camp that's what my therapist said ↷ [ in tears ]

[smogstar]

He's been at this for a while. The longest con that there is. Faking regularity against anguish's grueling rhythm. Hiding his emotional tracks by following trails to nowhere. Disobeying direct orders from the part him cursed to love. His grief for her had turned to ice so many cycles ago. He was of the mind he could carry on with his life as if nothing ever happened. Wounds are supposed to scab over, then heal and flake away. The frozen callous surrounding the hole she left in his chest instead thickened. Expanded. Festered.

It'd be unfathomable for him to expose the hideous emptiness she left him with to the air. It'd easily destroy his perfectly cultivated demeanor. It'd force him back into his own skin. Back to being the vulnerable mewling creature he ought to be. In over his ears in regret and pitiable despair.

Pressure mounts around the subject he keeps under pad. Cracks form in the shield. They've widened almost immeasurably in the past few moons, notably since his first litter all became warriors. A recurrent sequence in thought; Halfshade was deprived of seeing her little ones bloom. Garlicheart, Ashenfall, Applejaw, Swansong. She would've spoiled them rotten after they'd gotten their full names, there was no questioning. She was always so affectionate. Sweet in the heart and a sweetheart through and through. She was a tender peach down to the stem.

Another season is about to pass him by, for whispers of Greenleaf carry in the wind. That makes two seasons since she'd passed. A molly with many more sunrises to live. It was too soon.

Nailing down the exact moment of his collapse remains uncertain. Smogmaw is aware only to the nook he sits in at the hollow's edge, and the repeating pattern in his thoughts. Halfshade never saw a single one mature. Never saw a single one named.

The realisation hit like a falling tree, and with it, his heart fumbled to beat. Fumbling went to staggering, and staggering went to drumming, frantic. The camp around him blinked away to a blurry smear; tears clouded his vision.

Fortunately for his all-important image, it is raining. Droplets smacked his face at a fraction below torrential; at a fraction of what he truly deserved. The dampened air obscures his weeping for the most part. Only his expression gives it away—too loose to be a grimace, too tight to be neutral. He has not cried this way before, all riled emotion and taut muscles, body clenched for the drop. The feeling is surreal, this wet-nosed sputter, and his voice escapes in an accidental croak.

The lump in his throat ebbs away to dust. An acute twinge in the muscle below his eyes has replaced it, and heavy lids draw over unfocused irises. He tries to wipe them with a jittery paw, hoping to conceal the evidence.​

 

[primrosejaw]

Ghostly. That is a good word for how she feels most of the time.

She feels ghostliness in the shape of her; in the long bones and lean joints, the heavy dragging grave - shroud trail. In the wispy white fur and the gluey - teared rabbit eyes and the way the sun scorches her into the night. In the pale, near - translucent nature of her fur, of her skin, of her very being until she feels quite certain she could press herself into the high mucky wall of camp and simply disappear through it.

She feels it most acutely, though, in moments of rest. When she rests in a tangle of rawboned limbs and watches the world pass her by through sickly pink eyes, when there is no fresh sensation or delicious texture to stray her mind elsewhere. When in the hard bone framework of her world, the tight - laced cages of institutionality she's grown up in, there is no task to complete or leader to be momentarily subordinate to.

For just a moment, in these idle hours, a sleek fin breaks the feverish surface of her mind, arrowing towards damnation. Towards the reality of being a phantom in her own clan.

This is the point at which she usually finds something to do, a way to pull muscles taut and become a beast of burden. The cool patter of rain on her sore back, plastering feathery white fur to her skin and momentarily pressing chill, the pleasant smile of gray clouds above instead of a glaring sun, is a contented interlude as she drags herself up, mud dripping off her calloused elbows.

Being greeted by a face and a body taking shape when her vision clears is unexpected and it knocks Primrosejaw, unprepared for the reality of a whole other breathing cat to contend with, for a momentary loop. Further startling is the belated recognition that the tabby face before her, similarly lingering at the edge of camp is not only that of their deputy, a figure of general respect as any authority is to her, but also that said face is crumpled in an expression of sadness and briefly emitting a sputtery croak, both of which are corrected a moment after. Primosejaw observes these things factually, as if from a distance set apart, tired pink eyes fixed flat on their deputy's face, not yet widened.

