Posts by [ROBIN.]

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]"More interesting than finding out everyone's darkest secrets?" Okay, so there probably are more interesting things to be done, but that doesn't mean that this is a boring way to pass the time. There's that strange sort of anticipation about it, a nagging fear of what's to come — asking for a truth can lead to your integrity could be put on the line, but asking for a dare can potentially do worse. Depending on the mercy of the people around you (and the people around you are never merciful — that's guaranteed), things can escalate pretty quickly — or so Robin's been told, and being the slight adrenaline junkie that he is, whilst this won't probably grant him the same rush as jumping out of trees, this could prove to be pretty fun, providing these guys keep him on his toes. And from what he's gathered, that's practically a certainty. It's a little odd that they've formed a group solely of lions or lion hybrids, and a little odd that they all managed to find each other in the first place, but Robin feels pretty optimistic about it all. These people— they're nice. Trustworthy, if a little unusual. The quirkiness is what keeps things interesting. Exciting. Spicy, one would even say.

Somehow managing to sit with his forelegs splayed and his hind legs slotted between them and stretching out in front of him, Robin stares contemplatively at his back paws, wiggling his toes a few times before shifting into a "typical" position. "C'mon, don't tell me you're not even slightly glad to be here. You'd just walk away if you weren't, huh?" He smiles in the face of obvious crankiness, but really, he just wants to break the ice. He's not very good at it, considering he's had little to no experience with kids his age, but he can try. "It seems like you might actually be kinda nice under all that... that." The moodiness, the sulking, the definite pout. He makes sure to blink apologetically as he speaks, though, as if insisting that he truly is just messing around — which he is, he swears. He doesn't want to cause offence so soon, after all.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Oh, right— introductions. He'd forgotten about that aspect of meeting new people (a mistake on his part), but Magnus' reminder is enough to make him sit up a little straighter and clear his throat. "I'm Robincub, nice to meet you all." And it is, he supposes — he's never met a red panda before, or a dog with quite as many tails as Fadingmoon, or a dragon like October— and that's pretty cool, because c'mon, it's a dragon. Where he comes from, it'd always just been lions, and whenever he'd met anybody new, they'd always stuck to being a big cat, as though that was all there was to see in the world. Well, they were wrong, and Rob's honestly quite glad about that. The freshness is exciting, and he basks in it.

Having been prepared to wait a while before being asked a question himself, Robincub is understandably caught off-guard when Fadingmoon chooses to address him, and he tilts his head as he listens to her queries. Where's he come from? Has he ever been anywhere besides that place and here? Well— yeah, to the last one. Not a bunch of places, considering his youth, but still. He's been to more than two locations. "Uh, I come from... a house? I lived in a house with my parents. Not a clan like this." That's probably not the most satisfying answer, but... it's an answer. "And... I once went to this city before. I don't remember what it was called, but it was big. I've also been to a beach."

Gnawing on the inside of his cheek with a bright grin, Robin turns his head towards... uh... Foxpaw. "What's your biggest fear, and why?" It's a bit of a cliché, but he's genuinely curious— and he's a kid.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px]It occurred to him, in that moment, that he wasn't anybody's best. Most people tended to be a number one, that priority, to somebody, but he realised, absentmindedly, that he didn't fit into that bracket for— well, for anybody, really. Whereas others found their other half, whether that was platonic or otherwise, he found himself drifting at the back somewhere, comfortably settled into the middle of the pack, something nice to keep around but not exactly a necessity. Would his parents be proud of him for being so disposable? Will he ever be anything more than somebody's second best? He has a feeling that even if he does manage to crawl to that top spot, he'll have to share it with someone else. He'll never be a definite choice in a this or that situation. He's doomed to that neck and neck status.

Did his parents know that robins are bullies when they named him? There's nothing robin about his appearance, no russet breast or photogenic front, so were they expecting him to grow up and push people down to get to the top? Maybe. Maybe they were hoping, at the least, that despite any difficulties, he'd work hard and become as popular as his namesake, even with all his flaws. Whatever the case, he's certain they weren't expecting him to be so... mediocre. Empty, he tugs at the fabric around his neck. What's the point in affinity if it gets you nowhere? It's just another piece in the pot without getting to taste the broth.

