WEIGHT OF THE WORLD & † smogmaw

[SHARPSHADOW]

† The world never stops changing, no matter how badly Sharppaw wants it to. Camp is no longer a damp, muddy hollow surrounded by walls that could rip the fur from your skin, but a stuffy, stinking tunnel beneath something ShadowClan shouldn't be beneath. How much bad has happened on the thunderpath? By the thunderpath? Was tucking beneath it as safe as they all seemed to believe? It's the calm before the storm, she thinks. Were the stars above thinking about how easy they've had things for too, too long?

Sharppaw cowers, tucked away from the rest of ShadowClan. Disaster struck in the very same way ShadowClan may try to. Strike your opponent fast and hard. Nagging words hang over her head.

Sharppaw wonders what she would've thought if those rat bites hadn't killed her.

What right would someone who died so lamely have to judge him?

He'd be just as unremarkable, he thinks. Battered by a marsh hair and left to rot somewhere. There were very few who would wonder where she was. Wondering isn't the same as caring though, she knows. Warring advice equates to nothing, in the end. She should listen to no one in the end. But what did that mean, if it includes herself?

Sharppaw keeps to himself, tucked away from the rest of ShadowClan that shuffled and skulked about. Ears flat to her skull, claws unsheathed and threatening to scrape at the ground below. She settles in the same routine she had within the medicine den. Nevermind the smell. Both were dark, damp caves. Sharppaw was not hard to miss amidst talk of recouping. It's not like he's ever brought anything home that was worth talking about.

And similar still, he finds himself drifting to Smogmaw. She wishes she could look more like him, like nothing mattered at all, than something to pity. Silver eyes weigh similarly heavy. Sharppaw's frown creases deep– and yet it's not the same. She can't see him now, but he's probably close enough to that. She wouldn't be remarkable for guessing that, though.

She'd like to say something, but she never knows what.

You almost died. I almost died. Would he be thrilled to know? He can feel the proof across his eyes, mouth, and nose. A shaking exhale almost feels unreal, but his flanks are heaving, and not in the way that spelled an early doom. He would live, but would he ever do anything more? He'd like to.

" Why can't I do anything right? " The question comes unbound. Spoken at him, and at no one at the same time. Sharppaw feels like he'd hate the answer, but he'd hate himself for saying nothing later. The usual shake is gone, and left is only raggedness; a dry question; the pinch of his brows. Stuttering a breath, Sharppaw sprawls out on his side.

[ ooc: rahh... @smogmaw ]​

 

[smogstar]

Throughout the incessant parade of chaos in misery that was the preceding couple of nights, StarClan deigned not to grant him even a moment's worth of respite. Be it on account of malign cosmic forces or a prejudiced sort of karma, the tom's belly has been forced up and subjected to an incalculable degree of pain on all levels. Physical, from the barefaced attempt on his life by the WindClan menace. Mental, from the stressors of barbaric invaders who've forced him from his home, and the weight of responsibility that his role pressed on his shoulders. Spiritual, from the grief of losing his mate and kits. His very existence seemed to defy any possibility of finding comfort or relief, and if he clung to any religious dogma, he would have supposed it to be a perverse cosmic conspiracy.

Though congested by clanmates and claustrophobic because of the fact, these tunnels are but a material manifestation of isolation. It is in these concrete confines that Smogmaw finds himself grappling with bottommost depths of his insecurity. Here he wallows, detached from any semblance of safety, familiarity, or family. Kept company by only the long-winded shadows which sprawled along the walls on occasion, and beguiled to sleep by the lullaby of monsters passing overhead.

Lidded eyes would creep open when the dithering tone of Sharppaw hits his ears. A yawn follows suit, before he swivels his head around to glimpse the tangled thornbush of anxiety which was his apprentice. "Hmm?" he resounds, pondering the obtuse question as it echoed in his skull. To purport that she wasn't capable of doing anything right was, in itself, a falsehood. For instance, had someone requested the feline to find the most inane matter to lose sleep over, Sharppaw would undoubtedly excel. "I don't think that's true, but you aren't entirely wrong either," he muses, casting a sidelong glance towards his collapsed form. "I'm impressed, though, with your continued campaign of self-sabotage. What you fail at the most, Sharppaw, is one of the first lessons I'd shared with you. Do you not remember?"

