Posts by RYLAND.

Some things are bestowed upon a cat by the great paw of destiny, and Ryland is positive that one of those things had recently been given to him in the form of a bright pink ball of yarn (which he had found tucked away in the right side of his room, meaning that it must have been fate). He currently clutches the soft object between both white paws, claws sunk into its soft surface to work on gripping and tearing at its inner workings. He knows that there must be something more than just the surface of the thing; there has to be a secondary toy inside that he can unravel and play with, because no Upwalker object is ever as it really seems. And what do you know? With enough manipulation of the strange ball, he turns out to be right. A single claw, in its desperate grab and rip, somehow catches on the inner surface of the beginning of the knot. Bingo.

With the loss of its tether, the yarn now tumbles out from between his paws, leaving Ryland wide-eyed in surprise. He watches it, clueless, as it keeps rolling—and then finally it snags on itself and stops unraveling, but it continues to roll, which yanks the string from his claws rudely. The yarn's sudden escape triggers such an intense hunter's instinct in Ryland that his body moves by itself—muscles lurch, pupils blow to double their size, and he settles that he must catch the fleeing plaything. "Come back here!" Teeth bared, the scrawny tabby stumbles to his paws to follow his string in its snaking escape, making quite the ruckus in smashing through the brush of the shadowed oak forest. It's certainly no lizard, but Ryland is still captivated with his toy regardless, considering he has small brain syndrome and all. And even if it's not alive, he's still going to kill it, just like its lizard predecessor.

Smoke born of raging fire dances around Ryland's terrified features, its acidic tendrils polluting the good air of the outside. He feels as if his lungs are gripped in the claws of a dragon; the black hold of exhaust coils around his throat and nose, forcing him to continue his desperate struggle to breathe, and even as he makes it out of the burning barn— even as pollution is finally replaced with purity— his lungs still cry for relief. Sundancer collapses in the corner of his vision, but he can't manage to spare her more than a brief glance as he wobbles forward, spine bent and jaws parted. He's not even sure where Amberlight is in his delirious stupor; all he can feel is a familiar sense of panic. It's a panic he knows, because it's the panic that grips an animal in the last moments of its life, when the fear of death and the unknown fights back against what's supposed to be a slow descent into peace. Soot-stained paws tremble in dirt, too-short breaths rattling within a constricted chest as Ryland tries in desperation to hold onto a life that has already begun to slip from between his paws. I can't die here. He falls to the dirt, writhing and scared.

"Sundancer!" Against all odds, Talonpaw finds them. But however comforting his voice, it goes in one of Ryland's ears and out the other, because sheer terror prevails through anything and everything in his head. It's as if he's swimming through invisible earth; he's a fish out of water, gasping for breath in the middle of a desert. "I'll go get help," the poor apprentice cries, but his voice is muffled, every word he says crushed and jumbled into something indecipherable and cryptic. All Ryland can catch is a glimpse of his black-furred paws, running off into the darkness surrounding his tunnel-like vision, and just like that, he abandons them all. This is it. They have nothing, no one—no, he has no one. Ryland has no one but Clanmates who don't love him like he does them. There's only one cat who cares about him, and he reaches for Sundancer as he hallucinates black-and-white fur, but finally his body gives up as hers had, because it's all too much. As he slips into a sudden unconsciousness, he doesn't manage to conserve his strength. His body only falls limp, fur beginning to cool, and somewhere in the vast realm of Silverpelt, he meets cats with stars in their paws.

that sounds good to me! I'll try to drop ry into one of his threads sometime so they can interact :)

name: greahound

character name: ryland

reference: his refs are in his signature tags! I can't link rn because mobile :')

expression: lazy smile, he's pretty chill and often happy

other: you can do trees or a rye field in the background! whatever you think looks best. cute art ❤️

bump!

From deep within the medicine den plays a symphony of wheezes—two cats with the same ailment lie in two separate nests, breathing so hoarsely that they could collectively rival Darth Vader. Ryland briefly peers at Sundancer across from him through the uncomfortable darkness of the den, then glances around himself; the medicine cats are nowhere to be found, and he's sort-of sure that his now-denmate is asleep, so now might be a good time to sneak out. Again. Ryland has been trying this same tactic day after day, because never has he felt comfortable in recovery dens. So often he finds himself lying in a depressed heap on the floor, thinking about everywhere else he could possibly be: roaming, hunting, socializing, working... Anything would be better than being some sort of useless, quarantined lump. Besides, he really needs to go back to BloodClan. So... Here goes nothing.