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Robin likes to think that assuming that every change in a person's life brings about development, because some people grow smaller (is that an oxymoron?) by grief. Once, his father said that hard times created strong men, and that strong men created good times— but then that good times created weak men, and that weak men created hard times. From his standpoint, those hardships made people better, but then did not that betterment give birth to a state of fragility and contentment? People become happy with where they were, irritated by the concept of striving to be more, and as much as he probably shouldn't be considering this, Robincub thinks that everyone'd be better off if they just broke that cycle entirely. Somehow. He doesn't actually know how anybody'd go about achieving this, and he doesn't actually have any idealistic notions on the matter, either, besides his stubborn belief that maybe, maybe, it could happen one day. Otherwise, these patchwork people will continue to sew and cut and cut and sew until they're shallow imitations of what they can be, if they try.

He's working his way through his own hard time right now, dealing with his own things, doing it all alone. By his father's logic, this ought to make him stronger when he's older, once he's survived it all, but he can't really see that happening. If he had a piteous enough self of humour, he'd probably start preparing for the layers on layers of future issues stemming from childhood trauma and compartmentalisation, but instead, he thinks, he's just going to struggle a lot. Both of his parents maintained the belief that a little cry did nobody any harm, but since they [redacted], he hasn't actually been able to do so. He tries to think about what happened to them, but all he feels is this cold, sucking numbness. No crumpling, no stab to the heart or anything like that, no winding punch — just... silence. Blankness. Tranquility, if tranquility felt like falling.

Coping with that involves throwing himself at people. Not in that constantly-loud, desperate sense, but in a way that was just open enough for others to know that he was seeking any form of companionship they'd offer. Coldness doesn't put him off as easily as it probably should, and it's not that he doesn't know how to take a hint, but rather that for the sake of waiting, he doesn't always bite the bullet immediately. Sometimes, insistence yields rewards. Other times, it yields a kick in the teeth, but hey, he's willing to risk it. "Aw, thanks." Maybe it's just him, but Win seems a bit irritable, so to be described as something other than annoying is, he assumes, the biggest compliment he's going to get. Even if it is just about his noisemaking. "Just because? Wow. I'm guessing you have a degree in this, because that was... informative." He grins, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Happy.

"What— because I'd lost you, or because I'd lost my parents?" For a moment, his smile turns sour, but it's a fleeting shift; the warmth returns so quickly that it's as though it had never left, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sort of change that he sorta hopes wasn't noticeable. He'd hate to have to try and get out of some sort of explanation; people have been kind enough to skirt around the topic of his loneliness, as they have with every kid to turn up without anybody else to guard them, and the last he needs is somebody with the very things he's had robbed of him nagging him about his lack of family. Not that he sees anybody here as irritating enough to press him into a corner, but curiosity does bite hard, and he can only hope that its teeth have missed the mark this time. "Yeah, this was actually me trying to get your attention. It worked, didn't it?"
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Maybe he ought to be grateful that he even has friends. That makes him sound like he isn't— and he is— but he ought to be content with it. Then again, he doesn't like the concept of being simply content with anything, so maybe that's his issue. Maybe he just can't freakin' settle with anything, can't just be happy with what he's given. Maybe wanting more'll be the death of him some day, maybe he'll fly too close to the goddamn sun and, just like Icarus, drown because of his inability to pace himself and just think. His mother told him, once, to never make permanent decisions based on temporary emotions, but that's hard, mum, and I don't know what else I'm meant to do. Sit and wait again, be content until the storm blows over and he can think clearly?

He shifts until he's comfortable, hangs his forepaws off the edge of the stairs and stares (ha, stairs and stares) down into the abyss. It's a long way down, but the snow looks so soft. Would it cushion him if he leapt? Not that he's thinking about it — he wants to fly, not fall — but still, it's something to consider, interesting in a morbid sense. (Then again, from high up, water feels like concrete. Even the softest things are like steel when they're pushed.)

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Stargazing. Robincub can't exactly say that he's an expert on the sky above him, but he can pick out enough constellations and separate stars to seem at least semi-knowledgeable, particularly for his age, and a lot of that comes from a childish fascination he's willing to bet most kids — if not all of them — possess, a gnawing sort of yearning to learn more about the world beyond the the planet they've found themselves on. Sure, everyone can speak for themselves, but that's exactly what he's doing — and space is fascinating, even if he can't exactly say he understands the ins and outs of it. He just knows a lot of words, a lot of names, a lot of shapes, and he's always been good with patterns and pictures, so maybe that's why he's so eager to settle down and just... look.