Precariously, the gray tom rises to his paws, and imparts a downcast glare upon his apprentice's dark figure. "Put your trust in no one but yourself. You follow the first half extraordinarily well, I'd say. Care to explain why the latter part fails you so miserably?"​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† The both of them were lazing about at the end of the day. His skin may feel like it's crawling, but he feels like a burden, all the same. Or perhaps he was closer to nothing at all– easy to forget with his chin on the ground. Smogmaw's absence was sorely missed, she was sure, even if unknowingly so– he was something. Presentable, at the least. Sharppaw could hardly speak at all. His words tumble from him uselessly. He might tell himself his question was rhetorical.

It really wasn't, though.

There's a strange jump in her chest as the rumble sounds, contemplative. She can hear her swallow echo in her ears.

I don't think that's true, but you aren't entirely wrong either.

Half compliment, half nothing. It doesn't make sense to her, and she would meet her mentor's potent gaze with a quivering one of her own. Too - wide, likely a sliver where she lays. Blackened lips press in a thin line. She doesn't understand. Though the latter of what he says sticks out to her. Her ears flatten, just a notch. Smogmaw has the innate ability to speak for them both though, ( Not agreement– but rather, pushing when Sharppaw does not know how to ), and so, Sharppaw waits; he listens. He tries not to look too hard at him.

Self - sabotage, the term makes his face creep into one of confusion. A distressed kind– brows furrow with the words. Do you not remember?

" I– I do, " she tells him, and she nearly sounds annoyed, but drops just shy of it, eyes fretful, despite the half - glare they meet Smogmaw's with. He can't stand the sound of his own voice. Put your trust in no one but yourself.

Sharppaw blinks up at him. She's angry, and yet, not at all. " I–I haven't, I mean– " He trips over his own words like an idiot. Abruptly, he scrambles onto his own paws, meeting Smogmaw's gaze with angry eyes and held breath, teeth baring in his frustration. He didn't understand. " I tried! " he tells him– pleads with him. Because it looked like he did nothing, didn't it? Returning meagerly each time. It looked like he didn't. And trying was worth little, he knows, he knows, but he just– " I tried, I tried, but it– I haven't– done anything. I haven't, " stumbles out. " I haven't caught anything, I haven't– haven't found anything, I– " She thinks of her mistake, the rabbit. Her mistakes, the claw mark across her face. It hurts to blink still, and her eyes water as she talks. And what for? It was pathetic.

She's shaking her head, frantic; denial. " I tried to... ignore what she told me and just do and then I almost died. I almost... They nearly killed me. " He didn't want to die yet. He didn't want to die. It's uncomfortable, as the bile slides down his throat, and he keeps looking at Smogmaw despite how ugly he probably looked. " I'm not... worth trusting. I'm not... " Nonsense speech dies into nothing at all. A whisper. He can't stand to look at him, but he can't stand to look away. His lip trembles.

" Y-your advice is stupid, " she says. And yet she needs him to say something.​

 

[smogstar]

Is it overly demanding to expect a coherent sentence from someone on the cusp of warriorship? The absolute disorder of Sharppaw's answer bites into what little patience he held, and with every attempt at a word sputtered forth from her weak jaws, a skin-prickling sense of agitation threatened to consume him entirely. Her strings of words are knotted and in a shambles—how fitting that his apprentice fails to express his thoughts in a cohesive way, while trying to place emphasis on other areas in which she has failed. Some would see it as irony, but Smogmaw simply viewed it as an infuriating example of incompetence.

12 moons. 12 moons old, a vital age where most warriors-in-training crossed the threshold into the next stage of their servitude. Sharppaw's circumstances differed, for not only did he lag behind in all realms of prowess and comprehension, but he was also glaringly aware of it.

StarClan knows this isn't the deputy's fault. Getting paired with a child whose neuroticism outshined that of his own may have been a cruel joke on Pitchstar's part, but Smogmaw refused to let it be his burden to bear alone. Having endured an addled mind for his entire existence, the dark-toned tom had learned to adapt and compensate for his deficiencies. A clear-cut separation exists between the obstacles of the mind and the obstacles of the material world. Irregardless of Sharppaw's comfort with the process, she must learn to understand that her struggles are confined to the former.