Lifting himself to his paws, Ryland clears his throat in a quiet attempt to catch Sundancer's attention, if she's awake. "I'm going to try to escape again," he tells her in a whisper, voice low enough not to wake her, just in case she's sleeping. Then he slips from the den without waiting for a response, and his scrawny body hugs the sides of the den as he peers around around himself, trying to look natural. He has to stick to the shadows, lest he wants to be discovered and corralled back into that- that hellspace. With careful pawsteps he slinks to the side, trying to move in a way that won't ring the silver bell hanging round his neck. This time, if he's caught, he can and will make a break for it, rather than giving up and returning to his nest. He's way over schedule for the trek back to BloodClan—if Sinclair has to wait any longer, he'll probably think he's dead (which technically that would be true, but Ryland tries not to think about that).

Maybe Ryland is breaking some unknown rule in running ahead of Juniperstar, but as a cat who hails from Thunderpaths and Upwalker dens, he knows nothing of the formalities of forest gatherings. He'd hurried ahead because he's as excited as a kitten—never had he heard of a moon-gathering, because BloodClan hadn't attended one since Creature had gained power. That pattern had prevailed through every leader following her reign: from Creature to Nathanos, from Nathanos to Reja, from Reja to Ryland, and finally from Ryland to Sergei. Maybe he'll see BloodClan here now that Sergei had freshly gained leader status, but in some way that idea causes a wrinkle of his nose. Ryland doesn't want to see BloodClan here. Whatever this gathering is, it's obviously meant for the forest cats, not for the cats who incessantly torture the forest cats. And now that Ryland is a forest cat like them, whose fur smells of trees and crisp sky, and whose neck wears no collar, he feels as if he belongs here. He's a SkyClanner, and only that.

As he steps paw into Fourtrees, Ryland's silvery eyes widen; his gaze wanders wide across the expansive clearing before then crawling its way up the trunks of the huge oaks, and in his awe for the beauty of this place, the dark fur along his spine begins to lift in response to literal chills. This gathering place definitely feels sacred, as if StarClan themselves are watching over them all, even through the cover of dark clouds. As such, he will act accordingly; he'd been given a brief rundown on what to expect at a gathering by his new Clan so that he wouldn't step out of line (as BloodClanners often do), but he had never anticipated so many sights and smells. From each territory cats begin to flow into the clearing, their mingling scents assaulting his nose in a pleasant cacophony; whoever they all are, Ryland wants to talk to all of them. Maybe now that he looks and smells like a SkyClanner, he can chat with forest Clanners without the hiss and spit that comes packaged for BloodClanners. Right?

/ open for interaction! feel free to tag

Finally, after days cooped up in SkyClan's medicine den, Ryland had managed to escape. But where he had promised three sunrises, already have passed five, meaning he's two days overdue on returning to BloodClan. As he trudges into camp smelling of crispness and trees, he makes no move to do his rolling-in-the-leaf-litter to switch his scent from one Clan to the other—for too long he's been locked in an endless cycle of anxious thought, enough to completely push basic necessities out of his mind. He knows that he needs to switch his scent, he knows that he needs to go see Sinclair, he knows that he needs to tell him, but everything necessary is currently shoved down in favor of nervousness. See, Ryland had been trapped inside the licking flames of a barn fire in his few days away from BloodClan, and the decision between admitting that danger or lying about it weighs heavily at his conscience, because in that fire, he'd died. StarClan had urged him to save his Clanmates from death in the barn, and then they had guided him into Silverpelt to meet a ghostly apparition of himself—one who did not speak, but who held his place in the afterlife. His place. He'd died, and that should have been the end. He'd died, and then his life was supposed to be over.

But... Somehow, it wasn't. After showing him what could have been, StarClan had given him what was; to his body he was returned, and the stars simply allowed him back into the moral realm to wake in a fit of panicked gasps, his airways no longer constricted to the point of suffocation. Somehow they had healed him with their divine power, and in his ears their voices had echoed, telling him that he had eight more lives to lose, as do all leaders who follow the grandeur of StarClan. But somehow the idea of telling Sinclair and Missy what had happened seems silly, because Ryland feels as if it were all just a dream. The whole process had felt totally unreal, even despite Tawnydove assuring him that nine lives were indeed given to all leaders. But I'm not a leader anymore, he reminds himself nervously as he ducks into the entrance of the snake-monster nest, a weary smile offered toward those who spot him. "Hellooo, BloodClan," Ryland calls in a still vaguely raspy voice, subconsciously scanning for his best friend in the throng of mingling cats. He can't put off seeing him forever. Whether his death was real or not, Ryland needs to tell Sinclair that he'd nearly died, at least. But... Maybe later. "I'm back. Anyone wanna go on a scavenge..?" I need to clear my head.

