ROOKS ↷ [ ICICLEFANG ]

[smogstar]

Fate begrudgingly granted them reprieve. Lungwort—salvation in its floral form. An unbroken stretch of dragging themselves through an obscene amount of trials, now culminating in the ultimate climax. Lungwort! Never has he mustered such enthusiasm for a mere blossom, and thank the stars for Magpiepaw's presence amongst them. Had the off-kilter apprentice not been around to identify their bounty, Smogmaw would have surely used the bloom to cover up his own dirt.

The weight in his chest had yet to fully lift. In knowing that home, and his kin, lay an entire journey away, there's no avoiding the slough of heartache—or, rather, Smogmaw's decadent version thereof. He walked a little lighter having checked lungwort off the list, and he managed to get an iota of sleep in after returning to camp. The grander scheme of things, however, paid scant attention to the tom's current condition. Halfshade, Swanpaw, and anyone else who might've fallen prey to yellowcough in his absence, it was them for whom fate held its ground. And while he's dead set on being the determinant factor in their well-being, Smogmaw could not afford to squander any moment given to him.

Time is now his sole ally and worst enemy. Though, tonight comes as a ceasefire, so to speak.

He hasn't seen such high spirits pervading their makeshift camp since the voyage's initial days, and he'd rather not sully it with the weight of his worries. Everybody revels in the discovery, smiles and merry-making all around, turning to it as a distraction from what eventually lays ahead. And it's a distraction well-earned.

Roaming along the camp's perimetre, the deputy faces a dilemma in choosing how he would indulge in the distractions himself. He certainly deserves it, he feels. Gallivanting through a narrow-gauged cave for days on end wasn't exactly easy on the soul. But, how? If he interacts with the masses, he risks losing himself to conversation and exposing a vulnerability or two. Already, he's made the mistake of doing so with the heartfelt 'final confession' drivel in the caves, and it isn't an experience he's eager to repeat.

Speaking about the caves.

A tortoiseshell pelt, almost Flickerfire-like in bearing, ensnares his focus as he walks by. Mainly because the pelt's wearer, that RiverClan she-cat who'd gotten stranded alongside him, was equally deficient of conversation. His tail flicks, denoting a decision made. One-on-one discussions tickled his fancy far more than those in group settings.

"Hullo," he hums in an automatic fashion, doing so the moment he came a respectable distance within her scope. "How're you holding up, Iciclefang? I don't suppose you miss the caves s'much as Fernpaw does." She's regarded with a staunch neutrality, and while he held no understanding of how Fernpaw felt about the caves, he believed invoking a clanmate's name may elicit a friendly reaction.

A smile is coaxed upon his lips, and, silently, the older tom ponders his goals for this interaction. ​

 

[iciclefang]

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XXXXXSpirits are still high after the lungwort discovery; Iciclefang’s heart is full, even if her mouth is still fuzzy from plucking and carrying stalks to her Clan’s respective pile. The tortoiseshell is relaxing now, giving her short, sleek fur a thorough grooming and hoping to rid her tongue of residual cottonfeel. ShadowClan’s deputy—the one who’d led her through the darkness of the cave—walks by, and though she does not anticipate it, he speaks to her, asks her how she’s holding up. Her muscles stiffen beneath her tongue, but she relaxes momentarily. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she respect the heavy-faced tabby for leading her and the others out of the crippling darkness.

XXXXX“Better, now that we’ve found the lungwort,” she answers, matching his neutral tone and expression. One ginger ear flicks. “No, I don’t miss the cave, and if Fernpaw told you that, he’s a bigger fool than I thought he was.” She smirks to take the sting from her words—even if the subject of her insult isn’t present. “Perhaps he misses how close everyone was.”

XXXXXHer smirk dims just a little—she, like Smogmaw, isn’t exactly proud of the confession she’d given beneath the earth. She wonders if they should all forgive themselves; after all, death had been all but certain. “Speaking of…” She tries for a friendlier tone. It half-works. “You must be happy. About the lungwort.” Of course, they are all happy, but it’s an attempt at conversation.

