TAKE MY BONES AWAY ↷ [ chicken nuggets ]

[smogstar]

Carrionplace's stink intensified under the Greenleaf sun. Even at a distance, when the towering, gridded barrier lay beyond one's scope, the sun-festering crowfood was an assault on one's senses. It's a gut-churning, face-scrunching, nostril-pinching odour that bled into the surrounding territory—undetectable from within camp, thank the stars, but the moment any patrols stepped paw from the hollow on this particular day, they were shown zero mercy.

Never has anyone said that the smell of opportunity was a pleasant one. So, rather than steering his patrolmates away from the nose pollution, Smogmaw would usher them straight into the heart of it.

Whiskers bristle and his muzzle twitches as he wriggles through the fence's opening, ashen furs grazing against wiremesh. He sidesteps once within so as to let the others follow in his footsteps, before turning to lecture them on their objective here. "Search high and low for anything fancy," instructs the deputy. His voice is nasally, accented with a trace of excitement. "If it looks tasty or salvageable, grab it. We're not on a sightseeing tour, so get your claws dirty, and don't waste any time." An acknowledging nod is given to each of those in his company as they prepare to scour the putrid landscape. One cat's crowfood is another cat's treasure, as they say, and in Smogmaw's eyes, Carrionplace held untold amounts of wealth.

Some went in pairs. Smogmaw, in spite of @SHARPPAW.'s presence on this venture, set off on his lonesome. Apprehensive as she may be, his warrior-aged apprentice is clearly capable of handling herself on her own. Lively paws slink through the debris-ridden terrain, every so often tearing through the thin black casings that stored twoleg waste. This place always left him a little awe-struck, even amidst the overwhelming stench. But his efforts proved to be in vain for a considerable length of time, and as he further traversed the maze of rubbish and refuse, Smogmaw's rare bout of enthusiasm was beginning to wane.

And then he found it, sitting pretty atop a small, broken structure. It's a shell, a husk, a container of some sort, made from what appeared to be very thin wood. It's of twoleg origin, based on its geometry alone. When he squints his eyes, he can make out two golden arches etched into the material. And its tangy, delicious smell—what a stark contrast to the rest of this dump. Without sparing another moment, the deputy shimmies his rump and ascends to the top of the structure with ease, before batting the box onto the muck and mud below.

The impact splits the shell open, and as its contents are revealed to the world, Smogmaw's profile shines bright with triumph. "I've found treasure!" he cries from his position upon the structure. "Come 'n see this!"

Nestled in the bottom half of the broken box were the most delectable morsels he'd ever laid his eyes on; a half-dozen nuggets of crispy gold, lustrous under the sunlight. ​

 

[HONEYJAW]

Of all the things that Honeyjaw finds distasteful about ShadowClan, the Carrionplace has to be among the highest — or perhaps the lowest — upon his list. If the wind blew wrong its stench would roll throughout the territory; today, they're confronted by its totality. Careful paws take him closer into the hollow at Smogmaw's lead. Though he grimaces at the directive, he knows better than to complain. Or maybe he just knows it would be a waste of breath. His low sigh doesn't mean much of anything except displeasure, though, and it's amply clear to anyone that listens. Still he treks off on his own. Most of the Carrionplace is flat, almost neat. It's as if the twolegs themselves come here periodically and tidy it up, though he's never seen it himself. Could there trult be a system to some of their madness? Or maybe it was only so many moons ago, now covered in chaotic disease.

Whatever it is, he hates it. Doesn't matter if the twolegs see something more in this place.

The warrior takes an upwards route, carefully trekking along the shattered shells of whatever'd been left here. The ground here prickles at his paws. In some places it's too smooth for comfort, and in others it threatens to break through his pads. It's only after several long minutes that he finds anything even slightly interesting: his claws tangle into a contraption that is oddly soft, like woven moss, but nearly as firm as sticks. It opens wide when he stretches it, baring holes as round as a head though considerably smaller. The color is harsh blue but moldy in places, and torn wide in others. "Huh," he mutters, and turns to whoever he could see. "Wonder what they use this stuff for?" he calls.

