- Oct 22, 2022
- 714
- 261
- 63
Following his not-so-glorious return to the clan, time has passed in an indistinct haze, and grief is no less foreign to the deputy.
He is not a spiritual tom. He aligns himself with a more unfantastic view about the world, in which tragic circumstances are ineludable components to the living condition. They cannot be escaped, and thus must be accepted and endured. Yet, in the shadow of Halfshade's passing, this lens is left cracked and increasingly difficult to look through. Her absence is one physically felt. Silent agony pulsates throughout every fabric in a manner consistent and merciless. A phantom limb of the heart.
Ergo, how could he reduce his mate's death to a mere fact of life when it impacts him so? How dare he entertain this idea that 'alas, everything is temporary', when there cannot be a truth more permanent than how he'll never see her again?
It will not be reconciled. He's fractured, unwhole, and the part of him she'd taken to the grave shall not ever see the sunlight anymore.
All the suffering gets done by the ones left behind, Smogmaw realises, and this poses an equally stark reality for their offspring. His offspring, now. No longer were their futures guided by a clear path, and he stood at a complete and utter loss as to sculpting a new one for them. Perhaps, in the cases of the older four, whom all walked neck-deep on path to warriorhood, this reality wouldn't prove too fatal. They'll require the odd shoulder-brush, maybe a heart-to-heart should the need arise, though their spirits will reforge with the passage of seasons (he thinks).
But for Birdkit, Tanglekit, and Halfkit, three whom may still well be pawing at the insides of their mother's swollen belly, he's appalled. Just how will their prospects fare without a mother's love and influence? Hell, the latter two have been fucking abducted because she wasn't there.
Way back when in the before-times, Smogmaw was what others referred to as an 'unlicked kit'. Had his mother given him any warmth prior to her own death, not a lone memory recalls her. Raised by an aloof father all on his lonesome, there'd been little room for any affection—and it is here where history breaks from its vicious cycle. For he may be lonely, and, at times, rather aloof, but he loves them without restraint, and he'll give the stars a reason to pray before any disease or kit-napping sadist ruins their lives further.
Drizzle collects in his pelt. Not enough to warrant a complaint, but enough for damp irritation to hang from his shoulders. His internal time-telling device informs him that, despite how much the overhead has darkened, nighttime will not show for another hour yet. The environment is at least a companion for his misery.
Head swivels over shoulder when vivid furs catch in his peripheral. "@APPLEPAW, hey," he mews. A pitiful attempt at a smile adds colour to his expression. "Go 'n gather your siblings, and bring them to the medicine den. Birdkit, too. Since your brother's feeling better, I want to talk to you all." His noggin would dip in thanks, and then he makes for the entrance to Starlingheart's cave. Mud and muck squelch beneath his paws until he meets the den's entryway. A gentle call of Swanpaw's name is all the forewarning he's bothered with, and it isn't until the sound of smaller paws sploshing towards him rouses the tom around.
His regard is tender when he views them all. They're the lone source of comfort he has these days. "Hi," he begins pathetically, though the tension in his shoulders seems to wane. "Birdkit, I'm Smogmaw. From what I've heard, you like to keep your kin and clanmates alert on their paws." He finds her mismatched gaze and holds it with firm intent, all the while his heart promptly melts. "Good. Your mother lived the same way, always had to give people a piece of her heart, whether they liked it or not." Though he'd not been present for her birth, he nevertheless feels that paternal connection as one does. Does she look at him similarly, though? If he were to give her a sopping lick across the crown, might she respond with giggles or with complete and utter revulsion?
He scrubs the thought away as his eyes find the rest of them. "I've missed you all, a lot. And I've missed a lot, too. I'll tell you a fun story from the journey, if you give me one from camp."
// @swanpaw, @Garlicpaw, @ASHENPAW, @Birdkit
He is not a spiritual tom. He aligns himself with a more unfantastic view about the world, in which tragic circumstances are ineludable components to the living condition. They cannot be escaped, and thus must be accepted and endured. Yet, in the shadow of Halfshade's passing, this lens is left cracked and increasingly difficult to look through. Her absence is one physically felt. Silent agony pulsates throughout every fabric in a manner consistent and merciless. A phantom limb of the heart.
Ergo, how could he reduce his mate's death to a mere fact of life when it impacts him so? How dare he entertain this idea that 'alas, everything is temporary', when there cannot be a truth more permanent than how he'll never see her again?
It will not be reconciled. He's fractured, unwhole, and the part of him she'd taken to the grave shall not ever see the sunlight anymore.
All the suffering gets done by the ones left behind, Smogmaw realises, and this poses an equally stark reality for their offspring. His offspring, now. No longer were their futures guided by a clear path, and he stood at a complete and utter loss as to sculpting a new one for them. Perhaps, in the cases of the older four, whom all walked neck-deep on path to warriorhood, this reality wouldn't prove too fatal. They'll require the odd shoulder-brush, maybe a heart-to-heart should the need arise, though their spirits will reforge with the passage of seasons (he thinks).
But for Birdkit, Tanglekit, and Halfkit, three whom may still well be pawing at the insides of their mother's swollen belly, he's appalled. Just how will their prospects fare without a mother's love and influence? Hell, the latter two have been fucking abducted because she wasn't there.
Way back when in the before-times, Smogmaw was what others referred to as an 'unlicked kit'. Had his mother given him any warmth prior to her own death, not a lone memory recalls her. Raised by an aloof father all on his lonesome, there'd been little room for any affection—and it is here where history breaks from its vicious cycle. For he may be lonely, and, at times, rather aloof, but he loves them without restraint, and he'll give the stars a reason to pray before any disease or kit-napping sadist ruins their lives further.
Drizzle collects in his pelt. Not enough to warrant a complaint, but enough for damp irritation to hang from his shoulders. His internal time-telling device informs him that, despite how much the overhead has darkened, nighttime will not show for another hour yet. The environment is at least a companion for his misery.
Head swivels over shoulder when vivid furs catch in his peripheral. "@APPLEPAW, hey," he mews. A pitiful attempt at a smile adds colour to his expression. "Go 'n gather your siblings, and bring them to the medicine den. Birdkit, too. Since your brother's feeling better, I want to talk to you all." His noggin would dip in thanks, and then he makes for the entrance to Starlingheart's cave. Mud and muck squelch beneath his paws until he meets the den's entryway. A gentle call of Swanpaw's name is all the forewarning he's bothered with, and it isn't until the sound of smaller paws sploshing towards him rouses the tom around.
His regard is tender when he views them all. They're the lone source of comfort he has these days. "Hi," he begins pathetically, though the tension in his shoulders seems to wane. "Birdkit, I'm Smogmaw. From what I've heard, you like to keep your kin and clanmates alert on their paws." He finds her mismatched gaze and holds it with firm intent, all the while his heart promptly melts. "Good. Your mother lived the same way, always had to give people a piece of her heart, whether they liked it or not." Though he'd not been present for her birth, he nevertheless feels that paternal connection as one does. Does she look at him similarly, though? If he were to give her a sopping lick across the crown, might she respond with giggles or with complete and utter revulsion?
He scrubs the thought away as his eyes find the rest of them. "I've missed you all, a lot. And I've missed a lot, too. I'll tell you a fun story from the journey, if you give me one from camp."
// @swanpaw, @Garlicpaw, @ASHENPAW, @Birdkit
