development steady going nowhere + detaching

[smogstar]

// there are themes of dissociation/depersonalisation in this thread

Smogmaw regards himself as an analytical person. Methodical, logical, and coherent. At the end of the day, he simply wishes to gratify his own desires and fulfil his own needs, and doing so within the margin of the clans' restrictive way of life is not a be-all or an end-all, but rather something of his own volition.

To him, the intricate complexities of clan affairs feel straightforward and easy to use to his own advantage. This applies to both domestic dealings and external politics. The systems put in place by the groups' founders and then later developed by succeeding leaders are built upon flawed traditional values, and they fall apart at the seams when observed from a broader perspective.

Understanding the rights from the wrongs, which behaviours are celebrated and which ones are condemned, is pivotal when deciding his personal conduct. One cat's taboo is another cat's virtue. For instance, cats of adult age are barred from aligning themselves with ShadowClan, although other clans like Thunderclan maintain open borders - even to kittypets. Knowing this, he wouldn't welcome an unfamiliar face into the clan under any circumstance, lest it is a kit. And he knows that in doing so, along with other behaviours deemed morally righteous by his community, he earns the favour of his clanmates.

And having the backing of a collective body is the greatest power one can ask for in this setting. The weight of the world does not fall on his shoulders alone, but is rather spread evenly amongst his compatriots, friends, and figurative family. There are individuals who would put their lives on the line to guarantee his safety. So too does he attain security from resting in a den at night, deep a difficult-to-traverse region of land. Being able to sleep without a looming fear of death is a major benefit that he has because of his tenure in ShadowClan.

As there are so many positive qualities of his current living arrangement, Smogmaw refrains from outright transgressing his clan's laws and code of ethics; he sees no problem in doing so discreetly, however, so long as he is fully confident in his ability to keep such actions out of sight. It is a well-known fact that the tabby has a compulsion to collect things - a quirk in his physiological coding, perhaps - although there are quite a few objects in his concealed 'goodie stash' he isn't supposed to have; namely foodstuffs not being dispersed among his clanmates, as well as personal items that belonged to someone else at one point.

All in all, everything is going in a way which quenches Smogmaw's demands, desires, and innate proclivities.

And yet, he is deeply displeased, discontented, and dissatisfied.

Having sat back and observed the day-to-day's usual procedures time and time again, he has reached a point where he can predict a week's events down to a tee. Every passing day feels the same, resembling constant revolutions of identical events and happenings as opposed to new experiences. It leaves him emotionally transparent, and he feels his individual wants and longings decaying away as time moves forward. No longer is he guided by ambition, but unmanageable compulsions instead.

On some days, he is lucid, in full control of his emotions and holds an idea of the trajectory he wishes to pursue. Other days, he finds himself temperamental and antisocial, and sometimes it felt as though he wasn't really there.

He isn't really there. Not now, wallowing in rib-high muck and gawping blankly at the sun-down sky. It is unknown to him how long he has been missing from camp, or whether or not his clanmates have taken notice of his absence, but if his inability to move free from the mud is anything to go by, then it's safe to say he has been stuck for quite a bit.​

 

[FOGTHIEF]

Fogpaw moves like a ghost himself through the bramble, plucking up whatever large leaves he can find to aid his mother in the reconstruction of the medical den. It's harder said than done when everything is crispy or mildewed beneath his paws. He has to look up, scanning any smaller trees that the poor soil and towering pine trees allow to exist in their realm. Catching glimpses of the sky, it's comforting in one way but infuriating in another. He and Smogmaw are alike in a way, painfully aloof and feeling immaterial despite being solid flesh, ineffectual and exhausted of repetition. Fogpaw is often left to feel like a kittypet looking out a window, merely an observer as life passes him by. However, they'd probably never know this about one another or perhaps even care. Even if Fogpaw could speak, he's sure that most of his clanmates would still be enigmas to him. After all, talk doesn't matter too much when there's nothing to say. If marsh cats were so open, Shadowclanners would you be butting heads so often.

He's balancing himself along the old knotted roots of a dead willow when he spots an odd sight. Smogmaw haunches deep in mud and it's a good thing that the apprentice realizes his stalled form before stepping in himself. Fogpaw slaps the wood below him to catch Smog's attention and sure enough, he can see that the sludge around him is settled. How long has Smog been in this damp prison? He could catch his death in this chilly weather. Fogpaw reaches out for him, stretching out too far in his pursuit when he looses his balance and has to scritch his claws to clamp his narrow platform below. This is fruitless anyways. If he could reach his clanmate, he's not strong enough to pull him out alone anyways.