It's not really difficult to tell that Harrison is stargazing himself, but Rob's got no idea about it being a weekly task — hell, he'd not expect it to be a sort of chore, considering it's more of a pastime than anything. Well, he supposes, each to their own, and he finds himself approaching the horse, who he last saw being asked out by Sylmae, to settle down, recumbent and stomach-up, with his eyes on the sky. "It's cool, huh?" he asks, extending one forelimb and pointing directly at an array of stars, not because he wants to name it, but because it's interesting. "It's weird to think that all those little dots are actually giant stars."
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Should he have hosted one of these after he joined? Everyone seems to be doing it, and Rob wonders if he's been missing out, considering the ease of the whole situation, the sluggishness just about offset by an open curiosity as names and faces are registered, facts learned, committed to memory for later use — or just to be forgotten later down the road. He doesn't know, but he feels bleakly satisfied with it all, even if the empty-full feeling isn't something he's sure he likes. It's rhythm, routine, and even if that can get boring, there's something comforting about it and the way it lulls him into forgetting other, less-savoury aspects of life. (Is he overthinking this? Probably, but as of late, he's found himself overthinking everything. This is just the norm, now.)

"The best ever?" Robin queries, though his features are twisted into a boyish smile. He's not doubting Jerseyboy, but you'd be a fool to think he's just accepted the fact at face-value as being the truth. People like to exaggerate, he gets it, and whilst there's a small chance that maybe this guy is the best, he'd kinda like some proof. (Since when did he need proof for things, anyway? It's like the day he stopped believing in Santa— before ever getting to experience his first Christmas. Why'd that happen?) "Well, hi. My name's Robin—" No "cub?"— "and I like movies and things, I guess."
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Ah, kids and BlizzardClan. The former are attracted to the latter like moths to the flame, it seems, drawn by some mystical, unbidden force and compelled by it to climb the many, many stairs that lead to the frankly incredible floating islands— or maybe this one just wants to visit someone. Judging by the still-strong people-scent and the recognition displayed by Ignacio over there, Robin is willing to bet that this one's already been claimed by a group already, and maybe could just be stopping by to see someone. He's yet to grasp the concept of shifting alliances, after all, and just assumes that once you've found your home, providing your family doesn't [redacted] and leave you alone and confused, you're to stay there forever— or, at least, stay loyal to it forever. It's a childish way of looking at the world, but he is a child, so maybe his naïvety can be excused this one time. Maybe even more so because this one time, he's pretty damn accurate.

Trudging over and falling into place beside the younger of his three gathered clan-mates, Robin regards the stranger with bright and curious eyes— she seems to know what she wants, so it's just a matter of waiting for her to state her business here, right? That's how these things work. No violence, no suspicion, just a surprising amount of diplomacy and niceness from people you'd expect to be jaded by age. It's hopeful. He likes it, so flashes Adalyn a smile, settling down.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]"No, no, you've got it all wrong." Rob sounds oddly confident about that, as though it's a fact, and he looks at Pierce curiously, tongue pressing between his teeth. "I mean— sure, we might all do it, but you don't just admit it. That's like... a private sorta thing that we just don't talk about." Or, at least, that's what his mother had said. Yeah, you can discuss it with your close friends and fellow people-watchers in that sense, but you don't just announce it to the general public, 'cause everyone might be nodding in agreement inwardly, but on the surface, it's a pretty different story. It's sorta like people announcing they're liars— everyone is, a little bit, but people like to pretend that lying is wrong and shouldn't be done, even though they do it on a daily basis. People are weird, though, he's decided, and whilst he probably shouldn't credit them to the extent that he does, he's unable to shake that nagging self-doubt that leads to him looking to them all the same.

"What sorta people-studying are you talking about, anyway? The casual sort, the climb-through-your-window sort, or— worse?" Is that too much? Is he too much? He worries the inside of his cheek with his teeth as he flops down somewhere near Win, head resting on his crossed-over forepaws and vibrant eyes trained on Lonepaw. "I'm Robin, by the way. I like your fur."
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]It's kinda weird to think that he knows what a movie is when someone older (and better, smarter, more important) doesn't, but Robin swells a little under it, even if his eyes widen for a moment as he struggles to push back his shock. Right. Right. These people live on a bunch of sky-islands — he can't imagine they're too knowledgeable when they're so damn isolated from anything remotely technological, for the most part. And sure, they can integrate, and they probably have in part, but that doesn't mean all of them are aware of everything. "Uh, well," says Robin, not actually sure how to describe a movie. "It's like... a moving picture with sound? That tells a story, kinda. If I can find something, I might be able to show you. Depends. Do you guys have electricity?"