There'll be no untangling it, though, and Smogmaw calls his attention away from it anyway. Honeyjaw untangles his paw to abandon his catch and weave back down the artificial hill. "Not sure anything can excuse taking us here, Smogmaw," he sighs, but winds closer regardless until he can look upon whatever treasure made this trip worthwhile. They're no larger than his paw, and smell better than the rest of this place, but he has no idea what they are aside from food? with a bolded question mark. "Are they...edible?"

﹥ˏˋ  OOC NOTES ╱ REFERENCE ╱ 07.02.2023  𝘙𝘌𝘔𝘐𝘕𝘋𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘔𝘌 𝘏𝘖𝘞 𝘓𝘐𝘛𝘛𝘓𝘌 𝘐 𝘏𝘈𝘝𝘌 ˊˎ＜

• ooc: —

• 

• honeyjaw ╱╱ 36 moons old ╱╱ he - him - his ╱╱ warrior of shadowclan.
  ──── a former loner who joined the clan approximately six months ago (give or take).
  ──── named for the deep honey-brown of his pelt as well as his too natural charisma.
  ──── has an apprentice-aged kid he joined with, def scared of watching 'em grow up.
  ──── bisexual- kinda flirtatious yet never seems to really pursue a relationship. single.
  
  a short-furred dark chocolate point tom with the smallest splashes of white on his forehead, front paws, and tail tip. well-built, but overall average in size and unremarkable aside from his lightly curled ears and the magnetism of his smile. seems to show signs of aging earlier than expected, with a salt-and-pepper dusting around his jaw and muzzle.

• "speech"

​

 

[clearheart]

━━ι═══════﹥ The stench of Carrionplace is mephitic indeed, a tangible assault on the senses that strengthens in force upon closing proximity. To walk within it is an exercise of sensory mastery, and he has had more time to fortify his constitution than Honeyjaw. He follows in the darker feline's steps, but maintains a careful distance between them: close enough to reach him quickly should peril find Honeyjaw, yet not so near that he insults his independence.

Clearheart busies himself with his own search, occasionally raising his stare toward the sky, wary, and over to deep shadows, warier. His strange item of intrigue resembles the monsters that shudder along the Thunderpath, many howling as though pained. It is much smaller— barely larger than Clearheart's paw, which he uses to turn the beast over, its four black stones jerking into motion. It has an odd shine, reminding him of a scaled lizard, and a streak of blue lines its flat side around to the protruding mouth. He crouches, mystified, and prods the stones into turning again.

Honeyjaw's voice startles him, and he straightens quickly, ears pricked. Smogmaw calls not long afterward, and Clearheart spares another glance for the small monster, torn, before once more following Honeyjaw. He joins him in peering down at the treasure, as Smogmaw described it, recognition brightening his dark eyes.

"I have seen birds come to blows over these," he says, briefly ensuring no such shadow appears. "They are most coveted by some of our kind as well, but I do not know what to call them."
​

══════⊹⊱≼ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ / ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ ʜᴀɴɢꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴄᴇɴꜱᴇ / ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ≽⊰⊹══════

• — CLEARHEART / / 40 moons old / / amab and uses masculine pronouns but will also accept the use of neutral terms.
  — a warrior of shadowclan / / currently mentoring dragonflypaw / / excels greatly in combat above most all other skills.
  — former loner who wandered great distances & rarely remained in one place for long / / arrived after the great battle.
  — devoted to starclan above all else (aside from his idea of the common good) / / not prone to enter battle mindlessly.
  
  — of a height slightly above average / / trim and athletic with a sense of immovability about his posture/stance & size.
  — chocolate sepia w/ low white / / fur is quite short for the most part / / tail is naturally bobbed // full-body reference.
  — fairly warm demeanor much of the time; there is a "softness" about his features so that neutrality doesn't seem surly.
  
