- Oct 22, 2022
- 714
- 261
- 63
To illustrate how far the journeying cats have come along, home was now but a whisker's length away.
Highstones marks the official threshold of familiarity, and in short order (perhaps another day or so) shall the rutted peaks loom over the terrain—heralding them all to the disparate territories from which they emerged. Smogmaw's memory is not ripe enough to recall the specifics, how long it'd taken to bridge the gap between Fourtrees and those great ridges. He is assuredly certain, however, that this time around will fare comparatively faster. With lungwort clenched close and a pervasive type of optimism driving them all onward, they could all be tucked away into their cozy camps in as little as another few days.
Each and every fibre of his being thirsts after the swamp's humid refuge. The deputy doesn't suppose he is an outlier in such a regard. With the dust settled from all the life-threatening impasses they'd squirmed into and wriggled out from, it would leave him stupefied if anyone in their travelling party didn't share a similar yearning.
And yet. And yet. A tentativeness churns in his bowels. Among him on this adventure are cats from all walks of life. Certain names which bespoke influence and prowess, and thereby opportunity. Smogmaw strays from social entanglements as a matter of routine—consequently, he has yet to establish any meaningful rapport with those whose company he's obligated to.
In the coming days, they will find themselves bound by shared goals no longer. Sharing close quarters with certain names will drift beyond possibility, then.
It behoves him, as the swamp's highest envoy, to at least make a passing attempt at forming relations; and there is one in his midst whose reputation, and future, is most salient to that purpose.
"Orangeblossom, g'devening to you." By chance and chance alone, he'd caught Blazestar's heir apparent severed from the larger group. The other deputy may have been hunting, on the prowl for nesting materials or something or other. Whatever her prior directive was, though, she can now consider it forfeit. "Are you doing alright?" he asks, pitch mellow and head tilted somewhat. One must wonder if the whole ordeal with Cherrypaw has left a lasting influence on her bearing. Amber eyes sift through her ginger-dappled form for indications of irritation before he continues. "Haven't had a chance to hold a good conversation with you. Seems we've been both tending to our own clans... but, would you- care for one?"
Fuck. He always scuffs it up right at the end.
// @orangeblossom
Highstones marks the official threshold of familiarity, and in short order (perhaps another day or so) shall the rutted peaks loom over the terrain—heralding them all to the disparate territories from which they emerged. Smogmaw's memory is not ripe enough to recall the specifics, how long it'd taken to bridge the gap between Fourtrees and those great ridges. He is assuredly certain, however, that this time around will fare comparatively faster. With lungwort clenched close and a pervasive type of optimism driving them all onward, they could all be tucked away into their cozy camps in as little as another few days.
Each and every fibre of his being thirsts after the swamp's humid refuge. The deputy doesn't suppose he is an outlier in such a regard. With the dust settled from all the life-threatening impasses they'd squirmed into and wriggled out from, it would leave him stupefied if anyone in their travelling party didn't share a similar yearning.
And yet. And yet. A tentativeness churns in his bowels. Among him on this adventure are cats from all walks of life. Certain names which bespoke influence and prowess, and thereby opportunity. Smogmaw strays from social entanglements as a matter of routine—consequently, he has yet to establish any meaningful rapport with those whose company he's obligated to.
In the coming days, they will find themselves bound by shared goals no longer. Sharing close quarters with certain names will drift beyond possibility, then.
It behoves him, as the swamp's highest envoy, to at least make a passing attempt at forming relations; and there is one in his midst whose reputation, and future, is most salient to that purpose.
"Orangeblossom, g'devening to you." By chance and chance alone, he'd caught Blazestar's heir apparent severed from the larger group. The other deputy may have been hunting, on the prowl for nesting materials or something or other. Whatever her prior directive was, though, she can now consider it forfeit. "Are you doing alright?" he asks, pitch mellow and head tilted somewhat. One must wonder if the whole ordeal with Cherrypaw has left a lasting influence on her bearing. Amber eyes sift through her ginger-dappled form for indications of irritation before he continues. "Haven't had a chance to hold a good conversation with you. Seems we've been both tending to our own clans... but, would you- care for one?"
Fuck. He always scuffs it up right at the end.
// @orangeblossom