- Nov 30, 2022
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- 358
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As SkyClan descends into the hollow, Orangeblossom glances upwards towards a rounded, sallow moon and the fleeting clouds that surround it. The day had gotten away from her, far too fleeting and bringing with it the cruel reminder that she'd been gone for half of leaf-fall. Would it rain tonight? She wonders, tasting the air, suspicions given weight by the chill co-mingling with the Clan scents intertwined amongst Fourtrees. It reminds her of the journey, immediately, of the first awkward nights when their Clan-scents had yet to fade and the cats among their clowder were loathe to trust their peers.
(StarClan knows that even now, she'd pitch a few of them from Highbranch if given the opportunity.)
Not along that number, notably, is a ShadowClanner. Orangeblossom seeks him out now, an easy find of smoke-and-sleet among his similarly bleak Clanmates, but one of two approaching the deputies' place at the paws of their leaders. Briefly, Orangeblossom catches a flash of a black-and-white pelt and her hackles raise instinctively— but that is not Badgermoon, and she never has to worry about meeting him here again. Being gone, she has not had the displeasure of meeting his successor, and she hopes she does not have to. Smogmaw approaching may provide a perfect opportunity to avoid such a date.
She knows her ShadowClan counterpart to be a father, knows his kits are roughly the age of her own— knows he'd mentioned wanting to return as quickly as their pace allowed, to see them again before the horrors of the forest and a yellowcough plague made their mark. Removed from the tension of it by just shy of half a moon Orangeblossom understands why Smogmaw had left with most his Clanmates and refused to remain and help Stormpaw (he had no debt to repay to ThunderClan, something she finds herself envying whenever she thinks about Cherrypaw too long; it hadn't been his daughter to incur such a thing, even accidentally), but at the time Orangeblossom had thought him wholly selfish for the choice. Even their conversation prior to the dogs' ambush, where the molly had thought herself on good terms with the older deputy after having felt she'd forged a certain camaraderie through co-misery, had hung by a spider's dubiously intact thread over her ears.
"Smogmaw." She greets him now, tail held aloft in a friendly manner despite the stony expression set upon her muzzle. If he peers closely, he might catch the telltale twitch of discomfort from the she-cat. "Good to see you. Are your kin well?"
(StarClan knows that even now, she'd pitch a few of them from Highbranch if given the opportunity.)
Not along that number, notably, is a ShadowClanner. Orangeblossom seeks him out now, an easy find of smoke-and-sleet among his similarly bleak Clanmates, but one of two approaching the deputies' place at the paws of their leaders. Briefly, Orangeblossom catches a flash of a black-and-white pelt and her hackles raise instinctively— but that is not Badgermoon, and she never has to worry about meeting him here again. Being gone, she has not had the displeasure of meeting his successor, and she hopes she does not have to. Smogmaw approaching may provide a perfect opportunity to avoid such a date.
She knows her ShadowClan counterpart to be a father, knows his kits are roughly the age of her own— knows he'd mentioned wanting to return as quickly as their pace allowed, to see them again before the horrors of the forest and a yellowcough plague made their mark. Removed from the tension of it by just shy of half a moon Orangeblossom understands why Smogmaw had left with most his Clanmates and refused to remain and help Stormpaw (he had no debt to repay to ThunderClan, something she finds herself envying whenever she thinks about Cherrypaw too long; it hadn't been his daughter to incur such a thing, even accidentally), but at the time Orangeblossom had thought him wholly selfish for the choice. Even their conversation prior to the dogs' ambush, where the molly had thought herself on good terms with the older deputy after having felt she'd forged a certain camaraderie through co-misery, had hung by a spider's dubiously intact thread over her ears.
"Smogmaw." She greets him now, tail held aloft in a friendly manner despite the stony expression set upon her muzzle. If he peers closely, he might catch the telltale twitch of discomfort from the she-cat. "Good to see you. Are your kin well?"
