment towards Granitepelt and Siltcloud. Their lives would be forfeit should they step into his sight, but there is no rage that sizzles beneath his skin to singe fur and char flesh. They're as good as dead, and the dead are not worth the wasted thought.
He's merely treading water beneath a moonless sky until he isn't anymore, detached and dispassionate in a hollow mimicry of survival. And who can he turn to for support? For a listening ear? For a helpful paw? For a shoulder to lean on?
No one. Because he is Smogmaw. He's done it to himself, he knows. That's just how it is in this stars'-forsaken mud pit.
Footfalls herald a path paved with thorns and buried bones. He found it easier to walk when Halfshade was with him. But his paws hurt now. His heart, even moreso.
Tail rests idly atop front paws, resting on snow made solid, glazed over by ice. Half-lidded eyes stare listlessly ahead at drooping pine trees burdened by icicles, hanging low, swaying gently in bitter winds. At the hollow's mouth he sits, haunches sunk into frozen white, in solitude that does little to numb an interior ache. He doesn't know what to do anymore.
