truffle hunter / open, gift giving

[Needledrift]

It was a small ritual, miniscule really, but not to do it felt... wrong. Once, many moons ago, it was known that Smogmaw was quite the collector (a hoarder in truth.) He had an extensive collection of mushrooms of all gills and stripes. He had been chipmunk-like in his stashing, a trait that Needledrift had giggled at only in private (it was rude to giggle at sometimes mushroom hoard in front of them.) Over time, of course, the hoard become less and less obvious with Smogmaw's growing responsibilities. Today, Needledrift was sure that nobody really remembered such a small detail about their clanmate.

But she remembered. Oh, boy, did she ever. Since that first discovery, Needledrift had held up her small ritual: a little mushroom, harvested with care, placed delicately in Smogmaw's nest on the first clear night of the new moon. Sometimes it was placed in the morning, right as the deputy went off to do other things, sometimes it was in the evening right before he went to bed, but it was always there by the end of the day. She doubted that he knew of his secret mushroom provider's true alias and she was happy to keep it that way.

It wouldn't be much of a surprise gift at that point, would it?

This moon's mushroom was firm and bright, a pretty orange with creamy, flaky gills on the underside. Caught the large find, Needledrift had struggled to not crush it between her misaligned teeth as she carried it back to the warrior's den to set in Smogmaw's empty nest. She left it out in the open, as per usual, right in the center of his nest, before settling down in her own shared bed. Chittertongue would not be back until late so with a stretch and a yawn, she sprawled out, one eye trained on her gift to see what the reaction would be this time.

@smogmaw​

i will never leave your room, tell everything that bothers you​

 

[smogstar]

It's true. Swathes of seasons ago, before he ever carried a scar or donned a prominent title, Smogmaw showed a predilection for boring out hollows beneath pine trees and filling them with an inordinate measure of mushrooms. It'd gotten to the point where toadstools and the like were a rare sight amongst the swamp's common walking paths—and suppose a question be raised about his habit, the tom would merely shrug, accepting it as a peculiar aspect of his own being. Such things couldn't be properly defined sometimes. What truly counted was they were his mushrooms in his hollows, definitely not anyone else's, and that much made him content.

The waxing and waning of many moons saw Smogmaw's ambitions shift from funghi towards a more intricate web of influence. That phrase, 'getting his paws dirty', had gone from a literal interpretation to one of metaphor. But, on the odd occasion where he'd recall those bygone days of scrounging through muck and mud for hours on end, every so often happening on a red-and-white-spotted treasure, he would look back with a rare, genuine smile.

Whatever mood the deputy wore on this day wasn't a favourable one. Permanently-plunged brows sank lower than the norm, draped over eyes anger-stricken and morose. His entrance into the warrior's den came as a sluggish motion, and on languid pawsteps he'd draw near the slovenly heap of moss he called a nest. Verging on it, he would grind to a sudden halt upon getting a glimpse of what sat upon the peat. "Well, I'll be," comes a murmur, before the tom's bearing softened to match his voice. He pads closer, until he loomed above this mushroom that'd been mysteriously given to him. At an awkward, bone-cricking angle does he crane his neck to appreciate the specimen. Yellow flesh contrasts the dark-green backdrop, and it bore delicate, blistering gills on the thick cap's underside. Beautiful, it was. Just beautiful.

"You seein' this?" asks Smogmaw, who tears his focus away to glimpse Needledrift for but a split second. "This here... it's somethin', it is." ​

 

[Needledrift]

Needledrift nods, her eyes wide in faked innocence. She had just known that Smogmaw would enjoy the fungus - close observation of one's habits for seasons would do that. A small smile plays over her crooked features, her face pressed firmly into her nest to reply: "oh, wow. What kind of mushroom is it this time?" The words are muffled and misshapen in her mouth, a side-effect of both injury and incident (speaking through moss was not anybody's strong suit, really.)

She doubts that Smogmaw will notice though. A collector in the midst of admiring a new piece rarely does. She imagines how Ferndance or Chittertongue pour over their respective hoards of stuff in the same way. They were just as guilty of mental absence in their oglings.

"Last moon's was a... white one?" She prompts further.​

i will never leave your room, tell me everything that bothers you​

 

[smogstar]

While his clanmate's inquiries sail through the humid air, Smogmaw's heavy-lidded regard renews its hold on the specimen below. His esteem for mushrooms was far-reaching, yet it did not extend to familiarising himself with specific names that partitioned species from one another. A paw prods at the canopy's lower side, claws skimming across (though not catching on) the brighter-coloured fibers clinging to its underbelly. "Hmm..." he hums amid the inspection. "Callin' this one a 'Gilded Gold'. Might very well be edible, but I'm not willin' to find out."

The paw retracts, plonking onto the gritty earth shortly thereafter. His head then swivels in the ashen warrior's trajectory, and the longer he considers her second question, the closer together his brows would knit. "You really remember that, eh?" poses the deputy, whose noggin goes askew as the query spills from his maw. Such a minute, easily-overlooked detail, yet it's an image Needledrift retrieved quickly and clearly. A glint of perception hugs the rim of his brown pupils while she's subjected to his scrutiny. What else might she know?

"Whoever's troublin' themselves for me, they've been doin' it for a pretty season or two," states Smogmaw, following his words with a sharp exhale. "And I know it ain't my mate. She's not the type to readily dirty her paws."​

 

[Needledrift]

Needledrift tries to shrug nonchalantly, as if the information is completely beyond her mortal ken. A smile tugs at her lips though, the smallest hint of playful treachery. "Couldn't tell you! Mystery cats never tell their secrets I'm afraid."

The lie feels tiny enough, quaint enough, that Smogmaw will not be too upset if he (ever) finds out the truth. Little white lies about mushrooms are so rarely the cause of any great rift between clanmates (so Needledrift would believe, that is.) She stretches out on her back as she ponders this, a little squeak emitting from her partially open mouth as something satisfactorily pops around her hip. "What will you do with this one?" ​