Then the quick, blink - and - you'll - miss - it expression ends -- his, rapidly fixed with a wipe of the eyes; hers, magnified in the painful widening of dull eyes, the minimal parting of an aching jaw, as her mind closes the distance to her senses. It's a recognition instantly awkward and white eyelashes flutter in a series of rapid blinks, an instinctual response, and she takes a half - step back out of mingled respect and awkwardness. Primrosejaw herself would be loath to be caught in such a position, but she hardly has insight into Smogmaw's mind; he's a figure to be obeyed, respected, but certainly not investigated. Would he prefer she say something consoling or (hopefully) they exchange a gruff footsoldier nod and she can skitter away and forget this bizarre moment?

Lacking a proper command, her mind well - galvanized against vulnerability, she settles on another fit of spasmodic blinking and a rough - voiced blurt, " You alright? "

" speech "

​

 

[smogstar]

Tears are foreign guests in his eye sockets, unwelcomed strangers trespassing on his territory. He fights them as a good sentry should, yet they find passage to his cheekbones nonetheless, spilling traitorously down their slope. Warm, salty, soppy tears. Irrevocably damning evidence, if they are spotted. He keeps his head down, his ears flattened, and the lacklustre expression he'd cobbled together shrinks away from whoever approaches.

Up 'til now, he has put up a staunch resistance against exploring his loss among company. At no point since the journey's conclusion was Halfshade's passing addressed in a greater capacity than mere acknowledgement—and when nobody dared to raise their voices regarding her in particular, attention gradually found more practical topics. Kit-nappings. Rats. Neighbours losing and changing leaders. Halfshade slipped through their minds like stale water, pulled under by other currents and swiftly forgotten. Dull double-edged irony. He kept it the same way. Better to keep busy than waste time wallowing, is what he wanted to believe.

Smogmaw does not tilt his chin up to view the clanmate in his periphery. The ground between his paws is infinitely more hospitable, and he idly picks it apart for pebbles and worms. By voice and by scent, he identifies her as Primrosejaw. A molly with whom he shares a nondescript association, just another name for another patrol. She deserves more credit than that, making way for a downtrodden and sorry-looking clanmate and all, and he should respect her for it. But he instead works diligently to get dirt lodged under his claws and between his digits.

She's owed an answer, at the very least. "I miss Halfshade. Sleeping in a nest is unbearable without her." Her size had surpassed his, and her warmth was ever-present. She blocked the sunlight when it first breached the warrior's den, keeping rest within his grasp for as long as possible. The steady rise and fall to her sides beneath his lounging cheek. He grinds his molars, pinches them tight, then finally musters enough willpower to lift his head. "I miss her terribly," he adds softly, taut-drawn lips allowing nothing else through.

Scalejaw'd told him to grieve for her, and might as well have gone unheard. Magpiepaw dragged him by the allegorical scruff to her gravesite, and Smogmaw scolded him over it. Others' suggestions and recommendations were fought against to the last, and such he remained entrenched in his refusal to openly navigate his loss. For him to be this way, in camp of all locations, something must have clicked and fallen into the proper place—again, it must've been the naming ceremony from a moon or two back. The dam burst.

He's able to express the hurtful sentiments he sought to conceal, and it's crushing, and he wants it out, but now there's nowhere for it to go. ​

 

[Halfsun]

There is not a time in her life that she can remember having a mother. Halfshade had passed not long after she had been born, long before her eyes and ears had opened to the world and her brain had not yet been capable of holding on to any memories at all. She remembers Starlingheart telling her about the shaded queen though, remembers how the mollies eyes had swam with unshed tears and how her voice cracked when she spoke. You look just like her you know' the adults would say and Halfpaw would only nod because what else was she supposed to do? She could and would not grieve for a cat she had never known.

