- Oct 22, 2022
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Clanmates of pious minds put ample stock in StarClan's abilities to control, influence, manipulate, and so on, and so forth. Cynics of Smogmaw's sort see little cause to ascribe divine will to the mundane, but by what standard can he assess and deny their spiritual beliefs? Who is Smogmaw to dictate the stars' credibility in others' eyes? There is no standard, and thusly, there is no debate to be had.
Evidence has shown itself time and time again that StarClan holds some sway over mortal affairs (lightning strikes during gatherings and such), and the cynic's duty, when faced with this evidence, is not to argue whether or not it is real, but rather, why he does not believe in it.
Smogmaw, for the sake of consistency and efficiency, has settled on this: the stars control, though they do not create. Here is why. No all-seeing omniscient force could possibly be cruel enough to permit slush to exist. Slush is an evil and contradictory paradox.
Snow is supposed to melt into water. This is fact. So why is it that when the two mix together in a puddle, they create something worse? Snow and water, when bound together, become slush - neither a solid nor a liquid, but a stubborn half-half creation that refuses to commit.
Worst part is, sometimes slush masquerades as solid ice. Sometimes, it masquerades as solid ice in the dead-centre of ShadowClan's camp—and sometimes, cynics of Smogmaw's sort fling themselves belly-first into it.
It'd been a ploy to entertain nearby apprentices, as well as an attempt at the record for longest ice-slide in ShadowClan's history. Smogmaw, to his credit, won the former. Slushy globules by the dozens splatter across the vicinity as the deputy plunges his entire mass into the treacherous mess. Cold seizes the tom's sodden form instantly. His pelt sinks into its icy prison. His paws fail to locate a grip along the mucky floor, and so he thrashes about like a minnow washed ashore.
"S-s-so c-c-cold, that's-s-s-s s-s-so c-cold," Smogmaw hisses between violent chitters and shivers when he emerges at long last. His pelt shudders beneath icy goo, and every pawstep splats atrociously upon contact with solid ground. "Th-thought th-that was ice. F-f-f-f-f-f-f-fox-dung." Eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, nose pinched in an uncomfortable pout; it's a look fitting for cynics like him.
Evidence has shown itself time and time again that StarClan holds some sway over mortal affairs (lightning strikes during gatherings and such), and the cynic's duty, when faced with this evidence, is not to argue whether or not it is real, but rather, why he does not believe in it.
Smogmaw, for the sake of consistency and efficiency, has settled on this: the stars control, though they do not create. Here is why. No all-seeing omniscient force could possibly be cruel enough to permit slush to exist. Slush is an evil and contradictory paradox.
Snow is supposed to melt into water. This is fact. So why is it that when the two mix together in a puddle, they create something worse? Snow and water, when bound together, become slush - neither a solid nor a liquid, but a stubborn half-half creation that refuses to commit.
Worst part is, sometimes slush masquerades as solid ice. Sometimes, it masquerades as solid ice in the dead-centre of ShadowClan's camp—and sometimes, cynics of Smogmaw's sort fling themselves belly-first into it.
It'd been a ploy to entertain nearby apprentices, as well as an attempt at the record for longest ice-slide in ShadowClan's history. Smogmaw, to his credit, won the former. Slushy globules by the dozens splatter across the vicinity as the deputy plunges his entire mass into the treacherous mess. Cold seizes the tom's sodden form instantly. His pelt sinks into its icy prison. His paws fail to locate a grip along the mucky floor, and so he thrashes about like a minnow washed ashore.
"S-s-so c-c-cold, that's-s-s-s s-s-so c-cold," Smogmaw hisses between violent chitters and shivers when he emerges at long last. His pelt shudders beneath icy goo, and every pawstep splats atrociously upon contact with solid ground. "Th-thought th-that was ice. F-f-f-f-f-f-f-fox-dung." Eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, nose pinched in an uncomfortable pout; it's a look fitting for cynics like him.