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[smogstar]

Here's a paradox: exchanging pleasantries is unpleasant for Smogmaw. Deeply, unimaginably unpleasant.

Iciclefang's immediate reaction becomes subject to his observance. She merely eyes him at first, allowing the initial words to hang clumsily in the air for a moment or three. It may have been less than that, to be candid—but he feels as though he sticks out like a sore tail. Engaging in smalltalk when his entire demeanour implies disinterest, let alone disdain, likely strikes her as a behavioural anomaly.

She must want him to leave. He half-expects her to shrug his presence off, or at least afford him a quirked brow and a confused gaze. Instead, the younger warrior recompenses his efforts with a reply, and - as quickly as it came - Smogmaw's discomfort withers away. If there were an herbal cure for his sudden bouts of tense self-consciousness, he'd set out for it faster than he had for lungwort. Shoulders loosen, the twitch in his tail tempers out, and his haunches lower to rest on the snow-touched land. In the span of seconds, he'd made a full and thorough recovery.

A weighty sigh takes the residual stress and expels it from his body. Amber eyes lock onto her piercing gaze, and a slow nod takes hold of his head as he processes Iciclefang's remarks. Fernpaw. Yeah, the tom had taken heed of how numb the air was between the two. Perhaps he ought to count his blessings over the relatively harmonious coexistence among his own kids. Should he ever be privy to similar comments from Applepaw's mouth, she'd have to use it to deal with Ferndance's flea problem.

He blinks upon realising the conversation shifted towards his family. Not outright, no, but heavily alluded to. "Very much so," the tom returns, a soft bliss underscoring his response. "I... can't wait to see Halfshade- my mate's face. And my young ones'. It'll be so good to see 'em scampering around the swamp instead'a being holed up in a cave." Cathartic is a sufficient term for describing how he felt. The journeying cats achieved what they set out to accomplish, and all that stands in the way now is homeward travel.

The subtle smile anchors itself in his profile and, in a manner most peculiar, he isn't entirely ashamed of its presence. "Kits and elders are most at risk with the cough," he goes on to say, "or so I've heard. With lungwort, the families in my clan will be safe." He knows next to nothing about medicine, so the specificity of the plant is something he holds near to his heart. "Same goes with RiverClan, I'd imagine," Smogmaw ventures with a mild shrug. He'd landed at an angle he wanted to learn more on, finally figuring out a goal of sorts. "There's prol'ly a couple of families who'll be just as grateful for what you've done." ​

 

[iciclefang]

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XXXXXThough his body screams reluctance, the ShadowClan deputy lowers his belly to the same frosted earth she presses against, and he takes to their conversation easily enough. Iciclefang tilts her head, the name Halfshade conjuring up a queen with a beautiful dappled coat. “I think I’ve seen her at Gatherings. She’s beautiful.” She flicks a tail. “One of your kits is sick, too, right?” She thinks she remembers him saying so, a Swanpaw. She searches her memory bank but comes up short.

XXXXXHis question is prodding, but he has shared a vulnerability with her. She does not think twice to tuck her paws beneath her chest and respond. “My own family, with any luck.” She stares into the frost, a smile twitching about her muzzle. “My father, Mudpelt, and my littermate, Steepsnout. They’ve both had yellowcough for…” She remembers the full moon above Fourtrees. A ripple of unease goes through her body, though she struggles not to reveal it. “A moon now. Stars, how swiftly the raven flies.”

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[smogstar]

Inadvertent head-nods accompany Iciclefang's assessment of his true love. "Just gorgeous, she is," he ruminates gently, though pursing his lips somewhat at the visualised image of her current state. Vivid furs losing their lustre in the medicine den's murk, phlegmy croaks and expulsions having ousted the sultry lilt of her voice. A harrowing image, without a doubt. He will see to it that she is restored to her full health. Her freedom will bloom in the wake of his efforts.