He breaks off with Lonepaw's arrival, though, and studies her for a few moments. "Yeah, sure, he's limited to one interest. And your only point of interest is that nickname." Was that too sarcastic? Whatever. He's not trying to be mean, and it's practically playful, but it's out in the open, now. Hopefully she'll not take offence. "I would like to see you play the guitar, though."
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]"Not normal?" It's Fadingmoon that the boy chooses to echo, face scrunched up in a curious sort of way and bright eyes locked onto the offending teacup. Is that a polite way of saying awful, he wonders? Judging by the female's peculiar expression, he's betting on the answer being a resounding yes, but he's not about to knock it before trying it himself. He rises precariously onto his hind limbs, forepaws splayed on the table and muzzle extended, and he pokes out his tongue to try and catch some stray droplets on the side of Fadingmoon's cup — and they're hot, but they're... tasteless. (Like warm water, but nothing else. He has a feeling that it is just warm water.) In mild disgust, he wrinkles his nose further, drawing his head back and staring at Loveletter. Maybe it's just him, but she looks like she's laughing. He reckons this whole thing is purposeful.

Luckily enough, before he can make a remark likely as tasteless as the hot water, Rob's distracted by Mieczyslaw's inquiry, and his eyes dart to the bowl. "They're sugar cubes. They're meant to make things sweet, but they're kinda weird on their own." It's as close to a warning as he'll give before he retreats, slithering off the table and collapsing in a heap on the floor next to Fadingmoon.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]"You heard the man— he's discovered the spark that is the breath of life." It's all a little bit flamboyant, isn't it? Prancing this way and that, paws over heart, head thrown back for full effect— this guy's milking it, and Robin can't say he's caught up in it all. Sure, biochemistry is interesting, even with his limited knowledge of it, but for some reason, he's struggling to connect the dots and find any realism in anything Frank's saying. It's just for show, right? Everybody around him seems dubious, and Rob can't say he's going to believe them any less than this guy. "He's about to pull a Frankenstein and make himself a monster, I reckon." Or not, because that's just fiction (right?) and fantasy doesn't happen in the real world. That's why it's fantasy. Still, he finds himself settling down and waiting as though expecting something to happen, teeth grazing the inside of his cheek absentmindedly.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]"Can you see out of those?" The eyes, he means. She doesn't have any visible pupils, from what he can see, and pupils typically allow a person to see, so— he's curious, alright? That isn't exactly the most tactful way of asking it, but perhaps his youth'll excuse him — or maybe he'll be chastised for insolence, and he'll ultimately find himself shutting up, staring at the ground and feeling generally irritable for the rest of the day, perhaps even without receiving an answer to his original inquiry. Aside from B, nobody else has bothered to bring up the fact that she's glowing— not just in the eyes, but in the mouth, when she speaks, as though she's swallowed a flame and the light is working to force its way through wherever possible. That's an interesting concept, but it also sounds wholly unrealistic; then again, everything about this place is wholly unrealistic, so maybe he ought to stop applying his own rules to everything he encounters.

This place is strange. It's large enough for him, like some others, to recognise only a small portion of the people about him, and there's an uncomfortable sensation of being swamped that likes to chase him wherever he goes, nipping at his heels if he moves too slowly. Managing it is a task best done by immersing himself in the activities that this place offers, or by attempting to make friends with little-to-no taught social skills, and that isn't always easy, but he doesn't think he's that unapproachable. If nothing else, there's a strange sort of warmth to him that just comes naturally, and even if he's setting out questions as blunt as the one that's just escaped him, he doesn't do it in a tone that intends to offend. Maybe stating that is tasteless, but he'd hate for people to view him as purposely judgemental. Even if he's slowly losing parts of his immediate empathy, he's trying to preserve whatever he has. "I mean— they're pretty cool. I like them," he remedies, sounding no less enthusiastic. It's a start.

In his typical fashion, Robincub flops down somewhere between Boycub and Fadingmoon, the former out of a strange sort of kindred spirit and the latter out of growing familiarity. It's nice, being able to look at people and think I know you. It makes him feel a little less lost. "I'm Robin, by the way. Nice to meet you."
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]I don't really have a set voice ref for him, but if I had to pick one, then I guess the one in the video here is probably as close as we're gonna get for his current voice? It's only short, and it comes from this longer clip, but. He just sorta sounds kinda high and pathetic, lmao.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Huh, so that cool bird-dog recognises this guy? Well, a friend of someone like that is a friend of his— to a certain degree, at least. Robincub isn't particularly suspicious of this one, partially because of the warmth with which he's received and partially because he's blind; it's not that he necessarily underestimates someone lacking a particular sense, but something about Orchid doesn't exactly strike him as being particularly hostile. Since when did he gauge his reactions to people based on their potential threat levels, anyway? Rob can't remember the last time he looked at somebody and decided he'd be wary because he didn't think their motives were entirely honourable. Hell, the closest he's ever gotten to I don't trust you with people was with any of the minders stationed in his house whenever his parents were out, because besides them, he's only ever viewed strangers with a collected neutrality and a dash of optimism.