Her father however. She had assumed he had already grieved, that he had shed tears for their mother privately and was now moving on with his life. It's what she was trying to do after all. Her loss still weighs heavy in her heart thugh, and she sometimes has half a mind to ask Smogmaw how he had healed from the pain. Except apparently, he hadn't.

What unsettles her most is the sudenness in which is happens. She is not far when it does, finding what little shelter she could from the rain. The croaking noise that escapes her fathers jaws is what alerts her that something is wrong. Instantly, her head snaps, her vision shifts and what she sees? She hates it. Snot drips from his nose, tears stain his already wet face. He looks... smaller. Weaker. She knows she should not feel disgusted by the display but... her ears press to the back of her skull and her claws dig into the mud. She adverts her gaze, wanting to pretend like she had not seen. It was too late for that though. The image burned a permanent memory into her mind.

Primrosejaw has much more tact than she does. She actually goes over and asks him what's wrong. 'I miss Halfshade' he sputters and Halfpaw feels like a badger has just slammed into her chest. "You... what?" she asks, dumbfounded. Hadn't she been dead for moons now? What hope did she ever have of recovering from her own loss if her father was still mourning his? Did the pain ever go away?

( ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ) no fake friends, forced smiles, or favors

• 
  
  
• 
  HALFPAW SHADOWCLAN APPRENTICE ; SHE / HER ; SISTER TO APPLEPAW, ASHENPAW, SWANPAW, GARLICPAW, THORNPAW AND LAURELPAW
  

  A fluffy she cat who's fur is half cream tabby, half blue tabby split by white. Her eyes are two mismatched shades of blue, with one being a light icy blue and the other being darker in color.

  ✦ Easy in battle + still learning how to fight
  

​

 

[Gigglepaw]

Gigglekit has not yet come to a point in her life where she recognizes that pain and suffering that accompanies grief and loss. She knows that her father is long gone, but he was gone before she took her first breath of air and she has no memories connecting the two of them. All she knows of Chittertongue is in the stories that she hears from her mothers and Clanmates. She knows that Magpiepaw is gone, and the Clan was terribly sad over that, and that Chilledstar sometimes loses a life because they're a leader, but Gigglekit is not intimate with death.

From what she knows of Smogmaw, what she's made him out to be in her mind, is that he is a stoic tom, one who has control over every situation that he might encounter. She's conjured up this idea of Smogmaw as an idol in her head, someone to take after and learn from, even if indirectly. So when she sees him, in the rain, clearly unhappy, it almost uproots everything she knows and thinks of him - but not negatively. If anything, Gigglekit realizes that Smogmaw is just another face in the crowd like she is, someone who can be beaten down over time.

"Who's Halfshade?" Gigglekit asks quietly, though the question itself is like inflicting a new wound over old ones; Halfshade meant so much to Smogmaw, to her children, to those who had known her, and here was a young girl asking who Halfshade was. Tears prick Gigglekit's own blinking eyes after a moment, as if something deep in her realizes that the question is wrong and hurtful in ways that she doesn't fully understand yet. "'m sorry," she mumbles, voice trembling.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎OOC ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎ .ᐟ.ᐟ INFO ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

• !
  

• 

• GIGGLEKIT ✩ kit of shadowclan, two moons
  → blinks incessantly & uncontrollably.
  → peaceful and healing powerplay permitted.
  → penned by Archivist → .archivist on discord.
  

​

 

[nectarsong]

"Halfshade is Smogmaw's mate, Gigglekit. She was very beautiful, and very kind." Nectarsong explains to Gigglekit, pausing behind her, pitching their voice low so as not to interrupt the conversation unfolding. Was his mate, their mind corrects, but Nectarsong does not voice the thought. They didn't know Halfshade any better than they knew any of their Clanmates at the time, no particular bond between the two tortoiseshells outside of what is standard. But, with the queen leaving behind kits and a love that Nectarsong envied even now, their heart aches for the family unit. No cat had quite managed to fill the space Halfshade left, and likely never would. Their tail-tip twitches, almost unwilling to keep listening to the discussion starting to unfold. How would Smogmaw react to his kit's question?
​

 

[betonyfrost]

There will be no comfort from Betonyfrost today.

