And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper. - Psalm 1:3

Smokekit and Ashkit came into the world products of their parents ambitions, suckling and kneading always under their parents watchful eye. Under the respite of simpler times, strength flowed easily from mother's teat into the body of the twins, much to the delight of said mother. Swanflight — pompous even then — grew overfond of the praise lauded on her by the other queens. So many seasons the Stars had denied her a litter, blood and flesh to call her own. Moons she could've spent cultivating the strengths of her moons squandered eyeing fellow queens with jealousy.

Swanflight tracked her moons with anxious accuracy. It would only be a matter of time til she retired, the she-cat feared, and then the knowledge imparted on her wasted. When she gazed upon her kits, she felt only a mixture of envy and resentment. Starclan had no right to deny her the privilege of motherhood - not after what she'd sacrificed. If she couldn't be a warrior, then her sons would instead.

The brothers were trained far before they were ready to be warriors. While other kits tumbled and rough-housed in front of the nursery, the two brothers sparred against one another while Swanflight looked on with a critical eye. It was a hard and taxing business, tiny kitten paws causing bruises, and in some cases, even tiny cuts concealed beneath their thick fur. Despite their age, the blemishes attracted very little attention; kits got into scraps all the time. If anyone noticed the way his legs stiffened with each leap or scattered moss from fitful nights' sleep ringed his nest, they didn't let on.

Smokekit stood silently by his denmates as they frolicked and romped, rarely pitching in a word beyond the occasional reprimand if things grew too rough. He was never the sociable type; words failed his stony tongue in the same ways that they blessed his brother. When he asked Swanflight about Ashkit's social proclivities, she clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Your brother forgets that every great warrior needs to foster his own strength before he can assist others. No one wants a deadweight."

Dead-weight. An ominous word that settled into his stomach like an irrepressible weight. From then on, the tom paid ever more attention to his spars and tussles, ever ignorant of the way his errant brother strayed farther and farther away from the nursery. Away from Swanflight and his brother.

It took barely one moon for Smokepaw to realize how wrong his mother was; that apprenticehood was more than grueling grunt work and spartan demands.

"A more solemn and introverted tom had never been crowned 'paw in Mistclan." Thus was the running joke in the den from when Smokepaw first dragged his nest to the apprentice's den. Apprenticed to the knightly Briargaze, he spent his first three moons under a gentler paw than that which had reared him thus far. Unlike his mother, Briargaze was not nearly as flinty and hard-hearted. She did not demand excellence and professionalism from her apprentice, only that he remain attentive to her instruction and pull his weight.

The gentle paw he recieved nurtured Smokepaw's ambition and work ethics, while at the same time pushing for him to find a healthier connection between his working hours and leisure time. Despite his best efforts, Smokepaw's lazing — a snide term used by his mother — failed to impress upon her that her son was in fact, up to par. Smokepaw remembers the way his mother bore down on Briargaze, anethemas and threats on her tongue. Her tail lashing back and forth as if possessed; Briargaze's tongue wilted with apologies and tears bubbled at her eyes. "This wasn't my doing— he was fine but a day ago."

"My son has three moons til he graduates! How will be pass his ceremony when he's taking time off whenever he pleases! This is disgraceful! If you cannot keep him in line, then I can ask Russetstar to find someone else."

Smokepaw's recollections recorded Briargaze as a coward in his eyes. From that day forth, the tom was reassigned to the grizzled Thornwhisker, a senior warrior who had all of Briargaze's expertise but none of her gentleness. Smokepaw would indeed admit in hindsight that he learned a great deal from the stern warrior, yet much of his respect would be overshadowed by resentment at his mother's meddling and frustration at his own ineptitude.

"Brother, may we speak?"

"You have other duties to attend to, right?"

"Look. Ash. You know I never meant to ignore you, right? It's - it's just that Mother is keeping me busy and I, just, you know." Smokepaw shifted awkwardly from paw to paw, searching his mind for an excuse and finding none. How could one cat be the receptacle for the entirety of one's guilt? For moons, Smokepaw's toil had rendered him un-sociable and quiet, meekly bending his head underneath the yolk. 