Oh, who would Dead Wolf choose to believe indeed... Especially when the first older cat has backup from a second even older cat. "Oh, yes, the territory's aaall yours," joins the voice of another looking to start chaos, the gleam of a playful mischievousness shining in Ryland's silvery gaze as he slips forward to inspect whoever had ruffled Aspen's fur. He sees no real reason to chase whoever this is away from BloodClan—after giving their calico pelt a quick once-over, Ryland can safely come to the conclusion that they don't really seem like any sort of threat. Their face is not twisted into a snarl, they spit no angry words, their fur does not bristle. And besides, wherever they had come from, they must have walked a long way; their fur looks ragged and their pawsteps are placed somewhat wearily, but maybe he's just looking too far into their body language. Long travel or not, Ryland will just play into Sinclair's joking roleplay regardless, long whiskers twitching jokingly as he bumps against his tuxedo friend's right shoulder with a side-eyed glance toward Aspen. "Sergei's not even breathing down your neck yet, Aspen. You should only ruffle your feathers when it looks good." With a crooked smile he now looks away, once again resting his gaze upon their strange visitor. "Anyway, this is BloodClan, yeah. You got a problem or something?" Wouldn't be the first time.

Ryland appears to this meeting late—not because he means to, but because stress keeps forcing him to walk back to BloodClan. Thirty minutes he had walked there and thirty minutes back, all in the same day, just for a short visit. He'd not expected that he would catch a meeting in his return, but as he slips quietly through the entrance of camp, he's surprised to see the Clan already gathered. He stiffens. This feels intrusive, seeing them all sitting there, heads craned up to look upon their leader. But Ryland tries his best not to disturb the crowd as he slinks somewhere into the back; he notices that they already seem to be murmuring among one another. Wary glances are thrown back and forth, nervous glares flashing upward to the cinnamon tabby perched upon the bridge—but why? Seeking answers, Ryland strains his ears, tuning into the meeting just in time to make direct eye contact with his half-leader. "Ryland," Juniperstar says, and Ryland stiffens up in response to his name, smiling awkwardly in some attempt to dispel sudden nervousness. The question of if he did something wrong nearly rises to his tongue, but as his friend continues, Ryland's smile fades into a look of wonder, and then a look of blatant, childish excitement. "You shall be known as Ryeleap." RYELEAP! WHAT??

Sporting a grin that would rival when a 'kit turns into a 'paw, Ryland feels his heart abruptly swell with pride, because he'd earned that name. After all this time, after all these moons of chasing the fickle trust of SkyClan, finally he had snagged it in his claws. Ryeleap. Ryeleap, which Juniperstar had been so kind to structure like his kittypet name, just to make it feel that much more personal. Ryeleap, for enthusiasm and benevolence, Ryeleap, for his leap from BloodClan to SkyClan. Ryeleap. But when the newly-named Ryeleap parts his jaws to thank the other tom, suddenly the gathering storm breaks. "Sorry to ruin this meeting," Arcticwind begins loudly, and Ryeleap hesitates into a deflated shying away, quietly disappointed that his great accomplishment could be so easily smothered. Something had gone wrong before this name change, hadn't it? Something that had flown over his head, something about the Code and the Stars and Love, which are all topics that Ryeleap just shouldn't give any opinion on. As a half-BloodClanner, he lives a life with no Code, where cats do as they please... But that doesn't mean that he can bring the same way of life into this place. So instead he keeps quiet, averting his eyes to the ground in some attempt to avoid Juniperstar's current predicament. He'll just keep thinking of his new title. Ryeleap, daylight warrior of SkyClan. Oh, how far he's come.

