backwritten ONE GOOD PIECE OF ME ↷ [ SCALEJAW ]

[smogstar]

The Smogmaw of the before-days existed as an independent entity, far removed from what he's since evolved into.

Halfshade, fatherhood, deputyship. All paradigm shifts in their own right, each having remodelled his beliefs and mode of operation in equal measure. Oftentimes, these served as shifts for the better. In courting the she-cat who'd soon become the love of his life, the tom developed a keen sense for appealing to other's emotions. Fatherhood, in parallel, brought with it an intrinsic drive to protect, to care. Both were assets of a true leader, in his eyes, and as he sits in wait for his inevitable ascension, the tom allows himself a moment to take stock. To reflect. For his beloved lies sickened in Starlingheart's cave, and the journey to save her begins in the coming evening—he's certain that another paradigm shift was already in the making.

Pawsteps of a wistful sort move him through the swamp territory. He's on his lonesome (rather, he's only sure of it), and as such, Smogmaw can afford to set his guard aside. He's fond of the nature outside of camp. It provides the vaguest echo of ease to his restless mind, and always has.

In the before-days, when he merely dreamed of sinking his claws in ShadowClan's machinations, it was out here where he indulged himself. The constants in his life were sparse, but he has forever aspired to gain more than what he already held, and yet stands as his focal ambition. Only back then it hadn't been ideas of power or influence; it had simply been possessions. Knickknacks. Odds, ends. Stuff that he owned, and others didn't, which thereby made him superior. More than all else, though, it'd been mushrooms.

He draws to a standstill at the base of a particular tree, out in the territory's furthest reaches. Gnarled roots threaded the loam-soil for fox-lengths on end, the gaps between each large enough to comfortably host an adult cat. Brows clenched and eyes fixed to the ground, the tom circles around the trunk until arriving at an eccentric arrangement in the roots. His tail flicks methodically in the air. Then, he starts to dig.

A meagre dirt pile rests at his hind ankles by the time the treasure is revealed. Mushrooms - puffballs and toadstools alike - dot the pit he's created, set in vivid clusters against the earth's drab backdrop. Most are dried-out, or had been gnawed at by decomposition, and yet their value waned not. They'd risen in worth, if anything. Relics of a bygone age, memories in physical form not even his mate has seen. He can imagine the pretty protests that'd spill from her mouth, had she been in better health, standing alongside him at this very moment. The mental image brings a sullen smile to his jaws. ​

 

[scalejaw]

—————————————————【 she/her | menacing 】————————————————

【◈】 This feels like some kind of fairytale memory. Her vision is half-lidded as she stalks through the shadows of the territory, the scent of prey on her tongue. A new thing- new to the area, at least, not to her- a new scent entangled with it. The prey was long gone, if that scent was of any warning. She straightened up, padding after the trail before coming across the tree. This isn't the first time she's been here, a memory ushered in quietly.

Dirt piles at his paws, the gray fur rustled in the slight breeze. The prized pile of mushrooms settled in between his digits, vision directed upon them quite heavily. A long breath left her, perhaps announcing her- perhaps her scent or something else gave it away. "Having second thoughts about going? Your mushrooms will forget you." Scalejaw stated. If he didn't know before, he knew now. She padded closer, expertly avoiding the roots that rose from the earth and were gnarled by weather.

Scalejaw didn't sit here- the earth was cool and damp, and she'd rather not have that on her hind right now. Ears twitched and pushed forward, keeping senses locked on the area around them. Ever-wary of lurking predators she was. Even with this paranoia settled deep in her bones, coal-orange eyes lifted, following the trunk of the tree to it's great, twisted limbs high above.

"yuh"

[penned by dallas].

​

 

[smogstar]

Ice takes hold of his bloodstream, and the tom's limbs freeze up when a voice emerges in his shadow. A lone instance of movement, a swift ear-flick, is all that betrays his perfect imitation of a statue.

"I'm brooding, Scalejaw. Broo-ding."

His words are slow, and long-drawn in pronunciation. Spoken not in reluctance, but rather a deliberate choice in pace. Even slower are his efforts to meet the warrior's gaze, though his stony expression would inevitably latch onto her own, amber meeting amber in a soft deadlock. Haste comes not as a necessity when dealing with old allies; and it's for that same reason Smogmaw supposes he can forgive her for catching him with his guard lowered. "No second thoughts," he goes on to elaborate, posture and overall attitude relaxing. "Just brooding ones. It helps to brood, sometimes—you ought'a try it yourself, knock yourself down a peg."

