on the wounded astral body ↷ [ hunting attempt ]

[smogstar]

Hobbled pawsteps rove sorely through the territory's outer recesses—his gait is stiff, and each footfall serves to sustain the grimace that has become a fixture of his features since the WindClan attack. The gnarled undergrowth catches at his claws as he goes, and coupled with his pre-existent discomfort, maintaining even a modicum of stealth comes as a testing challenge for the smoky tom. Resentment - towards the moor menace, towards the pitiless cosmic forces at play, towards himself - gnaws at every fabric of his being. He cannot defend his home effectively, nor his family, and now, his capacity to keep his clan fed has been severely compromised. Quite the valuable cog in the machine ol' Smogmaw has come to be.

Guided by the faint scent track of a swamp critter, the deputy follows his snout. His sense of smell is just about his only ally in this condition. Weaving between reeds with meticulous constraint, he grinds to a halt when a movement just off yonder falls in line with his trail.

Brows crease, eyes draw taut, and the tabby launches into a headlong sprint. Vision fixed solely on his mark, the ground beneath him becomes a blur as he encroaches fast on his purpose. The fruits of his gruelling labour, nigh in reach of picking. It is lamentable, then, that one of his hind limbs plunge into a deep cleft of thick mud. Momentum emerges as a formidable foe, for the sudden stoppage in movement slams his chin into the soil below. "AHHHH, FUUUUHCK!" he cries through shuddered eyes and grit teeth, which is a fairly reasonable (and, it should be mentioned, tame) response for someone in Smogmaw's current state.

Outpaced by a toad. Imagine that.​

 

[Starlingheart]

What little herbs Starlingheart si able to find, for now, would have to come from close to their temporary home. She tries not to let the thunderpath bother her, tries not to allow memories filled with grief consume her, so that is why she is out right now. Of course, tagging along with a patrol under the guise that she is simply looking for hersb to try and build up a stock in their for-now home. But really, she had plenty of reason to not want to linger in the tunnel.

"Keep-keep a lookout for- for marigold and- and horsetail" she tells her newly named apprentice who she had instructed to stay by her side. "If you- you don't know what they look like t-te-tell me and- and I'll do- d-do my best to uh de-de-descriiiibe it to you" infection was something that she knew better than to leave to chance. They needed plenty of herbs to treat the wounds her clan had accumulated, otherwise they would be digging burial places and that is not something she wished to do.

She becomes distracted by her task by a crashing noise and a loud shout. Alarmed, she spins on her heels in order to look at the source and is confronted by the sight of a toad darting away from a very very frustrated Smogmaw. Other cats would laugh, but Starlingheart frowns. For a moment, she is terrified of the noise attracting the bears and she freezes in fear, shadowed ears straining, expecting to hear a roar and a loud crash but it doesn't come. After a few moments with nothing else she lets out the breath she had been holding. They were safe, for now.

Her attention turns to the deputy, now worried he had sustained an injury and so she draws closer to do a visual inspection. She is sure if she asks she would be met with venom so she saves it. He looked to be fine when she drew closer, anyways. "Th-there will be other t-t-toads it is okay" she admonishes.

// @Magpiepaw
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[hitch]

Rosemire hasn't had the opportunity for a deep-clean of his pelt since the unceremonious arrival of their burly interlopers. Apparently, ShadowClan's scent markers don't mean very much to bears— who would've thought. So he's in various states of wet and dried mud, and at this point he thinks he's too scared to even begin licking away the thick clumps solidifying in pale fur. He needs the camouflage, anyway; he doesn't know what bears see, but he imagines that they're perfectly capable of spotting his ghostly-white backside, as many other marsh critters seem to be.

The prey he's managed to catch isn't very impressive. He's being generous when he calls it a frog— he thinks the others must have ostracized it, on account of the extra set of legs much smaller than the others. Is it even safe to eat?

A familiar voice curses loudly enough to wake the likely-deceased parents of this frog. Like Starlingheart, he expects a large creature to barrel over, and lowers himself as though he might be less appetizing if he's smaller. Once he's reasonably certain they won't be eaten, the mud-pelted tom slowly pads over to the medicine cat and her apprentice, staring at Smogmaw. He drops the deformed frog. "If it'd make you feel better, I can throw this one and you can catch it and say it's yours."

I N F O R M A T I O N
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[✧ Siltcloud.]

THERE'S A HOLE IN MY SOUL ( I CAN'T FILL IT )
siltcloud | 13 months | female | she/her | physically medium | mentally hard | attack in bold #905d5d

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Smogmaws attempt is rather pathetic, and siltclouds gaze gleams coldly beneath her lashes, though it never leaves the soft marshland ground. She wants to laugh, wants to smirk - wants to call him out on it the way her clanmates had done to her before, back when she was till learning, when she'd been trying so hard to earn their approval. But she doesn't, only lets a gleam of sharply mocking amusement flicker in her eyes as she moves fluidly forwards - snatching up a newt that had been startled in the commotion, teeth sinking into smooth and slimy flesh easily. Rosemire however has no qualms about rubbing it into the deputy's face - and this time she can't hide the quiet laugh she makes, muffled though it is by her prey.
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