His leader's encroachment is received by slow, haphazard blinks. A dip of the noggin as well, a taciturn answer to their hanging question, but his tongue is kept captive in his teeth.
The deputy would not go so far as to say that the union between him and Chilledstar was a strained one. Traces of mutual respect lay buried within the midst of it, entwined into every interaction which they shared, scant as they may be. There sat a strong foundation of trust to boot, the very linchpin holding it all together—a precious resource, trust is, in a clan fraught with hidden agendas and clashing motivations. Yet, as Smogmaw imagined was the model for leader-deputy relations, the distance between them was palpable and built upon layers of duty and responsibility. But also, an undeniable, albeit subtle, tension. A deputy fosters their ambition while they lie in wait for their inevitable ascension, and a leader must live knowing the coming rise to power is interlaced with their own mortality.
Smogmaw's eyes take on a more purposeful mien shortly thereafter, and his brows unfurl by a nominal margin. Duty and responsibility do not appear to be the motivators in Chilledstar's conduct tonight. Rather, it is the pursuit of good conversation. He's surprised, pleasantly. "Of course," he meows softly, embarking on long strides that follow on the other feline's heels. Throughout the brief trek from where they'd stood in camp to the marshscape beyond the hollow, he'd clawed the precipices of his skull for a semblance of this 'gossip' they sought after. He tries to recollect important happenings from the clan's stint with the bears, and any notable event in the ensuing days.
"I take it you've gotten wind of my dispute with Roosterstrut?" he begins, exhaling sharply at the tailpiece of his words. His pace matches that of Chilledstar's, though he holds himself at a lower, almost submissive bearing. "A bitter and unsavoury affair, that, but bound to happen eventually." Muddy eyes drift netherwards for a scattering of moments as the coming words are closely considered. "His old man was someone I knew, back in the marsh colony moons. Always had somethin' terrific to say about his boy, along the lines of him growin' up into a strong fighter or sum'n of the sort." Pent-up frustrations guided the ginger tom's claws on that day in the tunnels, though he lacked the nerve to do anything meaningful with them. Smogmaw found himself reeling with disappointment after the fact. "He's strong, just not in a mental kind'a way," he drawls on, "and he's hardly a fighter. Just hides behind his clanmates' backsides for the most part, lets them fight his battles. Even after that encounter, I had Betonyfrost stroll on up to me, shoulderin' Roosterstrut's strife, 'cause she doesn't trust him to do it himself."
Another sigh breaks from his jaws, and he looks up towards his leader's icy regard. Their opinions on the matter lay beyond his grasp, though it is no secret that they demand efficiency from all in this clan. "Anyone been givin' you trouble since you've gotten to where you are?" the deputy asks, then, moving the conversation onward. "Not in a rule-breakin', misbehavin' kind of way, but in like a subtle way that keeps you on your paws."