It had been Betonyfrost to deliver the news that none of her clanmates had seemed keen to, and at the time she had been surprised at Smogmaw’s reaction. He has always been older than her—always frustratingly more composed, but Betonyfrost had told him that his mate had died while he was away. When nothing had happened, once Betonyfrost had completed what she felt he was owed, she had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that there would never be such a reaction.

There will be no comfort from Betonyfrost—watching Smogmaw admit to missing Halfshade feels akin to watching the black pillars of smoke rise from her youth. She feels as though she should be looking away from this or, at the very least, has some awareness that she should feel in such a way. Watching him, watching the gentle comfort his clanmates and kin offer, Betonyfrost’s claws curl into the mud beneath her. The twin scars on her nose twinge as they always do when Betonyfrost makes the mistake of remembering Halfshade.

“I would have thought of you as stone,” She doesn’t look at him as she speaks. She doesn’t look at anyone at all, “But I suppose you’d eventually make allowances for your own grief. If Roosterstrut were here, I would’ve told him about this—perhaps you would have left his alone.” ​

shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 31 moons | tags​

 

[FLINTWISH]

It satisfies him to see Smogmaw so upset. The satisfaction makes some unknown knife twist in the depths of his black stomach, but he enjoys it all the same, this delicate schadenfreude. It feels like a wounded bird beneath his paws, fluttering and helpless and heart beating hot; it feels like lightning igniting a dead trunk, maybe the same one he'd once dangled off of while Smogmaw watched. Even as the rain pelts them all, Flintpaw stands among the crowd, emerald and agate eyes piercing deep into Smogmaw's thick, leather skin.

Maybe if it were any other cat mourning Halfshade, his guilt would stab up into him, cutting him in half. He wouldn't be so smug then; wouldn't wear the half-grimace, half-grin that he does now, staring with rapacity at Smogmaw's crumbling facade as if he could drink the blood like sweet nectar. Halfshade's death was Flintpaw's fault. This is something he knows — something that has been hammered into him over all twelve moons of his life, something that Ashenfall has told him outright, something he detected when he was still a kitten recovering. Two doses for the price of one precious life. It's my fault. But the guilt does not claim him today, and the shame only tells him it's wrong to stand here giddy at Smogmaw's grief, and it is but he can't help it, not really.

It just feels so good to see Smogmaw so small.

Maybe that's how he'd looked, dangling from the highest boughs of the burnt sycamore, wailing for help. Maybe that's how he'd looked when the badger had snapped Scalejaw in two. Maybe that's how he'd looked when Smogmaw had exiled Granitepelt, blubbering and shouting, full of acrid, citrus-sour hate for the cats who surrounded him. Other cats comfort Smogmaw in gentle, vapid breaths. Flintpaw is not one of them, and he doubts he ever will be.

"Sorry," he mumbles, not for the other's loss but for his own strange behavior. There's hardly any guilt in the apology. He does not feel guilty for feeling so good. But he can at least recognize his own abnormality; can at least attempt to shield himself from the judgement of Smogmaw's friends and family for his strange display. Flintpaw's white-tipped tail flicks once, then twice, and then he turns to leave, unable to bear witness to this grief any longer.

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — chibi by sixbane, signature by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

​

 

[ASHENFALL]

˚₊‧ ⛧ Ashenfall was something of a scab-picker — emotionally speaking, that was. It was a compulsion like any other, borne out of some fear that the scar would fade away completely, with it, the edges of his memory would go in turn. That was to say, Ashenfall was more familiar with 'crying it out' than those who'd garnered this bit of attention in the center of camp. He wasn't very good at the whole 'stifle it hoping it disappears' thing. And perhaps Smogmaw has shown that the skill could only be mastered for so long before the pressure mounted too high for even the most talented stoics to tie down.

