Posts by [ROBIN.]

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Unreadable, Robin doesn't respond to Lonepaw for the longest time, instead keeping his gaze trained on Frank and his contraption. Is that what it is? It certainly looks like it, at least. It's odd, this whole spectacle, the way it draws people in, but he stands his ground until Frank seems to reach a point of feverishness, and then, sure enough, something begins to move. Head tilting inquisitively, Rob leans closer, and then— something (someone) leaps out of the sheet-covered box, and they're singing. They've just been brought to life for some purpose or another, and their first thought is to sing. They— he?— seem otherwise dazed, and Frank looks positively ravenous, and then begins a bit of a chase, and it's all a bit too much for Rob. At least the others are disturbed by this, too, expressions nothing short of horrified and all because of the unholy creation of a new life.

Admittedly, it's fairly fascinating, too, but that's not what he's focusing on. Swallowing back the newly-developed lump in his throat, Robincub turns back to Lonepaw, finally deciding that now's the perfect time to reply. "What was that about this not being anything like Frankenstein and his monster?" he all but crows. "Let's just hope this guy's friendly." A moment passes, during which he fights to get himself under control, and he finally turns to the panicked cream tabby. "Hey, are you alright? I'm Robin— we're not gonna hurt you." He's not so sure about Frank, but they'll keep this new life safe.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]"There's your answer, then. People go through some bad things, and then anything they associate with that becomes something they fear. Sometimes, people just don't like the way things are. Sometimes, it's taught. I dunno, either, but I don't think I'm meant to. Fears are personal things, right? So everyone'd answer your question differently." Is it cliché for Rob to say that he's terrified of the thought of people leaving him, whether because of death or a simple change of opinion? Maybe, but it's true. Some people aren't bothered by that notion — maybe it never crosses their minds, or maybe they just don't have the capacity to care about the consequences of loneliness, but he is, and that makes it valid. Similarly, some people are terrified of spiders, but unless they're ten feet tall and out to eat him, Robin doubts he could ever feel afraid of the relatively-pathetic arachnids. That doesn't mean that those fears are any less valid, or that they don't matter as much as his own. As for what causes fear, though, or what makes something scary— again, that's up to the person specifically, isn't it? For him, it was a particular event that led to him resenting abandonment. For others, perhaps, it could just be a thought, a story, something, anything. Maybe they slipped in the sea and now fear the water because of the pain of their cuts.

"Like, I don't like being alone." His voice is small here, and his face twists. Vulnerable. He hasn't admitted that before, but it feels alright to do so here. It's a discussion. He's fine. "And being alone doesn't mean I'm gonna get hurt, or anything. I'm not really in danger, but I still don't like it. I dunno if it's anything specific that makes things scary, just who you are."
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Robin hates to feel insensitive, or to trivialise things that others deem particularly important, but for him, the truth or dare had been— and likely always will be— little more than a distraction that took a few hours from his day and made his breathing a little easier. For him, at the very least, it had not been life altering; true, he had left feeling far closer to the people around him than he had arrived, and that's only a positive, something that'll keep him smiling for a while longer, but that was it. He'd reached no revelations, hadn't kissed anyone and had it bug him for days after, hadn't done anything that'd left him feeling all funny inside. Maybe that was just him— maybe everyone else had taken much, much more from it, but for him, activities like that are just ways to push that ball of nausea further down and out of his mind, just long enough for him to feel a little more normal. Nothing has been particularly out of the ordinary — true, all interactions are novel for him, but everything was pretty predictable. Does he just overthink things to the point where he's not surprised anymore? Not with things like that, at least — he hadn't expected the first dare to be a "you, kiss them" sort of thing, but he'd expected it to crop up, because they're all kids, and kids find that sort of thing funny. Considering he hadn't often seen his parents kiss, though, and had instead had to suffer plenty of theirs himself, he's grown up seeing kisses as a strange sort of family-thing, partially romantic depending on the setting, but just as easily platonic. Sure, five seconds is an awfully long time to kiss someone, but Robin doesn't really get the significance. Maybe he's just stupid.

With recent events having put a bit of a dampener on the mood, even if things are tentatively looking up again, Rob hasn't had much time to dwell on anything positive. It's possible that others just want to move on, but he doesn't think that's possible, and he also wants to try and explain, just once, that bottling it up does nothing, but he doesn't know how to. Doesn't feel like it's his place, either. And it's not to say that he thinks forcing Win to hug as many people as possible is the best thing to do, but physical affection can sometimes make things better, just a bit. It's possible that touch can also make the pressure on the lungs so much worse — and believe him, he knows — but it's worth a shot, right? Anything is. "No," he says as he approaches, aiming that at B, "I don't think hugs are available at all after this. I'm impressed he's doing it." Silence, then, a few beats during which he chews on his tongue, and he looks from Mack to Jerseyboy ("That's not the point— you've got to hug him.") thoughtfully. "So, you know, I don't think it's wise to miss out on the opportunity, right? Better appreciate it while it lasts." That is, if they're not punched for their cheek.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]/ nudges robin forwards
i listen to literally everything so idm what genre you throw at me ^^,
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Oh, could I have one please?
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[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]Note: he has to go from an -FJ to a -TP somehow, so at some point, he needs to be hit with a heavy dose of cynicism, or something of the sort. He's already becoming sort of suspicious, but he needs to get to a point where he's automatically overthinking things without shutting himself off from everyone 24/7. Spontaneity needs to be replaced with methodical, meticulous planning, though not so much that he can't operate without a set of instructions. Still quick-witted and light on his feet, just... cautious. He needs a gentle sort of trauma — either that, or small, repetitive disappointments that will eventually drag him out of his current state of constant optimism.

