Having fathered four of his own, Smogmaw can now say with utmost certainty that kits are among the most fascinating of creatures. They absorb every droplet of understanding and knowledge presented to them, like a mossball tumbling across dew-touched grass. Environmental influences mingle with their inherent nature to wholly determine their growth, their development, and the entirety of their being.
Whilst not one of his offspring share a physical semblance with the dark-smirched deputy, they each carry profound manifestations of his lineage in the realm of their mannerisms. In this sense, he feels it is Valeriankit who holds the strongest likeness to him, even if she was a near-picture-perfect reflection of her mother. Little Valeriankit. The calm, cool, and collected runt of an otherwise wild bunch. Prone to people-watching, one could oft find her on the outskirts of play as she conducted her casual surveillance. Was it tedium or genuine curiosity that guided her along? The answer eluded him. Smogmaw found himself asking the same question when he similarily kept tabs on his clanmates.
In his peripheral, he would glimpse a multitude of cats closing in on his daughter. Brief excerpts from their exchange reach his ears, one of them being a passing remark on Halfshade's beauty. He lets out a low, singular chuckle, and following a tail-flick and a brief stretch, Smogmaw moseys in the nursery's direction.
"You'll grow up to be just as pretty, Valeriankit," the tom says on his approach, settling a fair stretch away from Wheatpaw's side, while keeping a weathered eye on Granitepelt's spawn. "Maybe... you'll grow up to be double as pretty. You've got my rugged charm going for you too, you know." The utter lifelessness in his gaze betrays his attempt at humour, which hangs in the air quite awkwardly as his focus shifts towards the others in his vicinity. "If ShadowClan's full of weird cats," he then says, "then none of 'em are nearby. All of us here in this li'l group, we're rather normal, I'd say."