That said, there was a kind of relief to be had in seeing his father finally crumble. Not for any malicious reason, nor out of ogler's satisfaction, but for the confirmation that there was something there to crumble around. Applejaw was the same, he knew well enough, with her heart so guarded he had to trick her into confronting an emotion. He'd heard after the fact that a similar method had to be used on his father to get him to finally lay eyes on Halfshade's grave. He had Magpiepaw to thank for that but... it was too late for that now, wasn't it? Ashenfall thought he might've regretted not speaking quick enough, not that it would've changed anything but...

Little did Ashenfall know that the catalyst of Smogmaw's sudden geyser release of emotion was the same thought that made him flee from the scene of his warrior ceremony. Mourning waxed and waned, but each milestone marked after the absence brought the wound to the forefront of one's mind. Ashenfall had become someone the Halfshade he knew would never know. Of course, in Starclan she would know each and every one of their names, but he only could guess her reaction.

"A 'sorry' would do just fine, thanks." Ashenfall grumbled at Betonyfrost, not quite grasping the context of her griping, but annoyed that she took his vulnerability as an opportunity to dig her claws in. Flintpaw does just that, exiting the scene as quickly as they enter, and Ashenfall is grateful for the one less pair of eyes to bore in. He feels that familiar squirmy feeling, his mother being a topic of public discussion always made his breath come short. Halfpaw didn't get it, of course she wouldn't... He offers a grateful blink to Nectarsong for addressing the kitten's question with some tact before striding up to Smogmaw's side.

"... I know." is all he says, head and voice low and careful to not touch the man. What else could he say here, in the middle of camp? "Y'wanna leave?" He mumbles, more as a reminder that he could leave, that's what Ashenfall often did.

YOULL ASK WHAT CAN I DO? ⭒☽⛧☾⭒ AND THERE WILL BE NO ANSWER

• OOC:
• 
• 
  — ashenkit . ashenpaw . ashenfall
  — ftm transmasc. he/him. 13mo warrior of shadowclan. formerly mentored by smogmaw
  — muted blue torbie w/ pale blue and amber eyes
  — smells of rainsoaked fern and swamp milkweed
  — all ic opinions!
  — "speech", thoughts, attack
  — pfp by meg, fullbody by antiigone, sticker by saturnid
  — penned by eezy
  

​

 

[smogstar]

Smogmaw is the swamp, bowed under a heavy and brackish grief, and his clanmates are the frogs, keen to flourish in their new habitat. He's left at a loss for where he ought to point his gaze as others gather around him. It'd be too blatant a sign of vulnerability, were he to let his dewy eyes fall between his paws once again. Primrosejaw was company aplenty, and he neither needed or asked for more. But, he shouldn't feign resentment toward their presence; he's laid the groundwork for this result, openly expressing himself like this while in everyone's view.

The tom releases a trembling breath, and amidst the huddled group, his sight hones in on Halfpaw's two-toned features. Adder-like shame slithers through him to see her in this moment; let alone her observing him in this manner. Apprehension follows suit. He feels garbled and incomprehensible, or so it seems her reaction conveys. Not him nor his daughter have broached this topic in conversation before, so it is unfamiliar territory for them both. When Halfpaw looks up at her father, is she scared, or possibly angry? Her dumbstruck expression betrays neither.

"Halfpaw, I'm sorry. I don't... I don't have good words for it." A thread of sadness runs through his gruff tone, and for a second time, a quivering breath leaves him. Quickly, he must figure out what she needs to hear. Brows clench involuntarily, before a harsh blink stifles a tear.

"Her loss weighs heavily," he mewls, "I've felt it in my chest from the moment I learned." It's a harrowing weight — one without means to reprieve. He doubts he and her know the same kind. The gnawing and thrashing ache of a loved one lost, versus the looming emptiness left behind. Selfishly, he believes his grief to be the more profound. "Turned a blind eye to it, thought it'd make things easier. It didn't, and I regret ever trying." His words should be an exhale, a burden finally free, but they are cold and lifeless like his mate. "I'm sorry."

Having acknowledged his torment head-on, he's somehow left feeling more aimless than ever. A leaden-heart is hardly a prize. It feels akin to a punishment instead. A punishment for himself, for abdicating his responsibilities as both a mate and a father. He's bound to be a miserable experience to contend with from here on out. And who better to needlessly amplify a cat's misery than Betonyfrost. It's her prerogative, after all.

