- Oct 22, 2022
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'It seems Granitepelt must have left with all of your sense, scarce as it was.'
Mocking comments rarely claw their way under the deputy's skin, but those words carve a hollowed trail from ear-tip to haunch. WindClan's medicine cat wagged his tongue with the express intent to sting and, judging by the tautness in the muscle supporting Smogmaw's neck, the barb had found its mark well. Insolent, holier-than-thou moor-pest. Stirring unrest while hiding behind star-sanctioned immunity, it's a spinelessness he finds intolerable, and the tom has carried his seething throughout the days since the gathering.
Granitepelt. Granitepelt. Should've been put to death, not exiled.
Claws scrape against camp's floor, burrowing through dessicated mud and leaflitter. He'd love to just bury the smouldering frustration deep in the ground, leave it forgotten, yet he cannot bore a hole large enough for it to fit. Not in the middle of camp, at least. Smogmaw instead resigns himself to pacing; a rear paw smoothes over the terrain he'd unsettled, and he continues on, looping around to the warriors den.
On his path toward the thorny shrub which conceals the den, his wandering focus happens to fall upon a duo. Flintwish, and his trademark dreariness. A young cat whose whole being can be amounted to the sum-total of tragedy, suffering, and a general misery. It never ceases for poor, poor Flintwish. A brother killed, a sister disappeared, a father who has sullied ShadowClan's reputation and name, a mother defined by exhausting duty. Chance and fate have colluded to utterly fuck over Flintwish. Smogmaw almost sympathises.
Charged by a foul mood and the tumult of recent affairs, Smogmaw trails after Flintwish and maintains a consistent gap until both of them are well away from prying ears. No physical acknowledgement is offered when the warrior takes note of his presence, and when he speaks, his tone bears its expected dullness. "I've a question," he meows simply, "and I'd like an answer." 'Like' is appropriately emphasised; he may as well have said 'expect' instead. "What would you change about your life, as it is? The good forces in this world have turned a blind eye to you. If your new name means anything, I assume you've some idea. So, what would you change?"
It's an inquiry Smogmaw has been eager to pose since Flintwish's naming, and now seems a proper enough time. Half-expecting the other cat to wish the deputy away from him, he waits, paws rooted.
@FLINTWISH
Mocking comments rarely claw their way under the deputy's skin, but those words carve a hollowed trail from ear-tip to haunch. WindClan's medicine cat wagged his tongue with the express intent to sting and, judging by the tautness in the muscle supporting Smogmaw's neck, the barb had found its mark well. Insolent, holier-than-thou moor-pest. Stirring unrest while hiding behind star-sanctioned immunity, it's a spinelessness he finds intolerable, and the tom has carried his seething throughout the days since the gathering.
Granitepelt. Granitepelt. Should've been put to death, not exiled.
Claws scrape against camp's floor, burrowing through dessicated mud and leaflitter. He'd love to just bury the smouldering frustration deep in the ground, leave it forgotten, yet he cannot bore a hole large enough for it to fit. Not in the middle of camp, at least. Smogmaw instead resigns himself to pacing; a rear paw smoothes over the terrain he'd unsettled, and he continues on, looping around to the warriors den.
On his path toward the thorny shrub which conceals the den, his wandering focus happens to fall upon a duo. Flintwish, and his trademark dreariness. A young cat whose whole being can be amounted to the sum-total of tragedy, suffering, and a general misery. It never ceases for poor, poor Flintwish. A brother killed, a sister disappeared, a father who has sullied ShadowClan's reputation and name, a mother defined by exhausting duty. Chance and fate have colluded to utterly fuck over Flintwish. Smogmaw almost sympathises.
Charged by a foul mood and the tumult of recent affairs, Smogmaw trails after Flintwish and maintains a consistent gap until both of them are well away from prying ears. No physical acknowledgement is offered when the warrior takes note of his presence, and when he speaks, his tone bears its expected dullness. "I've a question," he meows simply, "and I'd like an answer." 'Like' is appropriately emphasised; he may as well have said 'expect' instead. "What would you change about your life, as it is? The good forces in this world have turned a blind eye to you. If your new name means anything, I assume you've some idea. So, what would you change?"
It's an inquiry Smogmaw has been eager to pose since Flintwish's naming, and now seems a proper enough time. Half-expecting the other cat to wish the deputy away from him, he waits, paws rooted.
@FLINTWISH