Good brother that he was, Ashpaw's face became deceptively nondescript."What? Oh come now, who said you were ignoring me? A wariors duty is to attend to responsibilities in the clan."

"You sound like you're reciting something." Smokepaw huffed, rocking on his haunches. He sighed. "I don't want to apologize for what happened before. All I can do is look towards what's coming ahead. We've both passed our assessments. Our ceremonies are likely tomorrow." A long-suffering sigh left his jaws. "I was thinking about...spending some time together. Before we're warriors and have our seperate lives to lead."

His entreaties were met by a skeptical glare. "What, just so you can show me up again?"

Smokepaw put a paw on his shoulder. "So we can do something together; away from Mother, away from our responsibilities. For the clan."

"And for me."

Having won over Ashpaw's skepticism, albeit temporarily, Smokepaw takes pains to ensure his brother was as respected and talented as he. Mornings and late evenings are spent putting his brothers through the same vigorous motions foisted upon him by Thornwhisker. With intensity unrelenting and a patient gaze, the brothers are finally given their warrior names; Smokegaze and Ashstrike. Yet where one issue resolved itself did another rear its ugly head. With her sons grown now, Swanflight pushed upon them the duty of seeking a suitor, intent on continuing her line still further. Good blood was good blood.

Here he found the effort he put into bettering himself turned against him. The young tom was unnerved by the company of Mistclan's gentry daughters, too shallow and frivolous of mind. Once did he spend his evenings relaxing after patrol or hunting trips, but then was his quiet time interrupted by social responsibilities. At the end, he spurned them, retreating ever further into his duties. He's not charismatic or affable the same way Ashstrike is, and guilt for ignoring his partners in favor of self-advancement threatens to eat him up.

Thus, romance became but a fleeting afterthought.

By virtue of his associates, Smokegaze knew with some inevitability that he would find those similar to his Mother. Mistclan was a noble clan on the surface, but rot has always existed beneath the surface. A seasoned warrior rapidly approaching his twentieth moons, soon there will be other expectations to fulfill as an unmarried tom. It is these aspirations that led him down the path of a notorious tom - Boulderclaw, a soul Smokegaze reviled in every measure. Harsh of hand and coarse of manner, the blue tom found himself wondering how this "ragged, flea-bitten, Ridgeclan-runaway" wound up in Mistclan at all.

"Truly appalling the way he messed up the leg of my son. The limb looks like a fox got to it."

"He shouts just like a fox."

"There's no mercy in that tom. He belongs in Ridgeclan, hunting hawks."

Of the devestation left in his wake — and others like him — it seemed the youngest bore the most obvious scars. The stories were few and far in between, uttered in the dead of night between frightened lips. Smokegaze made it a point to avoid the medicine den, where the stench of suffering was the most pungent -- yet in between his duties, when he could've been resting, the grey tom would make it a point to impart his knowledge upon Mistclan's apprentices, whether it be in the way of hunting, spiritual knowledge, or combat. He took no charge for his services and found relief when Boulderclaw's abuse lessened in visible intensity and more cats entered the warriors den intact. 

Respite came on a mild wind when Swanflight announced a second litter, this time a solitary she-kit named Iriskit. Much like his own uprbinging, Iriskit is sheltered by her mother, scarcely permitted egress outside of the nursery. She buys too closely to her mother's word, surrounding herself with mossballs and soft flowers, silly nursery games and lullabies. Mixed feelings, mostly negative, swarming in his breast, Smokegaze resolves to keep his presence scarce. He would watch from a distance, but never interfere.

Mistclan needed him more than his gentle, innocent sister.

In hindsight, Smokegaze wonders if he should've prayed more. The concept of spiritual piety was one shared with their neighbors — Ridgeclan — yet the notion had become so controversial in recent moons he dared not bring it up. With Wolfstar's inauguration, the border became a place of contention. Patrols sent out came back with ruffled fur and resentment lingering in their eyes. Poisonous insults and expletives became commonplace as a spiritual fire is kindled. Heathen, imposters, apostates. They hurt to hear - as if the stars ruled one clan inferior to another by virtue of where they were born. Smokegaze looked out on the many young sons and daughters of Ridgeclan, those who aligned themselves to Mars, so eager to bloody themselves, and he wonders how such a clan could thrive.