Smogmaw stares forward to her, pupils shrunken by a flare in emotion, ears pitched back with a hinting snarl. Her words are poison meant to stab him through the chest. They come perilously close to the bone, and he can't do much else but fend them off. "Excuse me?" His inquiry leaves his lips slow, but as a growl deepens it's resonance, he lashes out. "Meet my eyes when you're pretending to be so bold. You're a pointless distraction, otherwise."

Her words do more to reinforce the guilt gnawing at his mind and heart, because there is truth in what she says. Roosterstrut's grief was made into a weapon, something the deputy flaunted and used against him at every opportunity. But there exists no parallel between the two toms' sorrow. Nuance, as usual, eludes Betonyfrost's understanding, but he knows she does not care. Her intentions are to obfuscate the subject. Even if he addressed his mistakes and sought to amend them, she'd manipulate the situation further to cast him into disfavour.

Irritation stings at the corners of his eyes, and the imaginary shield against his tears is left debilitated. One runs down the bridge of his muzzle, streaming seamlessly over his scars.

Ashenfall, in his periphery, offers a way out. He could very well turn tail and hobble away as though he'd never been there, as Flintpaw had done. Fading into the dark and getting lost, hiding until someone else found him or sunset gave light to the new day; either prospect sounded desirable. "I should," his voice rasps, hanging in limbo where nothing is or could be decided. A heartbeat pulses against his skull, spurring him to say one last thing. "I shouldn't dwell on this — it isn't the time or place. Pardon me."

His claws rake at the ground to initiate his leave, and he swings about, turning his back on the assemblage. With eyes locked dead ahead to the camp's exit, he moves haphazardly through the group while clutching his mouth shut. ​

 

[THORNPAW]

Spotting the rush of clanmates dispersing from the rain she followed suit. Tendrils of water racing down the Apprentice's back as she huddled in for cover. Then something out of an elder's drama unfolded right beside her. Thornpaw's quiet observation turned into resolve as she watched her father's cool demeanor fracture under the weight of emotions. The twisting sensation in her chest mirrored Halfpaw's shocked response, as seeing Smogmaw this way was disconcerting.

Her own eyes thinned into a nasty glare directed at Betonyfrost. Filled with a mix of disdain and anger. As Flintpaw retreated, and her father growled, Thornpaw made her presence known. Stomping past the blue molly and aggressively shaking the muddied water from her pelt, hoping some of it would drench the vile-tongued warrior.

With a determined flick of her tail, Thornpaw padded closer to stand next to Halfpaw and Ashenfall. Emotions weren’t her strong suit; she had always preferred to turn away from heightened feelings. But seeing Smogmaw taking the out her brother had offered, made something in her heart twist even tighter. He looked so lonely. A mirror to their own shame they'd felt when blocking out the world around.

She hadn’t been like Halfpaw or Laurelpaw who were open to hearing tales of Halfshade. They had preferred to suffer in silence, given the trauma of her littermates’ kitnapping weighed even heavier on her.

In the bustle of the nursery, little Thornkit had hidden away inside thickets of her namesake, ignoring offers of play and companionship. She couldn't bear to see the pain in Smogmaw's gaze when her mother was mentioned. The tense sensation of longing when Queen's shared memories. But in the silence of the night, Thornpaw had prayed to a mother she had no recollection of, hoping for some connection, some understanding. Thornkit had always been a complicated soul, and now, as Thornpaw, she felt even more at a loss.

But this moment, seeing her father so vulnerable, compelled her to step into his line of sight. "Dad?" Her voice was tender and uncertain, eyes searching his face. They wanted to offer comfort. Words of wisdom. Something. All she could do was default to something simpler.

Swallowing the bundle of nerves sticking in her throat the moggy croaked. "Can I come with you?" She wouldn’t push him further, but they needed to know more, to bridge the gap that had always been between them. The tabbies maw trembled and her tail coiled close at her side. A glaring similarity to her early kittenhood mannerisms.​