"One of 'em was sick when I'd left," Smogmaw adds on, attending to the second-mentioned remark about his family. "Wouldn't surprise me if more of my young ones've joined Swanpaw since then. Yellowcough spreads like fire in a dry forest, seems like." Considering this possibility for longer than a moment sours his expression exponentially, covering the tom in a sombre pall. Claws unsheathe, then retract. The temporary purchase they'd found put not more than a dent in the steadily-brewing discomfort. What good would their recent discovery be if so many back home were sickened beyond recovery? Disillusion punctures through the levity in the air. "Better be home soon enough to save 'em," he sighs.

When the warrior opposite to him divulges on her own family, Smogmaw slopes his head in sympathy. Contrived sympathy, yet sympathy nonetheless. Ailments haunt her closest relatives in a manner akin to his own. Neither are unique in their woes, a common ground forged between them. "A moon," reverberates his voice, low and steady, but marked by frustration. "And to think we're just halfway done the adventure. It's hard to revel in the little things when there's so much hanging in the balance, and so much left to do."

Silent musings lay siege to him for a passing second, before a sudden breath is drawn from his nose. "Wish the raven flew a little faster. For your sake, 'n mine." ​

 

[iciclefang]

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XXXXX“Wouldn’t surprise me if more of my young ones’ve joined Swanpaw since then,” the ShadowClan deputy says, and Iciclefang inclines her head slightly. “That’s true. But I pray that is not the case.” She thinks of her healthy siblings, of tender-hearted Lilybloom and sweet, timid Darkwhisker, and frowns. Had they, too, succumbed? Her mother? Her new apprentice, hardly out of the nursery? The ever-expanding circle of cats trapped in yellowcough’s widening purgatory causes her to frown. “Seems likely most of our Clans will be sick by the time we return. Every moment we waste, I think about it,” she confesses in a low voice, blue eyes flicking to ivory-tipped paws.

XXXXXHe agrees with her, and his wish—that the raven would fly faster, for both of their sakes—causes her mouth to twitch with a smile. “We’ll get home. StarClan wanted us to find this lungwort, and we did. It would make no sense for us to come home only to for it to be in vain.” She stretches, limbs burning from the exertion worn upon them from this journey. After a few heartbeats, she meets his murky gaze again.

XXXXX“I never properly thanked you for leading us out of the cave,” she mews in a neutral tone. “We’d not be standing here at all, if it weren’t for ShadowClan.” She supposes she ought to find Chalk, too, and thank him for helping her up the mountain incline. Many of the Clans had proven their worth in one way or another—she feels somewhat privileged to have seen it.

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[smogstar]

"Mmhmm..." croaks the older tom. They are alike, the two of them, in their estimations about their homes. Starlingheart's cave had already reeked of death upon his departure. The mind needn't wander far to conceive how worse it'd gotten to smell in the time since. Heavybranch is dead and buried. Halfshade and Swanpaw, to his knowledge, remain consigned to their suffering in that pit. Only the stars and the sorry souls back home know how many have gone to join them.

Iciclefang speaks on the stars' intentions and earns a curt huff. Cynicism is hot on his breath as he sighs, yet Smogmaw bites his lip so as to halt any from spilling over into speech. There is no common ground shared here. It was not the will of StarClan which steered him to lungwort's discovery, but rather his own. He did not act out of accordance to the spirit realm's wishes, but instead his leadership's. If this plague's existence lies beyond the scope of StarClan's influence, he fails to see why its consequences wouldn't be. Doctrine and dogma pluck the eyes from otherwise observant cats.

Aside from his exhalation, the younger molly's input here is unacknowledged.

Only when the topic shifts towards their tenure in the caves, and Smogmaw finds himself on the receiving end of her praise, does his brow unfurrow and tail let slink. "Well..." he begins, a slowly-forming grin denying his desire to keep a cold front. "It isn't like I had much of a choice. Although trying to hunt in that scumhole ate up sweet and valuable time, we all needed to get out of there alive." He pauses for a passing second, grin spanning into smile territory. "Most of us, anyways. Would've had less headaches afterwards, had I left Lightstrike in there."​