Worn on Smogmaw's features is an expression which falls somewhere between a grimace and a scowl. It's an unpleasant look for him, to say the least, complemented by exposed ivories beneath his downturned chops, and eyes that do not waver from Snowmask's fallen form. Her death comes as a stark reminder of how fragile life tends to be. One moment, you're living life all prim and proper, cleaning out the mats from your long and luscious pelt, enjoying the petrichor-diffused air. The next moment, you're food for the worms, survived only by the child you'd left out in the cold, and not to mention the interim living mates you'd bothered for such a fleeting period.
Just as he hadn't for his former leader, the deputy grieves not for the molly's loss. This isn't indicative of any misgivings he held towards her, though he certainly held a pawful—there's simply no point or reason to trouble oneself over someone who's no longer alive. She's dead, gone, departed from this mortal plane, living on in memory alone. It no longer matters how she may have perceived him in life, and thus, he cannot anymore burden himself with thoughts about her.
He takes after his clanmates' examples, drawing inspiration from Dewfrost and the medicine cats' farewells, alongside Ferndance's eulogy. "You weren't here for long, Snowmask," he asserts, tone almost as dead as the cadaver itself. "But, you made your presence known. Whether it was demandin' us to respect your boundaries (and so soon after she crossed our own), askin' questions about how the clan worked, or struggling to fit in, you usually made the days more interesting." He isn't that good at this. Passing himself off as someone who cares certainly has its limits. "Ehrm," he musters, plainly struggling, "have a safe trip."