  — lawful good, in the sense that he likes to maintain order and work toward bettering lives around him without cruelty.
  — often misunderstands figures of speech and may interpret them literally. as such, can seem to lack a sense of humor.
  — deeply genuine; dislikes lying immensely, and so (most of the time) he is wholly earnest, especially with compliments.
  
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[𝒯𝐻𝐼𝒮𝒯𝐿𝐸𝒥𝒰𝑀𝒫]

Thistlejump wrinkled her nose at the stench of Carrionplace as she trailed after Smogmaw. The heavy rancid smell struck her nostrils and invaded all of her senses so intensely that she nearly gagged. Her stomach turned with fierce queasiness, and for a moment she was certain that her stomach would betray her, but she clenched her teeth together, took a deep breath, and managed to barely avoid retching.

At Smogmaw’s command, Thistlejump ventured further into Carrionplace. She considered following Honeyjaw and Clearheart, as she was slightly acquainted with them, but concluded that she would prefer to search for valuables alone.

Her fur raised with unease as she kept her eyes out for rats. She knew that she could overcome one, but their gnashing, overgrown teeth, beady eyes, and their ability to put up a decent fight deeply unsettled her.

When she came upon a lump of sheathing which the Twolegs stored their crow-food in, she slashed it with her claws, having seen before how crow-food occasionally spilled out of the vessels. But the container’s skin was too thick for her claws to penetrate. She thought of repetitively clawing at it or biting it until it broke open, but Smogmaw’s joyful exclamation stopped her from doing so.

Her gaze scanned the Carrionplace for the deputy. When she spotted him, she swiftly made her way over to him, eager to see what he “treasure” had found. As she grew closer in proximity to the bits of food, their tasty smell wafted over to her. She licked her lips, and felt disgusting for finding Twoleg waste delicious, but she could not deny their fantastic scent.

“They smell fairly good.” Thistlejump commented, which was an understatement, yet she did not want to disclose how mouthwatering she truly thought they were, for fear that her companions would not agree.​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Sharppaw doesn't understand what reason there is to be here when they aren't starving in leaf - bare or looking for sad, abandoned kittens (which they literally never are). Mindlessly, she follows her mentors lead, and could only scrunch her nose and hope it was the trash wafting too far past her nose, rather than them actually going there willingly. He isn't lucky enough for that though, or maybe Smogmaw just isn't merciful enough, or whatever.

Search high and low for anything fancy. Sharppaw would cast a withering look to his mentor. tasty or salvagable is a weird thing to say. What use would they have for something 'salvagable' and not tasty; one of those strange, crinkling things to drag their prey across the swamp in. Sharppaw only doesn't question him because he could very well send Sharppaw off to hunt rats, which is perhaps the one thing she'd rather do less than this. Not stifling her sigh, Sharppaw does as she's told.

" ...This is so stupid, " he mumbles to no one in particular. All of Smogmaw's ideas pretty much were. Sharppaw doesn't know what he'd expected.

About all he does before Smogmaw summons them again is halfheartedly shuffle at scraps of more crinkly things and dark wraps of mysterious twoleg material. She'd have to soak in the stream to get this stench off, once they left. And the treasure of question... Sharppaw cannot agree with the descriptor, or sentiment that they should like it because some brainless prey does. " It looks... um, " Weird? Suspicious? Malevolent? Thatd be too dramatic. " ...Not... like food. " It did smell like food, but Sharppaw certainly would not go anywhere near it, no matter how food - like it may pretend to be.

OOC † IN THE MIRROR 07.07.2023

• OOC: —
  
•  

• SHARPPAW: brother to Rookpaw. Mentored by Smogmaw
  —— he / she , no pref , icked by they prns ; fine with gendered terms ( tom, molly, etc... )
  —— currently 13 moons old. warrior ceremony delayed due to lackluster progress.
  
  anxious, antisocial, paranoid. Sharppaw is a creature living in constant fear. Most thoughts are irrational, but consistent in that they are borne from pessimism and generalized anxieties.
  — In an era of assessing what has set him back and figuring out what he wants.

