sensitive topics THE BEAUTY OF BREATHING ↷ [ petrified ]

[smogstar]

[ cw : panic-like symptoms & distress ]

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It strikes without preconception.

Dread. Overwhelming, nerve-numbing, stomach-knotting dread. His eyes sting, unblinking. Thousands of claws scrape ridges of his skull and leave a lasting pain. He feels the claw-tips catch on his nape and stab his skin, and they pull on the furs of his tail until it's left a ruffled, striped mess. The overhead breeze, foliage whispering and leaves crunched beneath paws; he is both deaf and oversensitive to these sounds, unable to process them yet painfully aware to their existence.

Teeth grit, knuckles clench to an absolute degree, but by and large, he's left immobile. Paralysed, in some catatonic, frozen state. His mind cannot keep up with his body, and his body cannot keep up with those he travels alongside. They plod onward. Unknowing. Without him.

Something truly horrible is about to unfold. Or, it already has, and he's only tuning into the signal now. That's the most appropriate and logical explanation he can muster. It's a premonition, a deep-seated knowing in his bones and in his heart. And it's unbearably real. Catastrophe pools in a shadow underneath him or somebody close—close in proximity, possibly close in blood.

Eyes remain pried apart in open defiance of internal protests.

Misty outlines, identified as belonging to his companions, continue to shrink into the forest yonder. A scant amount of them stall as though to turn around to seek him out, or so he swears. Thoughts about how they must be perceiving him lay siege, then, exacerbating the pressure.

He misses his family. He wants to go home. His pawpads feel cold. He wants to go home to see his family. As it stands, however, his limbs refuse to take him any closer—he cannot will himself to move. What if he never returns? Worse yet, what if they're all gone when he does get there, familial bonds forever frayed? It must be along those lines. This was a premonition, after all. ​

 

[FERNGILL]

The counting was starting to become obsessive. Since they'd lost Little Wolf, Fernpaw had begun to take into account each face routinely- making sure everyone was with them, that there was no one left behind to wander into outstretched talons or split canine jaws. Every now and then he'd get too tired- he'd get distracted, and someone would slip away. And really, who was he to stop them? A mere apprentice?

No, he couldn't stop them. But given the chance to intervene he would, and the minute he realised Smogmaw was no longer plodding behind them- the minute he'd noticed a misted silhouette wedged between the lines of trees, he called "Wait!" and spun around, foot snagging on the forest floor. With a snap of twining twig he broke away to backtrack, scrambling over to the ShadowClan deputy. Not that Fernpaw's respect was a difficult thing to earn, but Smogmaw had well and truly earned it- and there was something in his eyes now that the ginger tom had never seen before, not in that particular burning glare.

Was it... was it fear?

"Smogmaw," Fernpaw urged. A lump in his throat was swallowed audibly, and he glanced back to the advancing group before fixing marred vision upon the ShadowClan deputy once again. "Smogmaw, you hurt? We- we're so close, you- you have to keep going," and his voice was getting away from him, running like a frightened rabbit. We're so close, he'd said, but he knew as much as everyone else- which was very little.​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

Sharppaw walks on. She walks on. And despite that thing she has asked all those sunrises ago— if home was where they wanted to be— she now steps with purpose; with lungs burning, with eyes narrowed in the sun, owlishness not welcome in the face of such brightness. Smogmaw, mystifying, incomprehensible, aggravating, obtuse Smogmaw, no longer shares this quality with her. Could they never be in sync? Never cohesive, for just a moment? The tom lags behind for a moment. And then for longer. Sharppaw does not need the cry of a RiverClanner to tune into Smogmaw's sudden weakness. Incredulity is striken across her face. He is padding behind ginger stripes, hair raised in an indignant bristle.

" What is wrong with you? " Sharppaw finds himself saying, voice a mix of utter shock and frustration. He felt that he knew that look— fear that shook you when you needed it to least. Since when did Smogmaw feel fear? Since when did he not seize opportunity, instead seizing himself? " He's not hurt. He's not. Smogmaw, wake up, " more emotion seeps into his voice than he had ever meant for it to. A mockery of Smogmaw's own words, pitched up in his own frantic timbre. He still feels like an apprentice, when he talks to him. But he is not— he is a warrior. He would be one, and Smogmaw would be there to see the day. If he wouldn't be, so help him.

Sharppaw tries to see his eyes, to pull Smogmaw from the depths of his mind with just a look— that thing he had always done for her. A teeth - clacking hiss, " Smogmaw! "

ooc ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ look, see, isn't it interesting? no, you're not even listening...

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• ( IS THAT NOT BRAVE ENOUGH FOR YOU? ) SHARPPAW: Mentored by Smogmaw
  —— he / she , no pref , icked by they prns ; fine with gendered terms ( tom, molly, etc... )
  —— currently 15 moons old. warrior ceremony delayed due to lackluster progress.
  
  a dark smoke feline that stands at an above average height. Easily identifiable by her namesake – an unruly mat of fur, destined to be cluttered by inconsistencies between her chimera fur. Burdened with a broken tail. Recently, she has realized it can still function, though she has wholly believed in its utter uselessness for so long that it cannot without great effort. Anxious, antisocial, paranoid. Sharppaw has not known peace for a single time in his life, and lives anticipating inevitable dangers to the detriment of herself and others.
  — Obsessed with the perceived 'game' within ShadowClan, the rules of which she is unaware of. Striving to be someone more likeable due to this.
  heavy ic opinions! he sucks.

​

 

[smogstar]

Vision lapses in and out of focus, the immediate world confined to hazy contours splay over a brown-green periphery. Undirected eyes provoke this bleariness, and it isn't as though he lacks the ability to refocus. The option is laid available to him should he desire it. Therein rests the crux of this predicament. Apprehension and anxiety have taken too firm a hold, a yoke around his neck, replete with spikes and barbs—and he chooses not to wriggle free.

The fuzziness does not soothe this dire sense of unseen disaster, but keeps it just distant enough. To tear down the partition and expose himself to the dreadful unknown would prove an unsavoury experience. Worse yet, it will surrender what meagre control he has.

From the ether proceeds a fiery spectre, augmenting in size to stand a fox-length before his paws. Eyes clench and unclench, and briefly revealed is a younger feline's visage. Tousled red fur, couple with an incomplete, emerald glare. His name is mentioned on two occasions, and a wet, deadpan intonation responds in kind: "Fernpaw..." Truthfully a pitiful effort from his end, but there exists a disconnect between vocal chords and sentiment, and he cannot provide more than he can supply.

Besides, another spectre materialises as surely as the first. It is someone whom Smogmaw identifies even through his stupor.

"What- what's wrong with me?" he reverberates, the intensity at which the other addressed him having sparked an influx of feeling. Unfortunately, it isn't as frolicsome a feeling one may hope it to be. "You're the ones who kept on walking," the tom carries on, muzzle atwitch and tone atremble, "so what's wrong with you? Get your fur out of a knot. I'm fine." His countenance twists somewhat, blackened gums and yellowed teeth left unprotected.

They're deluded to pin the brunt of their bewilderment on him. It isn't his fault. Greater powers are at play here, and as anger slowly drains from Smogmaw's face and eases the tension in his expression, his awareness about them resurfaces, and so too does the presence of raw worry. Ears flatten and wind rearwards. "You don't feel it, too?" he asks. "I feel it in my gut, same feeling I had just before the rockfall. Sum'n bad is gonna happen."

Still, he refuses to move. Never overlook a gut feeling, no matter how irrational or alien it may seem. ​