In a respectful silence Ryland sits still, staring at the ground through the rising argument and the following rebuttal. But in time Juniperstar's voice brings a furrow to his brow, because he doesn't sound like himself. He sounds like someone Ryland had known many moons ago—someone who he had cared about once, who had raised his voice and flashed his claws not because of anger, but because of a long history of underlying fear. Gray-blue eyes now lift to settle onto the cinnamon tom, and though even his own mate challenges him for his decisions, Ryland can't force himself to do the same. Ryland had trusted Silas until the end, right up until the moment he had left him. He had trusted him more than he ever should have, because Ryland is, at his core, too trusting. But even so, even if he should think like Arcticwind and take Juniperstar's words against StarClan, he just can't help but to trust his friend. Again.

Where his Clanmates are quick to jump to their paws and challenge the decision, Ryland stands only after he'd already vanished into his room, and in silence he slinks forward to climb his way up to the warriors' den. Hesitantly he turns, peering down at the still-gathered Clan. Seeing cats seated in mass before him reminds him of his own leadership—one that had given him lives from the very paws of StarClan themselves, just like Juniperstar. "Maybe he forgot that I died too, just the other day," Ryland jokes, and a crooked smile leaps to his face, as if to tell them, I'll try and fix this. He'd found the root of Silas' problems long ago, and he has no doubt that he can find the root of Juniperstar's. So, with a flourish of his ratty tail, he bounds up the branch to slip into the leader's den, where hopefully he can figure out whatever is backing their friendly angry shithead into a corner. And yes, he'd specifically said "Don't Follow Me", but what good is a BloodClanner who doesn't break a few rules?

participating ofc! posts will always be 200+ words

From lightning strike to plume of smoke, Ryland has remained hidden within the confines of his snake-monster skeleton, taking comfort in the rickety, groaning cover of its skin. He's never liked thunderstorms, and the sudden CRACK of thunder following the initial lightning strike had scared him to the point of no return, banded tail bushed and ears flattened back. Metal had screeched and torn after electricity surged through its empty veins, bits and pieces of an uninhabited casing showering the territory as if the sky had opened and rained the entire Twolegplace down onto their shadowy forest. But through the crushing grip of Ryland's own cat-like fear, voices pull to him—voices nearby, looking to see what had happened, exploring the Shedplace after the rain had so suddenly... Stopped. No longer does the metal roar, echoing against the pounding of the elements. Following fading noise, no longer does he hide his face.

With a wary glance around the room he glimpses the eyes of his roommate, and with a jerk of his head toward the outside, he suggests that it would be smart to go outside and talk to the crowd. It's easier for Ryland to disperse fear when he's with many others anyway, and so with a ducked head he pushes himself from the entrance of the den, hurrying his way over to his Clanmates like a snake slithering over grass, belly low to the ground. And there he sees the plume of unnatural smoke ahead of them, coiling—no, branching into the air, a golden hue shining brightly around its edge. Unlike the others, he had never actually seen an aspen tree before. He's not even sure what the word aspen means. But he looks to the gray tom as if he had grown a second head when he tunes into the conversation and promptly hears all of them discussing—what? Sergei's sudden disappearance, a sign, Aspen stepping up? To leader? "Haha! That's- that's the stupidest conclusion I've ever heard anybody come to," Ryland chuckles to himself, for once not quite on the side of StarClan, perhaps because he has no idea why they would connect themselves to a filthy Clan such as BloodClan. But then he hesitates—he had gotten his own lives from StarClan, hadn't he? Was that because of his golden heart, even in a position of power?

Silvery eyes draw away from Aspen, pulling up the trunk of the smoky tree, its unnatural pattern lingering in the wake of an unnatural storm. Hesitantly, he goes on, because maybe... Maybe Aspen is like him, somehow. "But—StarClan is always stupidly vague. It could be a sign, but- whether it is or isn't doesn't really matter. Why don't you think about what you want?" A narrowed gaze is cast upon Aspen, oh-so young and serious, so easily molded by guilt and loyalty and shame. He won't like leading BloodClan; that much Ryland can tell. But soon he might grow bitter and evil, losing his morality like the others to better fit into the pawprints lain before him—wouldn't that be something depressing to watch? Ryland smiles crookedly. "The leaders before me all died or went missing, Sergei included. Maybe it's a curse, and you're the next chosen one." Ha-ha, very funny. His joke is followed by a wider smile, and then a glance back toward the smoke-tree. But this time he has nothing to add. He only runs his eyes along branches of smoke, settling into an unsettled silence.

