MY SHOW STARTS NOW ; OPEN

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]/ only the final paragraph is really important + the rest is just rambling ^^,

His first memories of climbing are mostly centred around a tangled mess of curtains half-shredded by tiny claws, and a mostly failed attempt to make some sort of progress in ascending to a windowsill, or something oddly domestic and simple like that. He was never blessed with natural balance back then — not that any child is born with the innate ability to swing themselves up into hidden places with a flawless sort of ease, but still, he was particularly clumsy, even in his apology when he tried to justify the mess he'd made to his parents. "We're not mad, we're just disappointed," they'd always said, and he'd made himself into the very picture of guilt, features twisted into something dismayed, though once the initial shame had passed, he'd always tried again. Just because he wanted to get to the top, just because he wanted to see. Eventually, his father had lifted him up so that he could peer out of the window, but the taste of it being gifted to him hadn't been as sweet as what he imagined it'd've been if he'd done it himself.

He's not so much older now in body, but in mind, he likes to think that he's progressed a fair bit, pronouncing most of his words correctly and thinking things over before diving headfirst into every new activity, grasping onto every new opportunity. He's still as quick off the mark as he ever was — perhaps even quicker still, with those newfound reflexes of his — but his movements and choices aren't so aimless now. He doesn't have that safety net to fall back on, not with the reliability of before, and even then, he has to admit, he wasn't exactly indulged by an endless supply of attention from his ever-busy parents. They'd tried, and he'd appreciated it, appreciated them, loved them with every fibre of his being, and whenever they'd been around, they'd been there to catch him if he slipped, but that hadn't ever been as frequent as he would've liked. He'd learned to sneak around the vents in his family home when running was still unfamiliar to him, just to find a bit of entertainment. Thrills hadn't ever come easy to him.

With that absence of safety net, one would expect him to be more cautious, but it's as though the danger of it only seems to entice him all the more. It's an odd way to cope, he thinks, but then again, it's not exactly like he's trying to just cope, or get by. He's still somewhat in denial that he has anything to cope with, still desperately trying to den whatever he can, even if he knows it's only gonna burn him in the end, and he'd not call this self-help, he'd call it... proving something to himself. Considering the forested area they live in, it's not hard for him to find a tree, and what with all the gnarled roots and branches, all the dips and divots and tiny jutting-out spaces in between, it's not hard for him to start scaling one of them, either, though the tangled nature of the place has him convinced he's actually climbing three, somehow. After some time, the burn in his muscles starts to verge on unbearable. It's just what he needs.

Eventually, though, the ache becomes a danger, and just as always, he slips— not much, not far, and he's caught by the twisted vines and boughs that grip at one another with knurled fingers, but it hurts. Not that dim flare in his shoulders and limbs when he hauls himself up another foot, but a sudden, sharp burst just behind his ribs, and he releases all his breath at once, collects his thoughts, digs his claws into bark and greenery and holds himself up by the lattice that ensnares him. "Well done, Robin," he murmurs to himself, because he's not— he's not damaged by it, not too badly injured so much as he is just shaken up. "Can't even climb a tree without messing it up." He finds some humour in the situation, though, and snorts out a dry laugh, low and tinny in his throat. With nowhere else to go, it looks like he's stuck here until someone frees him — and isn't that hilarious? He bets his parents'd be shaking their heads at him now, albeit somewhat fondly, because he's trying, and they always valued that. He just hopes someone finds him before this position starts to get too uncomfortable.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Man, what an idiot. He's still semi-scowling at himself, even with the weird amusement thrumming through his veins, trying to adjust his position into something stabler, as though afraid the current distribution of his weight could prove fatal. 2D's unique accent drags him from his thoughts and constant shifting, though, and Robin glances down at him, into those black eyes, and clenches his teeth around empty air. "Could you try and get me down from here?" he asks, pushing his head up so that he can rest it without risking strangling himself on the vines. "Please," Rob then adds as an afterthought, because manners don't cost a thing, and if anything, they make people all the more eager to help. Still, it seems, BlizzardClan desires first to laugh at him, as though he's some sort of spectacle— and as he has the decency to make a joke out of himself anyway, then he can't exactly blame them for seeing him as nothing more than a temporary source of amusement. He flexes his paws to restore feeling to them as Witchpaw saunters over, and fixes him with a look. "It's quite simple, really. You just fall." His voice is a deadpan, because even though two people have now offered to help, neither of them have actually bothered to do anything. He decides to try shifting again, this time into a position that favours comfort, because he has a feeling he may be here for some time.

