- Oct 22, 2022
- 714
- 261
- 63
Carrionplace rankles like an unattended sore, as per usual. Each and every time his dark-dappled limbs cross into its objectionable proximity, the deputy idly toys with the notion of a swamp without the twoleg dump. How their territory might appear were it somehow scrubbed free of its foul reek— cleansed. Perhaps an image of lush, springy earth inundated with pines that grow tall and proud, cones flourishing amongst moss-dense roots. No refuse, no pungent crowfood waste, no chain-woven fencing or disease-laden rats. The tom seldom indulges in such idealism. Yet, a world where twoleg filth cannot taint, where the territory stretches wider and unburdened, seems little more than a pretty thought. Plus, the mind gravitates towards more pleasant realms as the body fights nausea.
"Alright," Smogmaw utters, approaching the warrior-sized aperture along the metal mesh barrier. His noggin delves into the gap and hoists it further apart. "In you go. Find sum'n worth taking home, and don't touch nothing sharp." Paws move him sidelong, just a smidge, to make room for his patrolmates' entrance; Ashenpaw, Hawkstride, Maggotfur, Thistlesight, Mourningbloom, and Garlicpaw. The towering fences here enclose an expansive parcel ripe for plunder, teeming to its edges with a cornucopia of delicacies and oddities. Food. Trinkets. Clues.
Nostrils seal off all access to external odours as the final patolmate plunges into Carrionplace's bowel. He elects to spare them a run-down when he breaches the stink; they all know what they're here for, as this shouldn't be anyone's first tour. Instead, Smogmaw studies each warrior and apprentice through dilated pupils, delivering a nod, and gestures forwards— into the fray.
His own apprentice is neither expected to accompany him or wander off on his lonesome. Were Ashenpaw nearby, though, he'd certainly serve as the first to hear his father's stupefied exclamation, which sounded immediately once his claws tore through a black, shimmering bag. "Oh, ew, what the-?!" It'd been filled to a greater extent than he initially surmised. It'd been filled to a greater extent than he initially surmised. An avalanche of warm liquid and soggy solids, squashing along the tom's legs and splattering across the ground, assaults his senses in an onslaught of reek and texture alike. His limbs lurch backwards a single pounce, away from the putrid spill, though Smogmaw senses his lower body is now filthy.
The only thing keeping him from retching is the shock of it. "Ack, yuck- what're those? Parasites?" In the newly-created puddle dwell these off-white wriggly entities, looking as though they'd just left a poor creature's innards. Worms, but not worms. Worms wiggle around, these little critters appear dead-still and too thin, a sickly grey-beige, lacking segmentation. Smogmaw isn't certain, and loath though he may, he bends low towards one with nose extended. Sniff, and immediately recoil. It must be twoleg food.
// assaulted by discarded cup noodles
// @ASHENPAW @Hawkstride @Maggotfur. @THISTLESIGHT @Mourningbloom @Garlicpaw
"Alright," Smogmaw utters, approaching the warrior-sized aperture along the metal mesh barrier. His noggin delves into the gap and hoists it further apart. "In you go. Find sum'n worth taking home, and don't touch nothing sharp." Paws move him sidelong, just a smidge, to make room for his patrolmates' entrance; Ashenpaw, Hawkstride, Maggotfur, Thistlesight, Mourningbloom, and Garlicpaw. The towering fences here enclose an expansive parcel ripe for plunder, teeming to its edges with a cornucopia of delicacies and oddities. Food. Trinkets. Clues.
Nostrils seal off all access to external odours as the final patolmate plunges into Carrionplace's bowel. He elects to spare them a run-down when he breaches the stink; they all know what they're here for, as this shouldn't be anyone's first tour. Instead, Smogmaw studies each warrior and apprentice through dilated pupils, delivering a nod, and gestures forwards— into the fray.
His own apprentice is neither expected to accompany him or wander off on his lonesome. Were Ashenpaw nearby, though, he'd certainly serve as the first to hear his father's stupefied exclamation, which sounded immediately once his claws tore through a black, shimmering bag. "Oh, ew, what the-?!" It'd been filled to a greater extent than he initially surmised. It'd been filled to a greater extent than he initially surmised. An avalanche of warm liquid and soggy solids, squashing along the tom's legs and splattering across the ground, assaults his senses in an onslaught of reek and texture alike. His limbs lurch backwards a single pounce, away from the putrid spill, though Smogmaw senses his lower body is now filthy.
The only thing keeping him from retching is the shock of it. "Ack, yuck- what're those? Parasites?" In the newly-created puddle dwell these off-white wriggly entities, looking as though they'd just left a poor creature's innards. Worms, but not worms. Worms wiggle around, these little critters appear dead-still and too thin, a sickly grey-beige, lacking segmentation. Smogmaw isn't certain, and loath though he may, he bends low towards one with nose extended. Sniff, and immediately recoil. It must be twoleg food.
// assaulted by discarded cup noodles
// @ASHENPAW @Hawkstride @Maggotfur. @THISTLESIGHT @Mourningbloom @Garlicpaw