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]The journey to BlizzardClan, not too difficult? Has she ever attempted the stairs? Maybe, what with her being a canine, she simply doesn't get tired — they have boundless stamina in comparison to that of a feline's, don't they? He's going to blame it on biology and leave it at that— plus, he's got little legs, so he can be excused for feeling utterly terrible whenever he thinks about making that awful trek ever again. People keep presenting him with incredible opportunities to see other clans, and he always wants to explore, but something in him clicks when he considers the staircase, and suddenly, the floating islands seem like the best place to be again. Maybe he's just lazy. (Now there's a notion that leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He's not lazy; he's not. And he's gonna prove it).

Are there many kids that are totally enjoying their childhood? It's not that all of Rob's awful experiences are happening day after day, but what with his— (he can say this)— parents being dead and his house being lost to the wild and his ribs still aching from when he fell out of that tree, he can hardly say that he's been particularly blessed, either. He's not a perpetually miserable boy, though the sadness does creep up on him more often than not nowadays, and the action of smiling is one his muscles remember well (enough to emulate whenever necessary, in fact), but he couldn't say he was living the dream. He honestly felt pretty awful, but hey, it could be worse, right? He could have no friends, no new home, no hope of survival. He could be dead, just like the rest of his family.

Robin winces. He sounds pathetic.

Wiping the negativity from his features and replacing it with a subservient smile, the boy makes his way over, nudging tentatively at Win's side and turning his attention towards Duchess. "I hope they say we can go," he says, though whether or not he's fully addressing the Crown is... hard to tell. "It sounds fun— right, Win?" It'd be good for all of them to meet other kids— and ones hopefully not caught up in a perpetual storm of upset and frowning. Gosh, he's looking forwards to a lack of frowning. Something about interaction always makes it easier to breathe. "I'm Robin, by the way. Nice to meet you, Miss Darling."
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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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[fancypost=line-height:1.1;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-top:-5px][b]- - - - - - - - - -iiI FORGOT WHAT I WAS LOSING MY MIND ABOUT
OH, I ONLY WROTE THIS DOWN TO MAKE YOU PRESS REWIND
AND SEND A MESSAGE THAT I WAS YOUNG AND A MENACE - ✧

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Robin isn't an expert on rabbits, whether the sentient sort or otherwise, but he's fairly sure that the interestingly-named Chocolate is absolutely terrified of the people around him. It's as though he's being held against his will, and the lion can't help but feel that trapping a creature somewhere is oddly unjust, particularly when it's something as harmless as a bunny. Why make it stick around if it doesn't want to? At least Witchpaw's little friend seems to appreciate being around the feline. He has no problems with pets, he supposes, so long as the pet is happy with the arrangement too — he considers it strange, don't get him wrong, and he's convinced it's something to do with that hunger for power people seem to possess, but he isn't against the practice, providing it's humane.

Perhaps he's being cynical again, looking for signs of discomfort where there are none, or maybe he's jumping to conclusions. He doesn't know what either of these people have been through, and maybe Chocolate's distress stems from something else, rather than the way Blake's manhandling him. (Then again, he'd not be too pleased if he spent his life on what could very well become his hunter's head, trapped beneath a hat.) "Okay, ew." He wrinkles his nose at Frank as he approaches, shaking himself out and halting beside Pierce. He wears flippancy well, though it's impossible to disguise the way his brows are brought together in blatant concern for Chocolate as he regards Blake, tongue pressed against one sharp canine. "Welcome to BlizzardClan. My name's Robin— does your rabbit want something to eat? They like green stuff, right?"
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[fancypost=line-height:1.1;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-top:-5px][b]- - - - - - - - - - - - -iiFOR WAY TOO LONG; AND WE WERE NEVER SUPPOSED
TO MAKE IT HALF THIS FAR; AND I LIVED SO MUCH LIFE, LIVED SO MUCH
LIFE, I THINK THAT GOD IS GONNA HAVE TO KILL ME TWICE - - - - - - TAGS

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]I meant to post here earlier BUT a thread with Robin, maybe? He's currently pretty concerned about Blake's rabbit, so he's probably going to bug him a lot about that, considering he sort of doesn't trust Blake at the moment.
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[fancypost=line-height:1.1;color:#000;font-family:arial;margin-top:-5px][b]- - - - UP FINE; TELL ME THAT I'M ALRIGHT, THAT I AIN'T GONNA DIE
ALL THAT I WANT IS A HOLE IN THE GROUND ; YOU CAN TELL ME
WHEN IT'S ALRIGHT FOR ME TO COME OUT - - - - - - - INFORMATION

[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.] - - - - -

[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]That'd probably only encourage him to continue to try and work out what's going on, lmao. But YES, Robin would protect Chocolate with his life. He's still at that stage where he gets attached to things pretty easily, so he'd probably just repeatedly try and slip the lil guy some food, or something.
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Sure! Who makes the thread? ^^,
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[center][fancypost=width: 500px; line-height:1.4; text-align: justify; padding: 2px][size=9]Ah, okay! Thank you ^^,
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