A defeated huff pushes from Fog and he gestures for Smogmaw to stay put, quickly realizes how stupid that is, then turns to go find someone who can actually help Smog.​

 

[wolverinefang]

♤ PALMS UP, CATCH THE LIGHTNING ♤​

The cat that the apprentice manages to find might not be his first choice but perhaps it is the best choice for trying to lug a other few grown cat up. Wolvervinefang has noticed that Fogpaw avoids him at best and very much dislikes him at worse so when the youth approaches him of his own volition, Wolve figures it must be serious. Unfortunately, he's not good with charades and so ends up following the annoyed apprentice purely from his frantic flailing. As he wades through the boggy part of the marsh, it's only Fogpaw nipping at his tail thay stops him from walking into the same trap that his clanmate did. Wow, that would have been awkward, huh.

"Whoa, what the hell happened to you, Smog?" Is this what they call a "mud bath?" He's like a little cat cookie risen out of a mold or. To something a bit more familiar to Wolve, his predicament makes him think of a vole he once saw stuck in a hole as an apprentice. Free food. He's lucky that nothing pecking or peckish has come by and seen the discount kitty platter. He has no more time to ruminate as he feels Fogpaw impatiently bump against him to hurry up. (Of course someone like Wolve wouldn't realize that exposure is a thing.)

The hearty tom plants his feet as firmly as he can in the soggy ground before attempting to crane his neck out and aims to grab Smogmaw's scruff to haul him back to solid ground.​

GOD-LIKE ISN'T LIKELY — ♛​

 

[Halfshade]

The freshkill pile was loaded with frogs and she was staring at them intently trying to determine which had been there longer so she could grab it to eat before it could go to waste, sometimes she spotted apprentices grabbing from the top but they weren't her apprentice so she left the lesson for their mentor to give. Fresh prey was a nice treat, but they really needed to get this pile situation in order before the bottom frogs started to go greener-erm-more greener. The bad kind of green, that is. Her mismatched gaze finally honed in on a suitably plump but a bit softened by age frog when she spotted Fogpaw moving swiftly into the camp.

Fogpaw didn't speak, but he was not hard to understand; with urgency in his eyes and a gesture of the head he had spoken at length in his silent way and she had swiftly moved to follow along after Wolverinefang to the source of the apprentices concerns. To say she was surprised was an understatement, she had not a clue why the gray tabby was sitting so silently in the muck without even a greeting or attempt to struggle free; was he sick? Had something happened to him? Was he just tired from struggling so much already? Halfshade tried to remember when she last saw Smogmaw and it hadn't been too terribly long ago? A brief hello during sunhigh when she was heading off on dawn patrol, he couldn't have been here very long. The lack of a response was almost terrifying. "Why isn't he talking?" She asked, voice strained and flighty as she witheld the unease in her tone, but it seemed her fellow warrior was just as confused.
When the dark tom leaned forward to try and grab at Smogmaw's scruff, she moved to stand behind him and slightly to the side to get a firm on the back of his neck as well to help pull and also be able to snatch Wolverinefang back if he were to start slipping in as well; they didn't need more cats stuck in this mud pit.

​

 

[smogstar]

His sunken state of mind is not wavered by any nearby sound. Not the trills of bullfrogs who shared the swamp alongside him. Nor the catlike scurrying among the underbrush to his rear. If the partially-submerged tabby is indeed aware of his environment it is to an incomplete extent, as though his emotions are caught in a vacuum, leaving him equipped with his executive senses and nothing else.

There is a severance between what he perceives and how he regards it. A lack of depth to what he saw, heard, and smelled. For all intents and purposes, he only feels the viscous muck clinging to his fur.

Voices belonging to Wolverinefang and Halfshade chime from behind him. Their respective tones are of concern and worry, and their words pertained to the sticky situation which he'd gotten himself into. Smogmaw listens to what they say, but their speech flows through one ear and out the other. It isn't until teeth puncture his nape that he displays some understanding of where he is- and who he is.

Wolverinefang is successful in his endeavours. Smogmaw simply allows it to happen, though his breathing hastened acutely during the initial moments. The Maine Coon mix trawls him out of the mud with zero resistance from the older warrior's part, eventually making it to a plot of firm ground attended by Fogpaw and Halfshade. The very second he's liberated from the other tom's jaws, the tabby slumps onto the ground, making a wet flopping sound as he lands on his muddy side.

Yet some manner of sensibility seeps back into his system, and he precariously rises to all fours. His eyes were both groggy and rueful, and a scan of his clanmates tells him that they are alarmed over his well-being.

Good.

"I, uh," he began, not entirely knowing what he should say given his unbalanced headspace, "thanks." An obliged glance to his rescuer, an affirming glint to the apprentice, and an appeased peer at the torbie queen. Had they not intervened, he would have probably been there until sunrise. "I feel fucked." says Smogmaw, but more than anything, he felt absolutely debilitated. "This type'a thing doesn't usually happen to me," he lies, "but I'm happy you got to me before I went neck-deep."​