A cursory glance back to the fungi pile, then back to his clanmate. It defies his understanding of how the world is meant to be, but some things, and some people, utterly refuse to change. He recognises the current Scalejaw as the same she-cat from the before-days. Her penchant for sticking her nose in others' affairs remains unchanged, identical to how it'd been in colonial times, and she continues to use her outgoing nature to justify it. It doesn't bother him to the same extent as it had before. He almost finds it endearing, these days.

The beginnings of a smirk become sown into his jaws. "It'll be good to leave here for a while," he muses, "it'll give some of the sensitive ones the breathing space. Wouldn't wager that most folks outside'a my kin'll miss me—mushrooms included."

Roosterstrut. Sabletuft. Betonyfrost. For a deputy, he's hiding an impressive amount of strained relations under his pelt. ​

 

[scalejaw]

—————————————————【 she/her | menacing 】————————————————

【◈】 A snort almost left her. The fact that she had surprised him was honestly laughable, but she didn't question it. Not here or later. And his answer came, but it was far from satisfactory. And he moved like some cryptic frog, one that hadn't a fear in it's body. Then again, they were allies- friends, even, though anything with Smogmaw was hard to consider.

She didn't know how Halfshade did it, really.

"I think I'll rest when I'm dead, Smogmaw." She responded, though despite the gravity of her words, her voice was light- amused, even. "That includes this 'brooding' you're talking about." She settled into a more comfortable standing position- flank against a smaller tree, one still strong enough to support her weight. Far more preferrable to the wet undergrowth here. Really, it was a wonder that his mushrooms hadn't rotted in this cursed earth.

Eyes shifted over him as he spoke. "Don't tell me you're enjoying the thought of a journey." She lifted her eyebrows in mock disbelief- it was no lie that cats in camp had a distaste for leadership, but that was beyond the point. "Well, it's a good thing I'm not 'most folk', hm? Listen." She paused briefly, pushing back off of the tree she had been leaning on. "Don't be gone too long. I'm not sure it's a good idea, with your family here. Leaving them and all." Scalejaw said, orange eyes finding his and holding firm contact.

"yuh"

[penned by dallas].

​

 

[smogstar]

Coyness defaults to brittle neutrality—Scalejaw readjusts her bearing, and he follows in her suit, smirk and tilted brows smoothed over. With the initial niceties now behind them, the groundworks were laid for the pushing of agendas and underlying motives. Muscles remained taut as he kept his figure still, seemingly suspended in time; save for his head, which veered owl-like in a deliberate manner towards the other warrior. He is well prepared, he thinks, for whatever she may sling his way. For no one seeks him out on cordial premises. There is always a cause.

A twitch in his muzzle receives the first of her assertions. His basis for going on this campaign is rather open-and-shut, as far as reasons go. Chilledstar insisted upon the few hardy and capable ShadowClan cats to do their due duty for the clan, and Smogmaw's servitude was avowed many seasons before this one. It is a matter of principle, and also adhering to what's expected from him. That his kin have started developing Yellowcough symptoms made the decision to ensure their safety all the more easier.

"This isn't some jolly jaunt into lands unknown, you know," he drawls out, not entirely insincere. "I just... I don't trust the other clans to let us get our fair share of lungwort, and I need to make sure we all leave this plague alive." A sigh follows, and his eyes flick longingly in camp's trajectory. A worse course of action would be lingering outside Starlingheart's cave every passing day, awaiting the farcical moment where his mate and son miraculously emerge.

Soggy terrain squelches beneath a paw as he mirrors the other's step closer by a second's delay. He hadn't overlooked the implication she'd given, however passing it may have been. Like grease on oily water, the notion of Scalejaw missing him sits ugly and persistent.

Preceding his words is a swift flick of the tail and an accompanying yawn. "You should place your worries elsewhere, friend," implores the deputy. "I trust you'll keep an eye on my young ones 'til Halfshade's all healed up. And, just so you know, there are better names worth moping over."

For Smogmaw to not relish in another being so absorbed with him is nothing short of peculiar. But, the dynamics have changed, and in turn have his priorities. ​