Aspen may have found Gaia to join him on his little feather scavenger hunt, but Ryland is not going to be left out of such an incredible opportunity. Thankfully his tyro calls to those around her, offering to join on their game, and his ears promptly perk up, silvery-blue eyes flicking toward his bandana-clad not-daughter. Already a crooked smile is spreading sickeningly across his face—if there's anything he likes more than lying around and sleeping, it's a good game. "Oh? You dare challenge me to a scavenger hunt?" he tuts, lifting himself to his paws to slink over, where he takes on the role of an evil cat of sorts, body low to the ground as he makes his rounds. Around and around Aspen and Gaia Ryland circles, eyes narrowed and smile bright, if not a little bit mischievous. But he's always been the mischievous type, always threatening to use his quick wit to win his games. Maybe he can use that same wit here—after all, he can definitely use the skills that he already has to cheat. "You know, I'm part of the Web. If you two think you've got anything on my hunting skills, you're sorely mistaken." Aaand, time to take a page from Sinclair's book. He straightens up finally, pressing a paw to his check cockily. "You know what they call me? They call me Ryland Hunt."

Aspen seems to have been hosting more interesting games and whatnot as of late—he must be working to try and attempt livening up this dreadful place. And though it's certainly no SkyClan, Ryland can at least appreciate the other tom's current efforts, considering the fact that BloodClan is so boring that he could step on his own tail and have fun with that somehow. Boredom makes one want to do anything, and therefore when Ryland hears the call for an adventure, already he's launching himself to his paws, completely unaware of the actual reasoning behind this adventure. If he'd known that Aspen's mate had died recently, maybe he would be more mellow toward him, but while it remains a depressing secret, he will do no such thing. Instead his pupils are blown wide, a jacked up smile on his face as he firmly plops himself beside his Clanmates, strangely energetic due to how much he's been sitting on his ass lately. He might be a little hyper about the prospect of getting the fuck out of here. "I'll go with you. I'm always up for a good look-around," he easily inserts himself into the conversation, ratty tail swaying behind him. "Is there anywhere you guys wanna go? I think maybe we could explore somewhere weird, like... Those wheat fields out behind the forest." Hopefully a snack is hiding in those golden tresses—it's obvious Ryland wants one, considering the rumble to his stomach and the following sheepish smile.

"We've had so many prophecies lately that StarClan must be having a fit," Ryland murmurs from his place sprawled across one of the snake-monster nest's rugs, white paws reaching to a hold on the corner of his ragged bed. He'd been listening from the moment Aspen had woken, but in his sleepy half-awake state he had refrained from saying anything much, at least until Gaia makes her comment. As her mentor, he feels the need to teach his innocent tyro his own (superior) beliefs, and with a flopping roll onto his side, he reaches toward the small tortoiseshell, seeking her paw in order to make her feel a little better with a gentle touch. "Yeah, they're definitely real." It's easy to say that fact in confidence, and there's absolutely no hesitation in his voice. Before he had met SkyClan, the Clan in the stars had been nothing but a whisper of a name on the wind, never quite sticking with a scruffy loner as himself. But after everything—after his death, his life, the weather, the omens, the prophecies, the conversations with spirits... There's no room for doubt. Definitely not.

Hell, even after today, again and again the trust in a beautiful afterlife is hammered into Ryland, so he would certainly consider himself a follower of them now, whoever they are. They need his help, and of course he'll do his best to help them—even if they're weak right now. "StarClan's good, though. You don't have to be scared of them, they're just in trouble right now." His eyes flicker toward Aspen as he says that, voice quieting to ponder his previous rambles. So Sergei had seen the dream too? Speaking of Sergei, where was he? After their oh-so-great-and-mighty leader had gone to suddenly visit WindClan, Ryland can't remember any sort of return. He squints, furrowing his brow for a moment. "Did Sergei ever... Come back?" the scrawny tabby eventually pipes up, attention drifting from Gaia back to Aspen and Jackdaw, who plan to go on a search. But what if he's not even in BloodClan? "I would recognize his ugly rat face anywhere. But I haven't seen him. Did any of you?" If not, then they have a real mystery on their paws, don't they?