"Self-reliance, Sharppaw, is the only kind of faith a warrior must have," he drawls on in a leaden tone, overlooking the slew of defeatism she'd so flippantly flung in his direction. "Not faith in StarClan. Not faith in your leaders. Not faith in your family. Faith in yourself." Brows knit together as he glowers over her. The pitiful display she'd put on solidifies his conviction that she's nowhere near ready for the responsibilities of becoming a warrior. Only when this ethos of fortitude instils itself firmly within his mind, ousting her self-defeating victim mentality, can she be prepared for the challenges which lie ahead.

"Look at how far doubting yourself has gotten you. You've done nothing but leech off ShadowClan's fresh-kill, without providing so much as a morsel in return." Muscles become taut as takes on a commanding aura. This blabbering, asinine excuse of a future warrior urgently required a wake-up call, a swift kick to the senses. Her shifting of responsibilities and gratuitous excuses would no longer be tolerated. "That ends now," the deputy continues, tone growing sharp in an effort to pierce through the fog of his insecurities, "do you understand? I did not get to where I am by relying on my clanmates to cover for my shortcomings. I clawed my way up from the shadows and proved my worth, and my expectations for you are no less demanding."

His tail would thrash out and thwack against the tunnel's side. "Unless you're anticipating a decree of your own exile, you'll smarten up. You'll stop telling yourself you can't catch anything. You'll stop being so damned blind to your own potential—already, you've helped defend our territory from WindClan invaders. So grow some fucking claws, and catch something." ​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Her jaw clenches when she speaks of self-reliance. He was like the others, listening to his own word and his word alone. She wants to snap at him, to ask him if he'd been listening at all or was two busy pulling the cotton from his ears. He doesn't, though. Never does any of what he things. Sharppaw watches him with angry eyes and lips bitten. " I– I don't care about them, " Sharppaw says. She's not sure if she's ever put faith in the stars, nor none of the star-forsaken cats they put at their helm. Rookpaw is far from a wise face to listen to. He and his brother have that much in common. She doesn't say anything about the bit that's missing. She has a reason, he knows it.

Look at how far doubting yourself has gotten you. Sharppaw blinks. Her understanding of the conversation is slipping out from under his paws. Her frame sinks lower as Smogmaw points out the obvious. Ears press flat to her head. She can't look at him anymore.

" I know... " is a pathetic mumbling to the floor, and he wonders what happens to cats as useless as he was. Why should he trust the cat who fumbles over his own tail and struggles to bring a sticky lizard back for food? He didn't trust himself because of those things. Sharppaw flinches with the sudden declaration. If Sharppaw could've ended it, he would've as soon as it started.

Do you understand? He didn't, and it seems neither of them did; exchanging dreary looks to each other while nothing in this forest made sense. And he loathes the way Smogmaw gets to preach with dead-feathers and cuttingness fit for what he was– deputy. The fact that she was talking to him made a pit open in his stomach. Sharppaw cannot understand him at all, at it makes him want to tear up the stone floor they're sitting on. Why couldn't Smogmaw just scream at him? Why does he have to say crisscrossed words with an unreadable face. Sharppaw feels like she should feel worse than he does, and its distressing. He does not verbalize what he feels. He watches Smogmaw talk with wide eyes and he thinks he might be losing his mind.

Potential?

The tone of it all seems like it should be gut-wrenching. Stern-faced, gnarled speak of all the ways in which he has failed these past moons. It's always been coming. But it couples with the opposite. He doesn't understand.

She's never been more unsure of how to reply to something in her entire life, she doesn't think. Less - than - half sentences form in his mind. He waits, because he cannot believe that it ends there. This wasn't supposed to happen.

How could the opposite be true? How could influence be reversed like that? that wasn't the way the world worked. ...Was it? Sharppaw looks at the floor as if something terrible has happened. Sharppaw looks at his own feet– his own claws. It couldn't be that easy.

