Private 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚍𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊 ◈『 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎 』

[Smogmaw.]

{$title} quality time <3

Time strides on, never hesitating for a second. Day breaks, night falls, day in, day out. The moments to breathe are rare and scarcely sought out, the peace of the land supplanted by the ceaseless, cyclic movement of the world. By his nature, a creature like Smogmaw has always been at ease in this constant flux, but the tumult of recent times has tested him. Battles fought, lifeblood spilt, allegiances severed, new territory claimed—all the change he could've bargained for and then some. Although it may have escaped the notice of most, the umbrous tabby has come out of this maelstrom different, weathered in a way that's hard to pin down and uncomfortable to confront.

Among a dying glow and gathering shadows, Smogmaw shuffles at a hobbled pace across the camp's breadth. It is early evening, dry as a bone, and as the weight of fatigue rises to his shoulders, so does the call to be near her, his mate. It is his sole custom to retreat to the same small spot of swampy ground each night and share the calm with Halfshade.

The bond that they share has never needed the saccharine sweetness of open displays to affirm itself. Their relationship, for a lack of better words, has always felt like the meeting of two great stones, each leaning against the other for support and structure. Even today, seasons after they'd paired up, the tom still cannot wrap his head around it—how a she-cat so fine would ever stake her future on the likes of him. But, hey. There are loads and loads of mysteries abound. The point stands: she was his rock, he was hers, and that was all.

He shuffles over to where they'd dug a den out of the bramble. A frown pulls his lips when he tucks his head into the hovel and is greeted by nothing but empty air and darkness. Figuring he'd simply beat her there, he enters and sinks himself down on the thin layer of miscellaneous bedding. Head erect, tail curled neatly over his hind paws, he is still, waiting.

// @Halfshade

 

[Halfshade]

YOU'RE WELCOME BITCH, THE SHOW IS FREE

I DON'T DO THE WALK OF SHAME - I STRUT

The pocosin does not appeal to her, she knows she'll get over it and adapt to the new lifestyle-she was always good at adapting, but for now her face is twisted in a constant visage of mild irritation at the soft earth that pulses under her pads and oozes between her toes with every step. This world feels damp, humid, she feels like she spends more time grooming than she did before in the drier forest area. Not that Halfshade minded grooming, sitting down to put her pelt in order felt natural and gave her time to think without interruption - most cats knew better than to bother her in her cleanliness or at least were polite enough to wait between licks to get a word in. The bicolor molly finishes untangling a pesky burr in her tail, feather-like plume of an appendage raised high and proudly to avoid scraping the mud as she pivots back around to pick up the shrew she had caught on her way back from her exploration - she hadn't actually been hunting, but the memory of hunger wouldn't let her forsake prey when it was right in front of her. The designated pile received its offering with a toss, her head tilted up to send the bloodied morsel at the top with a satisfied smile before her path lead her along back to the bramble burrow of a den they had staked a claim on. It was a little out of the ways but a good enough spot that was dry and shaded, a little more repair work and it'd be perfectly hospitable for every cat given its large size, maybe they ought to divide these into ranks - the idea of sleeping with a bunch of noisy giggling apprentices nearby made her pelt bristle in annoyance.
Smogmaw, she scoffs still at the silly name, is there when she arrives and she greets him with a lowered nose kissed into the side of one scruffy cheek, "You know, I don't think I'm going to get used to you not being Smoky. I wonder why Sablestar picked Smog over Smoke...I wonder why he thought to emphasize your mouth, mm? Perhaps it was a warning that you talk too much~?" She grinned, the teasting lilt to her tone rising up in a falsetto.

♥ I like turning heads - breaking necks ♥ Highheels in the morning.

Halfshade
♥ — ShadowClan
♥ — She/Her
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
♥ — Blue Torbie w/Blue & Orange Eyes.
#FEA8A8—#8087BD

 

[Smogmaw.]

Ear-furs prickle at a rustle by the den's threshold, a crinkly crumple which cut the silence suddenly and expectantly. Smogmaw cranes his thick neck towards the aperture in the bramble and is met with the soothing, familiar sensation—a touch which never fails to melt right into his bones and set his purr rumbling. His chest vibrates on an inhale, then warbles out on an exhaled 'mrrrp!' of acknowledgement. What wear and tear that'd hung off him mere seconds ago dissipates immediately in her presence, like morning mist, or a nightmare forgotten. Her offered words hang suspended in his consciousness for a fleeting moment. They're secondary to the simple gratitude of her being close to him. Finally, finally, her teasing snaps his focus to its tracks and summons a bemused frown on his features. But, he can never really frown for too long whenever she's about his company.

"I mean..." Smogmaw mouthes through a grinning, traitorous muzzle, "it's got a ring to it, don't it? Rhymes. Smaahhhhhgmaaw." Playing at his syllables is a sultry croon, and he finds himself chuckling as his jaws wrap around the pronunciation. Look, at least his new name isn't a half-arsed bastardization of his colonial one. The tom is far more comfortable assenting to Sablestar's naming wisdom than fussing over whatever closing note might've been chosen for 'Smoky'. His thoughts yield barren ground when searching for an even marginally acceptable alternative. Smokythroat? Ugh, no, not even a snowball's chance in hell. The tom doesn't trouble himself over what the leader must've seen in his baritone to justify the choice. There's a rhythmic cadence to it, and that's all that matters.

Amber irises swathe tenderly over the length of his mate, eyeing up every bit of her profile, drinking in the moment to drown himself in something beautiful. "I quite like yours," he says after a short silence, throat suddenly tight with affection. "And the name I'd fallen in love with s'many moons ago, I still get to use it, if only as a nickname. That's fine by me."

He shifts in his nest and leans to brush the side of his head against her shoulder, inviting her to settle down. The night is cold and the warmth they share would only last while they were close. "How are you holdin' up, anyhow? It's all..." He gives a little shrug, paws splaying out in front, "...well." His intended words fumble at his tongue tip and crawl back down his gullet. A quiet sort of indignity guides his line of sight down to the carpeted stretch between his paws, tail giving a curt whip before lolling behind him.

"Lookin' around. All this muck, mud swallowin' up my legs every time I take a step, and there's almost more water than solid land 'round here. It's..." Prolongedly, he heaves a sigh which bellows from within his deepest recesses. "It's real disproportionate to what we did to earn it." That being insurrection, and drawing the final blood of cats who he'd known for seasons, and every little atrocity that'd coincided with the colony's sundering. He hopes his tone carries the sentiment. It isn't guilt, or regret. More along the lines of disappointment, albeit a territory's worth more extreme, yet the target - whatever ought to receive this emotion - proves difficult to pin down.