- Oct 22, 2022
- 714
- 261
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The sky's throwing a conniption fit. Rainwater comes down in sideways sheets, pounding the ground so hard it bounces right back up and splatters underbellies. Groaning and bending against the wind are the wetlands' lanky pines, voicing their grievances as loud as they please, thank you, to any cat within earshot who cares to listen. Lightning has yet to turn the sky into a glowing nest, nor has thunder cracked a mighty warning over the land. For the moment, the storm is just having a good cry. But the storm is young. It will learn. It will mature. It will bellow its anguish with all it has, and then it will move on.
Smogmaw - in his day - has gleaned a great deal of insight on the storms that frequent the marsh. Forecasting when they'll pick up or taper off is like a second skin to the tom, or so he would boast if his clanmates possessed the scantest amount of appreciation for one's meteorological acumen. In a storm such as this, a cat's best bet is to simply wait it out. Shame that ShadowClan's camp is quite literally a hole in the ground, ill-equipped to handle the runoff, just waiting to be flooded.
Damp earth sheathes his paws, and damp fur weighs him down, as Smogmaw stands beneath Clanrock's looming stature with his eyes lifted overhead. He's squinting, barely able to make out the clouds' turbulent forms through the downpour. At this moment though, it isn't animals or quaint shapes he's searching for. "Five... four... three... two... one..." It doesn't happen, and his muzzle twitches in disapproval. But he's trying it again in short order. "Five... four... three... two... one..." He is denied for a second time, and his muzzle wrinkles further.
Smogmaw - in his day - has gleaned a great deal of insight on the storms that frequent the marsh. Forecasting when they'll pick up or taper off is like a second skin to the tom, or so he would boast if his clanmates possessed the scantest amount of appreciation for one's meteorological acumen. In a storm such as this, a cat's best bet is to simply wait it out. Shame that ShadowClan's camp is quite literally a hole in the ground, ill-equipped to handle the runoff, just waiting to be flooded.
Damp earth sheathes his paws, and damp fur weighs him down, as Smogmaw stands beneath Clanrock's looming stature with his eyes lifted overhead. He's squinting, barely able to make out the clouds' turbulent forms through the downpour. At this moment though, it isn't animals or quaint shapes he's searching for. "Five... four... three... two... one..." It doesn't happen, and his muzzle twitches in disapproval. But he's trying it again in short order. "Five... four... three... two... one..." He is denied for a second time, and his muzzle wrinkles further.