Smogmaw, too, found peace in the grimy comforts of his clan's territory. With the exception of its overabundance of mosquitos, Greenleaf's humidity, viscous muck that clung onto passing paws, and the ever-present scent of death, ShadowClan's swamp was nigh on flawless, and the deputy held no desire to waste his days anywhere else. There's an admirable quality about such a distasteful environment, and perhaps a strange sense of security as well. The odour of stagnant pools seems to ward off any unwanted intruders (save for Pitchstar's assailant, of course), and knowing this - the isolation intrinsically provided by the territory - puts Smogmaw at ease.
He wouldn't dare to wade in any of the marsh's pools, however. Already, the tom has to deal with redundant remarks about his scent, remarks that, if truth be told, held a disputable amount of validity. Surely, if he reeked as foul as they claim, he wouldn't have the honour of sharing a den with Halfshade. Regardless, he also steers clear of the water bodies for the fact that he isn't a RiverClan cat—he couldn't swim to save his hide, and the last thing anybody needs to see is his sorry, waterlogged corpse being hauled through the centre of camp!
Clenched in his jaws is a toad that made his tongue tingle. It soon drops to the ground when he glimpses a curious sight just off the beaten path. "What's all this then?" he'd expel, a trivial tone betraying his mostly-vacant gaze. Roosterstrut bobs up and down in a pond, whereas Needledrift lingers near the perimetre; both of them exposing themselves to whatever nasty parasites lived beneath the surface. Hyeck. "That's a good leech impression, Roosterstrut," he adds. The ginger-furred warrior took on the role like a natural. His whiskers twitch in negligible amusement to see Needledrift so content. Simple pleasures, he supposes.