Could she trust herself to trust someone else? " ...Will you help me? "​

 

[smogstar]

Grime and gunk tarnish the inner mechanisms of Sharppaw's mind. It's evident that she has not entertained any form of rational thinking for a significant stretch of time, to the point where she can only stare, all frozen and wide-eyed, when a shrivel of introspection is forced upon him. Is it a blind infatuation with an idealised version of herself which has driven him to this state of mental decay? An incessant pursuit of perfection, wherein every pawstep forward was an opportunity for self-criticism and self-doubt?

Sharppaw's very nature betrayed the core philosophies of apprenticeship. Here did not sit a student hopeful of his own future, willing to learn and grow; instead, a tormented creature caught in the clutches of her own expectations, and actively praying on her own downfall.

Smogmaw could not wrap his mind around the coal-coated bundle of nerves before him, and it frustrated him immensely. There was certainly a shared parallel or two between them, particularly in the realm of obsessing over other's perceptions and whatnot. But where the deputy found motivation and ambition in those reflections, his apprentice crumbled under their weight. He strived for self-excellence, and she sought self destruction.

His glower grew no less intense over the course of Sharppaw's pitiful mewlings. If anything, the flames of his frustration grew brighter, because how in the blazes was he supposed to guide her when he refused to glimpse his own prospects? It was akin to trying to mold clay that had already turned to hardened stone. "I will help you because I have to," he reminds the younger feline, bridging the gap between them with a lone pawstep. "Stars know I've tried with you, Sharppaw. But here you are, warrior-aged, and without the confidence and prowess to back it up."

His striped tail thrashes out behind him once more, as his neck stoops ever-lower, as if under the pressure of his own words. "To start, you must tell me why you think so poorly of yourself. Tell me what you have done, how you have failed. And then claw your skull for answers, ways you can rise above your hindrances." And if she doesn't, he'll have earned a cuff across the jaw. ​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† She hardly knows what compels her to say such a thing, and his unwavering gaze and snakeskin words quickly snuff the flickering flame of something new. Sharppaw tilts his head to meet the gaze that finds his. Too close for comfort, yet he remains where he is and he doesn't really know why. Obligation is all it was. Or something like obligation, but now really. Maybe he'd look like a fool for training someone like her. Maybe she should stay as is, cause it'd be satisfying to see him do wrong for once.

He knows that he won't do that, though, because it would rip up a lot more in the process of making sense. Why does she have to care so much?

Still, the reminder scrapes at her teeth. Owl eyes narrow into a glare half - made. " Right, " her voice mutters, and she regrets asking for anything from him at all. Everything was her fault. (Why was everything her fault?) It was her fault she didn't understand; didn't follow. Sharppaw thinks the tom likes to hear himself talk. And maybe he liked to put her further into the dirt as a fun bonus. How could he ever hope to crawl above a problem that was intrinsically himself? It'd only move with him– clawing further upward until... well, something would happen.

His expression hangs on the edge of scandalized as his mentor continues to invade his space with oppressive presence. Sharppaw's lip curls into a grimace, tufts of fur prickling along his neck. " D-don't you know everything? Don't you? " Her eyes flicker to and fro as if desperately seeking escape and finding none. (As if, when that was mostly what it was).

And Sharppaw feels like a fool, stumbling over his words while Smogmaw cuts in, succinct. How did he just get to not care? She wishes she could not care as much as he does. " Because... " It's embarrassing, the way his voice shakes, and the pause between him attempting to sort it out is long and awkward. " Because I hardly do anything. " She had been okay once, but never good. Never the one to drag in a monster catch and have the clan swoon because it's leaf - bare and food is the quickest way to anyone's heart, no matter what they say. " It's never been good, and now it's worse. "

He wants him to claw at his skull, and the thought alone nearly realizes a headache on the edge of becoming real. " The answer is I– I need to get better. " And then would she "trust herself"? Would she be able to talk without tripping over his words like a two - legged kit? " I can't, though. " It's awkward to say all of this aloud when trying not to be fueled by the snowball of jumbled thoughts and weight of his brown glare (Dramatic.) But it's true. Something was missing from her. Or maybe the special ones had something else entirely. Because wasn't he the majority? Okay, or less than? Someone who's lived, and one day they would die, and they would only be murmured, murmured about and have lies told when they're buried. Sharppaw didn't want to be one of them, though.​