smogstar
STARVED VULTURE.
- Oct 22, 2022
- 714
- 261
- 63
No excitement, nor apprehension, resonate in his footfalls on this gathering night. It is in a solemn march that he treads forth, steps measured under the yoke of obligation, and ushers his clanmates into the lunar-bathed clearing. He's still heartsore, yet to fully register the void left in Halfshade's wake. Simultaneously have his lofty ambitions been rerouted towards locating his abducted kin. Engulfed in the throes of such loss, not to mention the numbness it entails, the crux for Smogmaw lies in keeping up appearances. To maintain face before comrades and unsavoury individuals alike. The façade must hold; it's the solitary piece he clings to.
Claw-tips pluck velvety undergrowth in time with his gait, the tension in his knuckles betraying his unease. Always were gatherings a psyche-straining experience. Too many eyes, too many scents, clustered together in a space too minuscule, and an atmosphere too fraught with friction. The caverns he'd braved on the journey held higher appeal than this suffocating affair. Pawsteps draw to a halt not so long after his entry, and his scrutiny rests upon the towering mound of stone in the centre. There, at the monolith's base, he shall sit through the procession, and idly paw at the cool earth until the procession has concluded. Appearances, appearances. Will his worry wane when it's his turn to stand at the top?
His dark-striped tail gives an impatient twitch, muscles lining his limbs constricting, ready to spring back into action. A sigh follows, and Smogmaw starts to navigate across the sprawling glade, and he does well to do his damndest in avoiding direct contact. Constricted pupils linger on familiar figures as they pass—some he recognises from the journey, such as the fiery (not in spirit) apprentice communing with Sharpshadow. Others are more fleeting, known only as faces, and Smogmaw should rather it stay that way.
Smogmaw converges on the Great Rock at last, and his haunches were ever eager to taste the forest floor. He shall remain standing for the moment, however, for another beseeches his attention. Huffing softly, the tom looks to Orangeblossom, his counterpart-in-position from SkyClan, and former member of the travelling party. She greets him by name, and his head dips in kind, though not so much as a smile graces his lips. Their rapport is one worth expanding on, since one cannot have too many powerful friends—but, given how behind he was on current inter-clan affairs, he would prove hard-pressed to find a common ground.
Then, in the same breath as her greeting, the flame-dappled molly poses an agitating inquiry. His muzzle twitches instantly and the mouth below it parts, only for no reply to come.
Perhaps he's gotten comfortable with the discretion his clanmates have adopted for the topic. Or, perhaps he'd grown too careless in managing grief, pushing it aside to where it lay out of sight and out of mind. Either way, Orangeblossom has all but uprooted the seams keeping his emotions intact. He wasn't prepared for the question. Not in the slightest.
Smogmaw swallows thickly, and when he blinks, raw distress drapes over his freshly-awoken eyes. It's all catching up to him, and all at once. "My kin..." he breathes, "they're-"
Cutting himself off with a head-shake and a snort, the deputy draws his shoulders together and fixes his gaze squarely between the other's ears. "They're not doing too well. Halfshade had kits, at least." Two sentences in, and he's already lost, unable to regain control, and telling half-truths. He's a cynic, but he prays - desperately - for the molly to not pry any further. If the leaders intend on starting their announcements, stars will them to do so right now, and nip this exchange in the bud before it flourishes into something awful.
// speaking with @orangeblossom, open to more.
Claw-tips pluck velvety undergrowth in time with his gait, the tension in his knuckles betraying his unease. Always were gatherings a psyche-straining experience. Too many eyes, too many scents, clustered together in a space too minuscule, and an atmosphere too fraught with friction. The caverns he'd braved on the journey held higher appeal than this suffocating affair. Pawsteps draw to a halt not so long after his entry, and his scrutiny rests upon the towering mound of stone in the centre. There, at the monolith's base, he shall sit through the procession, and idly paw at the cool earth until the procession has concluded. Appearances, appearances. Will his worry wane when it's his turn to stand at the top?
His dark-striped tail gives an impatient twitch, muscles lining his limbs constricting, ready to spring back into action. A sigh follows, and Smogmaw starts to navigate across the sprawling glade, and he does well to do his damndest in avoiding direct contact. Constricted pupils linger on familiar figures as they pass—some he recognises from the journey, such as the fiery (not in spirit) apprentice communing with Sharpshadow. Others are more fleeting, known only as faces, and Smogmaw should rather it stay that way.
Smogmaw converges on the Great Rock at last, and his haunches were ever eager to taste the forest floor. He shall remain standing for the moment, however, for another beseeches his attention. Huffing softly, the tom looks to Orangeblossom, his counterpart-in-position from SkyClan, and former member of the travelling party. She greets him by name, and his head dips in kind, though not so much as a smile graces his lips. Their rapport is one worth expanding on, since one cannot have too many powerful friends—but, given how behind he was on current inter-clan affairs, he would prove hard-pressed to find a common ground.
Then, in the same breath as her greeting, the flame-dappled molly poses an agitating inquiry. His muzzle twitches instantly and the mouth below it parts, only for no reply to come.
Perhaps he's gotten comfortable with the discretion his clanmates have adopted for the topic. Or, perhaps he'd grown too careless in managing grief, pushing it aside to where it lay out of sight and out of mind. Either way, Orangeblossom has all but uprooted the seams keeping his emotions intact. He wasn't prepared for the question. Not in the slightest.
Smogmaw swallows thickly, and when he blinks, raw distress drapes over his freshly-awoken eyes. It's all catching up to him, and all at once. "My kin..." he breathes, "they're-"
Cutting himself off with a head-shake and a snort, the deputy draws his shoulders together and fixes his gaze squarely between the other's ears. "They're not doing too well. Halfshade had kits, at least." Two sentences in, and he's already lost, unable to regain control, and telling half-truths. He's a cynic, but he prays - desperately - for the molly to not pry any further. If the leaders intend on starting their announcements, stars will them to do so right now, and nip this exchange in the bud before it flourishes into something awful.
// speaking with @orangeblossom, open to more.