Ryland swipes his tongue lazily across one white paw, careful to groom it clear of any remaining blood as he sits above the scrap-pile, the remnants of his recent meal scattered about in the form of feathers galore. But into the snake-monster nest whisks Aspen, boasting a determined walk that disturbs those feathers, and Ryland looks up from his grooming for only a second, watching and waiting for what they'd all been waiting for—Aspen's first meeting as Leader of BloodClan. It's hilarious for Ryland to see him jump up there; he perceives Aspen a bit like he perceives Bleat, for some reason. Neither pulls his attention nor his respect, though he doesn't disrespect them. He just wholeheartedly believes that Aspen is the next Ryland, all good and moral until forced into being bad through leadership and stress, and then everything would fall to shit again. Isn't that how it is here? Isn't that the atmosphere of BloodClan? (At least he can talk without stuttering.)

Ryland listens idly as Aspen mentions Sergei, Blood Oaths, ranks, patrols, border challenges- wait, border challenges? He wants to make fighting trespassers a rule? Abruptly Ryland stops in his grooming, a stiffness spreading throughout him that he doesn't quite enjoy. Who's a ripper to tell a trapper that he has to fight? "I'm not gonna attack anybody, or start any spats," Ryland says loudly, his lack of care for BloodClan's borders evident in the way he goes back to grooming soon afterward, ears swiveled backward just in case Aspen needs to say anything in return. Swiping a paw over the ridges of his face, he continues after a slight hesitance, lifting a hind leg to scratch at one ear in a show of his usual causal nonchalance. "When I was leader, playing bushy-tail at borders stressed me out. I'm a trapper because I'm not aggressive." His eyes flick to Aspen, brows lifting lamely as he awaits a response.

In their parental absence, perhaps Ryland could stake his claim on even more kits. Hell, he already acts as if Gaia is attached to his hip; she's a tyro that had become more than she really was, just not officially. Officially she still belongs at the foot of Holn and Fernonia, as Henrik belongs at the foot of Sergei and Brightstar. But here's the thing—Sergei has gone missing, and Brightstar is miles away. Who's to say that these kittens won't grow up parentless? Ryland watches one of them in a curious silence, observing just exactly how a BloodClan-WindClan kit might act, and to no surprise of his own, already Sergei's spawn has found a suitable BloodClan kid's game, that being the blatant disrespect of prey. But oh, isn't that against the warrior code? Brightstar is silly for bringing them here before they had grown. "Hey, rats can't fly in WindClan. What would your mom say?" Ryland calls to Henrik bemusedly, lifting himself to his paws to slink over to him in an attempt to check out his strange little game. As a cat who also lives with a paw in both worlds, he must choose whether to follow the code while away from forest eyes—but the game does beckon to him, and as long as he detaches himself from the idea that a rat is food, maybe he can just... StarClan won't mind a little fun, will they? Silvery eyes flashing, Ryland suddenly crouches next to Henrik. "I bet I could throw a rat all the way to the Snakepath." One white paw attempts to tap the giggling boy, where it then would point to the metal-and-wood train tracks cutting through the camp. "Right there, see?"

"I've got you guys beat. Juniperstar named me Ryeleap the other day," Ryland pipes into the conversation suddenly with a sleepy smile, paws tucking beneath his chest as he gnaws at a few bird bones, snapping them between his teeth with a few cracks and pops. He casts a gaze lazily toward the others as they chat, most amused by Sinclair's stupid warrior name, of course—and mainly his over-the-top reaction to said warrior name. But hey, since Ryland is the tuxedo tom's right-hand man, that means he should probably be labeled Junkwatcher² or something, right? Ha-ha. "At least some of these are accurate," he goes on as he gestures with one paw toward cats like 'Beesting', 'Aspencloud', 'Rabbittail' and 'Breezethorn'. For once he's not to get involved in any of the wild antics. Instead he continues to sit off to the side in his pristine little meatloaf, nodding off. "I think the first part is supposed to be for how you look... Then the second part's how you act." Right?

Ryland takes a moment to think back to his own renaming ceremony, which was marred in part by the drama between the ruffled Clan and the paranoid leader; he tries to push away the arguing, straining to remember the exact ceremony. What had Juniperstar said again? Oh—his traits, right? With a flicker of his ratty tail, Ryland rests his head upon the ground, tired eyes beginning to fall shut despite the chatter around him. In return for knowing all this warrior stuff, he has to work himself much harder than he used to. The amount of hunting he had done this morning had tuckered him out quite a bit, rendering his thoughts muddled and his eyelids heavy. "They also give some... Traits, you know. What do you guys think your traits would be? Mine were enthusiasm and benevolence." Maybe Stitches would choose insanity and general cursed-ness for herself. He certainly wouldn't be surprised.