Falling into place beside Fadingmoon, Robin chews on the tip of his tongue thoughtfully, regarding Orchid for a few moments. "Hey," he finally decides on saying, tipping his head to one side and smiling even though he knows it's all for show. It's not as though Orchid's gonna see it and smile back— unless, like that girl with the glowing eyes, the blankness of gaze and little helper are for show.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Rob got Neutral Good and atm I'm not too surprised, tbh ^^,
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Unaware of BloodClan's (odd clan name— is it full of murderers?) unnerving habit of strewing corpses along their border to mark what's theirs (a tactic he'd reckon would be quite effective on normal people), Robin is nothing less than intrigued by the call for charades— because if BlizzardClan's deputy had been unaware of the identity of a sugar cube, and if Piece didn't know what a movie was, then what, he wonders, are these BloodClanners planning on basing this game of theirs on? Various prey species? The act of grooming oneself? Surely they've got a culture of their own; at least, he assumes so, particularly considering he doesn't know all that much about them — both his clan and Ashbringer's.

Bounding over and skidding to a halt beside Pierce, who he aims to bump against in a gesture of greeting, Rob regards Ash curiously. "Where's BloodClan? If it's in a desert, then it's gotta be far away, right?" Inwardly, he yearns for the heat a desert'll bring, and he hopes it doesn't show too much on his features (spoiler alert: it does. He's staring at Ashbringer with nothing less than eager awe, and it's enough to push the thought of walking down those stairs and then all that way to a desert to the back of his mind). "I'm Robin," he then adds to Pierce's greeting. "Does BloodClan live up to its name?"
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]What, does Witchpaw reckon someone's going to try and eat his companion— or is that just Rob's mind immediately goes straight to food? He's not got the biggest appetite in the world, but it's hard to ignore the nature of a crow (that being one of prey, which is pretty significant in a large group of animals trying to survive), and it's a good point, he supposes, but he has a feeling these people'll realise quite quickly that of all the birds, this one's not for eating. It's a strange concept, isn't it? Someone picking an animal that'd otherwise be food and going "mine," deciding that this one's going to be spared so long as it is obedient and entertaining. The morbidity of it strikes him as he mulls over it, the strange superiority these people possess. "I'll keep it so long as it makes me happy, and no more than that." What about the wants and wills of the prey? It seems as though regardless of what they're used for, these so-called "lesser" animals are thought of only as objects. Or maybe he's just being cynical. His mood as of late has been weirdly dubious of other people's motives, so maybe he's just overthinking it.

"Nice bird," Rob comments, smoothing down his ruffled thoughts with a quick lick of simplicity and a steady smile. He feels a bit like the victim in a manhunt, narrowly avoiding the tracks of his emotions and keeping well ahead of any sort of negativity that'd otherwise plague him. At least the adventure is something to keep his mind off of what'll happen if he loses — for the most part. It's been doing a bad job lately. "Does it have a name? Mine's Robin."
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]/ this is anything but fine, rev

There'd always been something off about Win, something that, for whatever reason, meant he wasn't like the other kids. For some, perhaps, it was that apparent façade of maturity, or the lack of eagerness to embrace anything remotely childish— something personal, something independent of the inner workings of the relationships he'd forged, regardless of the abundance — or lack thereof — of them. Perhaps that's the smarter way to categorise people — by what they do, by who they are, by what they bring to the world, but Robin hasn't been focusing on any of that. When he makes friends with people, perhaps, it's their integrity and openness that he focuses on, that desperate belief that goodness comes in all forms, but what always set Win apart for him was his parents. As in— they were an integral part of his life, still warm and living with beating hearts, still within his grasp, as though placed there to tease the possibility of permanence, just for a little while. Robin knows that feeling. He thinks all of them except Win did up until this point, and now they all do, and it's not nearly as satisfying as maybe it could've been, on another day, in another life. It's an exhausting part of life, a simple fact that just is— one way or another, someone is going to have to say goodbye to someone else, and no parent wants to have to outlive their child, have to deal with the pain, but that doesn't mean that any child wants to watch the life fade from their parents' eyes either, not here, not now, and certainly not like this. Never like this.

