the boundaries fools will crush ↷ [ sable ]

[smogstar]

Smogmaw follows a regular pattern of lingering, observing, learning, and retaining. To simply sit and absorb the going-ons of his fellow clanmates has become second nature to the deputy. It is his preferred, not to mention most proficient method of social interaction—a smile may be coaxed, a greeting or joke can be haphazardly strung together, yet he attains a state of utter immersion when in the study of his peers. Knowledge gained is but an exploitable resource, and the pools of knowledge under his care have deepened significantly amid the evolving present.

By now, the passing remark he'd overheard came to be accepted as an observation, rather than mere hearsay: Sabletuft, a lead warrior, and dare say a friend, made himself scarce during nights of the gathering, going StarClan knows where doing StarClan knows what. It was of a mundane enough nature that Smogmaw couldn't fathom anyone outright fabricating such a trivial tidbit. And so, true to his methodical approach, unrestrained by whatever history or battle-forged bonds shared between the two toms, the deputy felt disposed to address the speculations head-on. A bout of light questioning, with scant optimism, ought to clear the cloud of secrecy hanging over Sabletuft's shoulders.

Conscious footfalls trail Sabletuft's own. Any noise summoned by his furtive movements is lost amongst the chorus of the swamp peepers, and the ill-lit undergrowth swallows any evidence of his surveillance. It's worth noting, however, that both are ShadowClan cats, and had Smogmaw walked in his subject's paws he'd undoubtedly be aware of his observer's presence.

"Top of the evening to you, Sabletuft," greets the ashen tom, electing to deliver his salutations just as the warrior steps into a clearing bathed in the crescent moon's waning light. His current destination isn't readily apparent; hunting, or possibly a moonlit leisurely stroll, it matters not. The significance lay in where he's been, what he's done, and whatever other facets there were to his nocturnal escapades. "Feels good to stretch the legs at this stars'-forsaken time of day, don't it? As does gettin' away from the dreary flow of camp." He speaks in a casual tone, words carrying a hint of genuine camaraderie, though the central purpose is clear—to engage Sabletuft in conversation that would eventually lead to the crux of the matter.

// @S A B L E T U F T ​

 

[S A B L E T U F T]

can we leave it behind? — There is a lulling peace to be kept within the shadows. Hidden from the eyes of starlight, shielded against any prying eyes tracking him. Nightly travels were not something new for Sabletuft, however their frequency had changed. As nightfall came the Lead was commonly scarce from camp unless given an order for something else. Now with Loampelt ridden from his side his freedom was regained and he no longer had to consider squaring his time away for another.

Of course, it also managed his time with Sunnyday better. It was well known Sabletuft did not attend Gatherings. Not ever since they had started. He found himself unable to bare the sight of the oaks again. That chain of habit was broken, only once, in attending the Gathering which he would be announced as ShadowClans new Lead Warrior. With Smogmaw also remaining nestbound due to his own injuries, he wanted to give the pleasure of passing Sootstar in the aftermath.

Yet even in the face of loud chatter and the overwhelming scent of all four Clans, Sabletuft frequently thought of Sunnyday that night. Their meeting broken by the fact his Clan remained where they would share their meal. With his Clans return to camp, they hadn't waited any longer than necessary to meet once again. Their last had been a toiling mix of unease and relief, pulled between worrying about his friend's placement in his Clan and his own finding suspicion. At least in the latter no one had caught onto his patterns with enough concern to approach him.

At least, that was what he had hoped.

This evening stroll, Sabletuft had become aware about halfway through that there were paws following his own. The wind is not in his favor, as he can't catch any scent as to who it was. He calculated the outcomes of several actions he could take, best weighing in simply forcing the both of them into the light. The dark path opened into moonlight, and Sabletuft found little surprise that he tracker had come forth. Oddly, he is relieved to find its Smogmaw. A friend.

"Smogmaw, evening." Sabletuft is curious what drew Smogmaw to follow him for so long out this way, but he doesn't openly question it. Instead he follows his deputy's lead for pleasant conversation.

"I've been itching to have my nights fully mine again, yes." He confirmed, settling to sit in the pale light. "I come out here to think, most often. It's too loud in camp, even in the night. Out here it's just me and the cricketsong... and you, I suppose." — tags​

 

[smogstar]

When the greeting is reciprocated without hitch, Smogmaw's dark-striped forehead lets sink in a courteous bow. There's hardly any complexity in veiling his true intentions. Carefully-chosen words and reducing shifts in expression goes a long way in achieving the preferred results. "It can be too much, far too much," he continues. A sole footfall is then taken forward, as he next seeks to bridge the gap between them in increments. "So many kits runnin' amok, folks who either give you funny looks or don't look your way at all. So much... socialisin'. Fuck, it's hard keepin' all of my whiskers not-pulled-out."

Raw truth seeps through his words. Albeit the smallest and least uppity of the five clans, ShadowClan is nonetheless replete with its own brand of entropy, a chaos which would torment anyone who took the mantle of deputy. The other's remark on their surrounding environment holds strong in his mind as he inches closer yet again, and Smogmaw is reminded of why he and this tom shared a kinship of sorts. They are alike in their need for retreats beyond the hollow's pine enclosure, a unified thirst for the quiet of nature. Fortunately, the bond of theirs does not complicate his search for any privileged information that's kept hidden.

"I deeply loathe gatherings for the same reason," he says next, the faintest of flinches tugging at his muzzle. "You hate gatherings too. Funny, that. Can't say I remember seein' you at one." A singular, shallow chuckle bursts from his throat, sounding more like a sudden exhale than all else. "I don't blame you none, but you not bein' there means I have to talk with them other clans. Come to the next one, Sabletuft, please."

This is but the turning point in this discussion. From here on in, the exchange of words shifts into a subtle contest of exposing who-knows-what, all while maintaining utmost discretion. By now, Sabletuft must hold some understanding as to what's being alluded to, assuming he's culpable of what the rumours allege—under no circumstance can Smogmaw suggest that he knows less about these circumstances than he truly does. "Where do you go on nights of gatherings, when so many of your clanmates are off elsewhere?" the deputy asks plainly, once a sprinkling of silent moments have passed them by. Aside from a heaved brow and yet another twitch of the snout, his expression remains largely the same. "You're goin' somewheres, bud. Better to clear the air now, before people start assumin' the worst." ​