The need for young warriors quickened in their midst, so much so that even Smokegaze found himself saddled by an apprentice. Knowledge he imparts freely, yet in the way of emotional support and comfort, he is at a loss. He instructs without comfort or love, utilizing a vigorousness unseen since his tutelage under Thornwhisker. Mentor and apprentice share naught but a respect that borders on aloofness as they train. Smokegaze does his best to prepare her, for what he does not yet know.

Mistclan knew war like a warrior knows the river. Familiar, perhaps with its coming but unaware of its dangers.

Dangers came, indeed. Awakened in the night besides his brother, Smokegaze like most of his brethren were caught off guard by Ridgeclan's assault. The tranquil night air split by horrid howls and screeches. The very air infected by fear and rage, Smokegaze regained enough bearing to man the frontlines, although he loses sight of Ashstrike in the process. All were guilty. None were spared the horrors of war. Smokegaze catches sight of Ashstrike's bloody body, a Ridgeclan warrior standing triumphant. From there, rage strengthened his blows and rage fills his mouth with fire; first his brother's killer falls, then others. Eventually with the assistance of Prairieclan, the war subsides.

But his heartbreak did not.

Mistclan lay broken in the wake of war. Ashstrike's loss haunting him, Smokegaze was reduced from a proud bachelor to a shriveled husk of a tom. He lacks heart in his endeavors; barely seeing Rainpaw into warriorhood with the backhanded name Rainshadow another jab at her apologetic mentor. Life went on without his interference; Ridgclan splintered, sending dissenters into their ranks. Irisfrost - newly widowed after the war - gave birth to a niece and two nephews, replacing the holes in their family.

Smokegaze only stopped by to give her some congragulations but otherwise kept up his distant act. The brief act of domestic peace was snatched away from them as her brood goes missing, sending his sister filling the air with screams that chilled him as they were so reminiscent of the screams of the war. Mistclan's warriors gather enraged, demanding Hailstar exact justice. Outsiders are scented on the borders, sending tensions skyrocketing.

And Smokegaze wonders just when his clan will ever be safe again.

Master of The House: Smokegaze comes from the wanted ad hope is our gravity as the final member of Dawnclaw's inner circle, and rot in the roots as Irisfrost's only living brother. He aligns with Root from Mistclan's plot adoptables. Smokegaze believes in strong foundations for all cats, be them leaders, kit or even the clan. Weakness, like infection, can start early and cause invisible damage with catastrophic consequences. Due to his insular beliefs, Smokegaze does not make new connections easily and does not let outsiders get close to him. With allies he is steadfast, yet as his beliefs guide his view of the clan as a whole, the blue tom has come to believe Mistclan should not reach out for outside assistance. At least until the current conflict has been resolved.

Blood and Tears: To give your life for your family entails a certain amount of sacrifice, that much is true. In the wake of copious losses to his bloodline and the severe amount of responsibilities that have landed on his shoulders, Smokegaze has almost completely shut down any sort of positive interaction with his family. He finds little consolation from his distant sister as she mourns her lost brood, nor with his machavellian mother as she pulls his strings in the background. And if he's honest, he'd rather they give him the cold shoulder than pierce his heart with the cruel thorns of dishonesty.

Cold Hands, Warm Heart: Naturally reserved, Smokegaze's perception on romance has been greatly strained by his past experiences. The tom is romantically dense, choosing to express any form of interest or care through acts of service. If he were ever to choose to pursue a love interest — unlikely given his workaholic tendencies — it would be hard to win his paw as — like his mother — he tends to have strict criteria. Someone who can keep up with his meticulous habits would be a start, although someone ruling on the other side of the contrarian spectrum would be a good choice. That being said, this does not mean that Smokegaze has a heart of stone. Warm feelings are concealed in his breast, albeit rarely expressed. Anyone lucky enough to win him over will find themselves with a horrendously nagging mother hen and mentor all wrapped into one.

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