† He's been well enough to get up and do something for some time now. Only now, does he make any attempt to.
Rainshade would have scolded him for what he's done. Smogmaw has scolded him. He would scold himself. Injury is an excuse. He knows it– he's known since he was four moons old. It made himself a little lighter, to say it was on Starlinghearts orders, even if Smogmaw still moved around in worse shape than he had. He just feels guilty now, and confused, on top of it. He doesn't know what to make of it– what to make of anything. He just knows he ought to do something.
He thought that he had been. He'd invested faith in none. She had hunted day and night, she'd tried, but somehow it was getting her nowhere. Somehow, it was like she hasn't been doing much of anything at all. The thought makes her stomach churn. Trust yourself, the hyperbolically bored and gruff caricature of Smogmaw's voice worms in her mind like a fly buzzing amidst Carrionplace trash. That's what she's been doing all these moons.
Hadn't she?
He always creeps what he suspects is too far away from the hunting patrol, he'd rather keep his failures to himself– that was the motivation, even though he knew he's failed miserably. They saw the catch, or lack thereof when he returns to camp, tail as low as it always hung. But no one has called him back yet to scold him– not for that, anyways, so takes advantage of the temporary respite. He'd like to, anyways.
The sun is setting, and there are rustles within the long shadows cast onto the marshy ground. A toad lounges nearby by the water. Between it and Sharppaw is a clump of marshy grass,
and more greenish water at her very paws. Trust yourself. How, though? Sharppaw would look upon himself in the reflection of the water. He looks way too stressed, brows pinched tight, a frown heavy on his maw. His eyes bulge like a kit about to leave the nursery for the first time. Stars. What should he do, tell himself you'll do great?
The very thought makes him embarrassed. Clamping down on his lips as if to prevent that bleak future from becoming real, he sets his sights on the stupid, ugly toad instead. Her paws tread onto water, as does her awkwardly curving tail. She winces– not truly feeling the lap of bog water against deadened nerves, but rather the ripple of water against her. He thinks his heart pounds harder than it really should in this situation.
His steps remain light when he walks across the grass like he's always known. As a kit. With Rainshade, with Smogmaw. That was something easy, the first step to a successful hunt.
And the brush crackles beneath a tail he cannot feel.
He sees no reaction, not yet, but it's coming. He feels it in his mind, in his blood. His chest feels tight 'cause he's forgotten to breathe and his teeth clench, the ugly picture somehow growing uglier. She swears she can see it, the twitch of a leg; something. Panicked, Sharppaw bursts from the reeds, claws outstretched. It only takes a single bound for the thing to put ridiculous distance between the two of them. Jaws part in a rare burst of madness, " You–! You stupid thing–! "
She feels like an imperceivable weight snags her and drags her down to the earth. Every part of him is letting him down, and he doesn't understand why.
All that melodrama to say, he is sopping in the mud with nothing to show for it. The threat of swallowing mouthfuls of unimaginable filth is what keeps him from screaming. Claws scrabble at his own head for second, as if he might claw his own ears off. He abruptly goes limp, realizing that now, he has surely drawn attention to himself. He is too afraid to even look back. At the very least, he claws himself to his muddied feet.
He apologizes preemptively as pawsteps draw close; a muttered " Sorry, " from his lips. He looks at himself in the water with disdain.
Rainshade would have scolded him for what he's done. Smogmaw has scolded him. He would scold himself. Injury is an excuse. He knows it– he's known since he was four moons old. It made himself a little lighter, to say it was on Starlinghearts orders, even if Smogmaw still moved around in worse shape than he had. He just feels guilty now, and confused, on top of it. He doesn't know what to make of it– what to make of anything. He just knows he ought to do something.
He thought that he had been. He'd invested faith in none. She had hunted day and night, she'd tried, but somehow it was getting her nowhere. Somehow, it was like she hasn't been doing much of anything at all. The thought makes her stomach churn. Trust yourself, the hyperbolically bored and gruff caricature of Smogmaw's voice worms in her mind like a fly buzzing amidst Carrionplace trash. That's what she's been doing all these moons.
Hadn't she?
He always creeps what he suspects is too far away from the hunting patrol, he'd rather keep his failures to himself– that was the motivation, even though he knew he's failed miserably. They saw the catch, or lack thereof when he returns to camp, tail as low as it always hung. But no one has called him back yet to scold him– not for that, anyways, so takes advantage of the temporary respite. He'd like to, anyways.
The sun is setting, and there are rustles within the long shadows cast onto the marshy ground. A toad lounges nearby by the water. Between it and Sharppaw is a clump of marshy grass,
and more greenish water at her very paws. Trust yourself. How, though? Sharppaw would look upon himself in the reflection of the water. He looks way too stressed, brows pinched tight, a frown heavy on his maw. His eyes bulge like a kit about to leave the nursery for the first time. Stars. What should he do, tell himself you'll do great?
The very thought makes him embarrassed. Clamping down on his lips as if to prevent that bleak future from becoming real, he sets his sights on the stupid, ugly toad instead. Her paws tread onto water, as does her awkwardly curving tail. She winces– not truly feeling the lap of bog water against deadened nerves, but rather the ripple of water against her. He thinks his heart pounds harder than it really should in this situation.
His steps remain light when he walks across the grass like he's always known. As a kit. With Rainshade, with Smogmaw. That was something easy, the first step to a successful hunt.
And the brush crackles beneath a tail he cannot feel.
He sees no reaction, not yet, but it's coming. He feels it in his mind, in his blood. His chest feels tight 'cause he's forgotten to breathe and his teeth clench, the ugly picture somehow growing uglier. She swears she can see it, the twitch of a leg; something. Panicked, Sharppaw bursts from the reeds, claws outstretched. It only takes a single bound for the thing to put ridiculous distance between the two of them. Jaws part in a rare burst of madness, " You–! You stupid thing–! "
She feels like an imperceivable weight snags her and drags her down to the earth. Every part of him is letting him down, and he doesn't understand why.
All that melodrama to say, he is sopping in the mud with nothing to show for it. The threat of swallowing mouthfuls of unimaginable filth is what keeps him from screaming. Claws scrabble at his own head for second, as if he might claw his own ears off. He abruptly goes limp, realizing that now, he has surely drawn attention to himself. He is too afraid to even look back. At the very least, he claws himself to his muddied feet.
He apologizes preemptively as pawsteps draw close; a muttered " Sorry, " from his lips. He looks at himself in the water with disdain.