Everyone's the same, now. No more crisp-cut lines dividing the hopeful from the hopeless, no more dodging the truth as though quick feet could ever protect anyone from the inevitable. Rob can't say he was ever specifically jealous of Wintercub for having something he doesn't, and he can't say that he's not hurting all over again, but not for himself, not for his parents, because this isn't the time. It's probably never going to be the time, he admits to himself, sliding back the covers and staring at the infected mess he's left behind, refusing to acknowledge a tiny cut and letting it fester all because the pain of it hurt too much for him to believe in anything anymore. Some people see tragedy and in it, they see themselves, but Robincub can't see a single part of himself in this, not because he's still in denial, not necessarily because he can't bring himself to, but because it's inappropriate. Just because they're all orphans now, doesn't mean he can relate to every trauma because of loose threads stringing them together.

He hadn't been there when his parents died, arriving only in time to cradle their cold corpses. There's no cure for a coma in the middle of nowhere, so he lost any hopes of reviving either of them within the first few hours of realising that no, they weren't asleep, and no, this wasn't some cruel, awful joke. For a while, he'd repeatedly told himself that because there were no external injuries, no obvious signs of much of a fight, there was no danger of their mortality actually being challenged, but that hadn't been the case, and that never is the case. People can just die, especially when they have a little something to help them along. Like Win's parents, his hadn't been old enough to have just dropped, still holding that weird, ethereal wispiness of youth to them, even if they were settled comfortably in middle-age, or so he'd thought, but he hadn't really ever known, because he'd never thought to ask. He'd always reckoned that death would be louder, but for him, it had been muted and blank, almost peaceful in its quietness and most definitely eerie. He can't remember if he'd screamed, or if he'd cried, but he's starting to wonder if he'd had it easier.

At least there'd been no blood. At least he'd been able to pretend, for a little while. (That's wrong. You aren't meant to compare pains.)

"Win." He feels like his throat's collapsing, lungs folding in on themselves, chest retreating into a darker part of himself. He doesn't know what he's meant to do. Lonepaw's staring at them as though this is nothing more than a spectacle, a point of interest, and Rob can't say he's good at interfering when his insignificance can never compare with the radiance of others. He's just not close enough. He doesn't think he ever will be close enough. But this physical proximity'll have to do, this mechanical movement that's somehow managed to station him on Win's other side, reaching out as though he's expecting to be knocked away, aiming for a paw on the boy's shoulder and bracing himself to be shrugged off. Maybe. He's not B. He's not any of the others, and for some reason, he's got it into his head that he's going to be knocked back. But grieving individuals tend to prioritise, and he's not expecting anything positive. "I— you couldn't have. Not like this, not—" He's asking to be screamed at. He shuts up, focuses away from the bodies. Takes a breath. "We're here, alright? We're here." It's not much (it's nothing), but it's all he's got. There are no words for something like this.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]It's always gonna be about power. Robin's not stupid enough to think that the vast majority of people are genuinely content with just being, 'cause people's eyes light up when they're promoted, when their hard work's acknowledged, when there's an opportunity to crawl their way further up their ladder and kick other people from their podiums, their pedestals, and in some cases, their thrones. People like that sort of thing, getting to undermine others, even if they don't want to admit it; it's shameful, isn't it, to say that you find a thrill in watching other people stumble where you crossed with ease? Having a pet, or even an apprentice, is just like that, an exercise of control, though the former does, it's true, come without that smart mouth. Rob can't say he doesn't agree with Win when it comes to eating animals, but perhaps that's why his diet used to rotate around artificial foods, or human things, or anything he could find in the pantry, anything he could steal from under the noses of the people employed to watch him like hawks.

"Ha, ha. 'Cause it's a crow, and my name's Robin, right? I get it," he deadpans. A moment later, though, he pauses, and then his eyes light up. "Was that a real attempt at humour, though? I almost forgive you." It's weird, how a lot of things tend to revolve around seeing how easy it is to get Win to at least crack a smile, but seeing as the guy's doing it for himself, Rob flashes him an open grin, pretty damn pleased with the whole situation. (He doesn't forget Witchpaw, though, and Robin's attention quickly returns to them, posture far more relaxed with the presence of Wintercub but expression no less inquisitive).
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