​

 

[smogstar]

There's a glint of eagerness in his semi-lidded eyes as his clanmates come tumbling into the fold. They encircle his find like botflies to an open wound, putting forth inane observations rather than subjecting the nuggets to physical examination. His tail lashes out restlessly, before he gives his rump a cautious wiggle and springs down from his perched position—the landing is stuck elegantly, though the airborne mud-dollops sent from the impact really sullies his performance. "It's food," he says with certainty, regard flitting between the faces of those present, yet lingering for a supplemental moment on his apprentice. Rife with suspicion, she was, the same old song and dance he'd gotten to know so well. "Twoleg in origin, obviously, but there's not a doubt in my skull that it's edible."

As he cranes his head low and flicks one of the morsels with his snout, thoughts linger on what Clearheart had professed in the moments prior. Coveted, were they? The deputy could easily muster an understanding as to why: these give off a piquant aroma, whereas the bulk of ShadowClan cuisine smelled of muck, game, and death. The texture is bristly, crumby even. From which creature might these have come from?

"If all'a ya are just gonna sit 'n gawk..." then remarks Smogmaw, who hesitates for but a moment before tearing off a chunk for his eating pleasure. Eyes snap shut while he chews, an otherworldly taste exploding across his tongue. Dry savouriness is how he'd best describe it, with a surprising crunch to top it all off. A sprinkling of seconds would pass after he swallows, remaining silent while he gauges the whole experience. "Save one for my kits," he says in a stern tone, before seizing tw half-eaten giblet and plodding off. Should he remain nearby, there'd be a non-zero chance of food aggression kicking into gear. These things were good.​

 

[FERNDANCE]

Ferndance had followed to the Carrionpace, not because she was starving, but out of pure curiosity - and if the rats couldn't kill her, then that personality trait certainly would. On lanky paws, the Lead Warrior trailed behind her clanmates, head craning over them to see what was going on. Smogmaw moved away and the cinnamon tabby eagerly took his pace, tearing a piece off of an abandoned nugget and running a short distance away with it. Even carrying it, the taste was.... odd. Chicken, but not quite chicken, like if someone were to make it taste like chicken based on a description of chicken alone. Still, food was food, and she'd consumed weirder. "Oh StarClan..." she breathed in as she spoke, falling onto her back and balancing the holy snack on all four of her upwards-pointing paws. On its pedestal, the discoloured snack seemed to glow golden in the scarce ShadowClan sun, a beacon of potential that promised to leave any stomach full (and likely ill, but she ignored that part). Smooshing her own ears as she tilted her head back to stare at her clanmates, Ferndance's wide eyes blinked slowly. "This one looks like my brain," she admitted with a sense of wonder.
​

 

[Sundewtail]

Sundewtail didn't often choose to come to the Carrionplace. It was full of weird stuff. She didn't mind weird stuff, but she often couldn't tell what was supposed to be edible or not. She followed Smogmaw out today because, well.....

It seemed like fun.

And boy was it fun! Whats that? Whats this? Why's it shiny? Why's it feel like that? Why's it SMELL like that? What an incredible place, full of garbage and weird stuff!

More importantly, Smogmaw has found....A treasure. He calls out, and she hops over garbage to join him. What she sees is.... Some funny little things. She tilts her head at them.

"What are they...?" She asks to no one in particular.

Clearheart says he's seen birds come to blows over them.....She's never seen birds fight. How do they fight, she wonders? She looks at the nuggets in thought until Smogmaw decides to try one of them. She watches him curiously....Will he explode...Will he get sick.....

He is fine!

She watches Ferndance take one next, and is intrigued....She holds the snack aloft on all four paws, and says that it looks like her brain....... She must be so smart, to know what her brain looks like.....

She looks down to the nuggets and carefully takes one. Her mouth is flooded with a flavor she has never tasted before. Biting into it, you'd think her eyes widened more than they normally are.

"Ooohh!"

This is the food of gods. There is no other explanation. Starclan has blessed them this day.​