From two to three, and Rob is starting to feel like a zoo exhibit, placed there for others to gawk at. "Yeah, yeah, it was funny the first ten times. You guys need to get new jokes." He manages to keep himself sounding relatively tickled, though, as though he's sharing in the joke— he knows Jerseyboy means no harm, and there's no point in taking offence when this is pretty much his fault anyway. "And a bit of empathy, too. Oh— and some proactivity." Breathing's becoming progressively harder, ribs throbbing in protest every time his lungs fill with air, and still, it seems, nobody is willing to bother trying anything. Is this what happens in places like this, he wonders? They indoctrinate people with propaganda surrounding cooperation and teamwork, but when anybody gets themselves into a situation, everybody else is expected to turn their backs on the moron who couldn't survive alone. Maybe he's being irrational, maybe his thoughts are far-fetched, but it's the only conclusion he can come to when everyone's just laughing. He wishes he'd never left the ground.

By the time a figure actually reaches him, asking the others for directions, he's feeling pretty listless. "I dunno," he remarks wryly, "maybe just cut the vines and hope I don't land on anything sharp? Kids have thick skulls, right? I'll be fine." Or maybe he's just being stupid now, asking for further injuries. Ruefully, he reminds himself that he ought to be grateful, because at least she's making an effort — unlike the other three — and he turns his head to look at her, managing what he hopes is a thankful expression. Sure, she's as useless up here as she is on the ground, what with their relative sizes and all, but at least she's attempting to show some sort of care. That counts for something, right? She's quickly becoming his favourite, and the gap between her and his second favourite is growing, as his general opinion towards the populus sinks ever lower with Loveletter's arrival. "Ha-ha. What a shriek. Did you come up with that one yourself? 'Cause that was hilarious." How he manages to flash her a grin is beyond him, but he's gotten good at this whole "cover-it-up-and-smile" malarkey as of late. Pretending is something he's good at, apparently.

And then, as though all of his prayers are being answered at once, every kind act being simultaneously repaid, a voice finds its way through the darkness (dramatic? Maybe a bit) and fills his head with church bells and choirs. "Please," he all but begs, addressing Mel with the voice of a child who just wants to kiss the ground again, "I'm willing to try just about anything, now."
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]"He what, now?" He levels a stare at Witchpaw, and— okay, yeah, maybe he can believe it. Still, you'd think that a kid who cracked his skull falling out of a tree'd have a little bit of sympathy, unless the damage messed up his brain, and now he can't feel any sort of connection. "I'd like to think my skull's a bit thicker than his. I am a lion." That's got to count for something — not that he genuinely wants Luna to just let him drop (though the look in her eyes does make it seem as though he doesn't really have a choice in the matter. She's starting to get irritated, and he could sing Yuki-Onna's praises when she arrives).

Is he hurt? That depends on what one would classify as hurt— is it the point of receiving an actual, serious injury, or just when the pain makes it difficult to fully focus? Robin doesn't think he's going to die, and he doesn't think he's broken anything; the worst he'll have received, he anticipates, is a few bruises, but nothing more. As with Luna, he regards Yuki-Onna with features that may wear a façade gratitude, only this time, the relief is palpable, for she's actually formulating a plan, though that ice looks cold. "Alright." What else is he meant to say? He's teetering on the thin line that separates his current state from freedom, and he shifts (helpfully, he hopes) as Luna begins to slice her way through the vines that keep him suspended.

Eventually, he's given enough wiggle room, and the tenuous grip the branches have on him gives; he drops a touch, slams into the ice slide, and manages to stay on it for the most part, though he comes off a bit early and hits the ground with a thud. As before, pain blooms behind his ribs, his eyes, his head, and his limbs creak when he moves them, but he groggily stumbles to his feet, cold fingers dragging down his spine and making him shudder. "Ugh. Thanks, miss and... miss." With that out of the way, though, Robin finally has time to consider the aching in his chest. He sits down heavily, pressing a forepaw against his sore ribs, and furrows his brow. "Damn. I've got to be more careful."[center]- - - - - [TAGS.] - - - - -