Posts by Caribou

Rabbitkit's curled ears swiveled to a young voice, that of a kitten she had shared the nursery with back in ShadowClan camp. The lilac kitten was almost as clueless as the other she-kit, but the tabby had heard the strangers talking about MidnightClan as she had stretched. Turning to face her denmate, Rabbitkit moved her small lips, in a meek attempt to form words, but with a gentle huff of air she admitted defeat, and motioned with her tail for Spiderkit to acknowledge her through scent, flicking the tip of her fuzzy tail from her nose, to her flank.

Nodding her small head vigorously, the lilac spotted tabby smiled, and leaned over, running her tiny salmon-pink tongue over the bridge of Spiderkit's nose. After she heard her denmate ask of location again, the curl-eared kitten gazed around, eyes flicking to a few older cats, and another kitten who seemed much more talkative than Spiderkit and especially Rabbitkit herself.

Swallowing lightly, she flicked an ear to the she-kit, and crouched low while attempting to waddle closer to the older cats, hoping they would speak more of their clan. She herself, was more focused on trying to figure out how long it had taken them to steal away the kittens during the night, how long it would take to get back.. If they could.

Lilac fur rustling along her ruff, Rabbitkit gave her denmate, Spiderkit a fretfully worried glance, her blue-mottled copper eyes glinting feverishly. Why wouldn't they answer her? Tamping her feet nervously, the young kitten skirted closer to the ebony she-kit, in an attempt to press her dove-grey fur against her flank.

Curled ears tilting sideways, the ShadowClan kitten tried to see what was going on around this clan's camp, what may have gotten their cats' attention.

Something-or-other about a lime green Domo.

Name- Winona Fischer
Age- 18 2/12
Gender- Female
Looks-
Body Modifications- It's hard to tell exactly what colour her eyes are in the photo, but they are green-grey. She usually wears a jeans and a black t-shirt with the ranch's logo on it while working, but will change later on in the day.
Personality- Winona is usually quiet, but can get flustered easily due to a frank shyness. She is quite caring, not only to the horses, but motherly to just about any person or animal she may come across. The girl forgives easily, but at the same time, offenses will hurt badly. She enjoys peace and quiet, relishing in the sounds found in nature, or just the scenery of the ranch. Quite unlike her brother, Winona scares easily, flinching often if someone just moves by her too fast, or if the ranch dogs bark too loud.
History- Winona and Francis Fischer were born far North of where they reside in the ranch today, in a small farming community known more or less for their cashmere and angora wool than anything else. They grew up together closely, often doing chores or working together on their grandparents' farm.. though such jobs entitled shearing the angora rabbits, not the sheep. Because the community had no form of close education, the brother-sister duo moved south, to a town near the Rain Tree Ranch, where they were schooled, and eventually obtained jobs at the ranch. That was where Winona met the lazy, somewhat overweight tomcat she calls Henry.
Job- Stable-Hand, primarily feeding and distribution of medication.
Horse- No horse, but is quite attached to Frank.
Sexual Orientation- Straight
Crush- x
Boyfriend/ Girlfriend- x
Kid {?}- x
Other- Has a lazy indoor-outdoor cat named Henry.

Name- Francis Fischer
Age- 23 6/12
Gender- Male
Looks- Picture
Body Modifications- His hair is usually slicked back, though it's somewhat wavy. He's supposed to look a bit old for his age.
Personality- Francis is a hard working man, with a differing but happy personality. He is honest, sometimes too much on occasion, but he means good by it as most people do. He seems to be built to work, with a dedicated mindset and the strength to almost coexist with the horses he spends most of his time around, but he can get distracted easily, and is often caught with headphones on while working. Due to his sister's constant attachment, he is usually more respectful and gentle than some men of this generation. Not saying he can't handle himself in a fight, he's been in enough scuffles in his 23 and-a-half years.
History- Winona and Francis Fischer were born far North of where they reside in the ranch today, in a small farming community known more or less for their cashmere and angora wool than anything else. They grew up together closely, often doing chores or working together on their grandparents' farm.. though such jobs entitled shearing the angora rabbits, not the sheep. Because the community had no form of close education, the brother-sister duo moved south, to a town near the Rain Tree Ranch, where they were schooled, and eventually obtained jobs at the ranch. When one of the rescued horses was brought to the ranch, they brought in a bright buff Orpington hen, which had most of her feathers plucked out from stress. He happily took her and named the orange bird Muffy.
Job- Stable-Hand, primarily mucking out stables and exercising the older horses.
Horse- No horse.
Sexual Orientation- Straight
Crush- x
Boyfriend/ Girlfriend- x
Kid {?}- x
Other- Since the ranch takes in rescued horses and such, would it be okay for him to keep a rescued Orpington Hen in a makeshift coop? (Probably just a small doghouse and a pen of chicken wire, haha). Asking because if any horses were rescued from hoarders, they often hoard many types of animals, said chicken maybe one of them.

We are the people of the empty streets. The children of the performers, the gypsies, and the homeless. Our heritages have died out, the age of jugglers and weirdos, a true performing art, all gone. The government has treated our families like vermin for decades, causing us to run in fear of the upper class, and the police. One of us had created a small safe haven years ago, where people such as us are free to come and go, hidden from the prying eyes of the government and to relish in the true beauty and adrenaline of our talents. Our ranks have directions to our hideaway, but you must first prove that you are one of us, for even the scent of the 'inside world' will cause us to turn our faces in shame.
Run up Fyfe Street, jog up Third, fly up Cardinal, free as the bird.

Andrew Prynce, it is a name hunted by both street people, and the man in uniform. He is the leader of our group, the alpha of our pack. The weight of all our stress may balance on his shoulders, but nonetheless, is prone to fall. As the government has issued a bill to tear down the oldest buildings in the city, our home is in danger, and we must find a way to protect the only place our kind has been welcome with open arms.

Greet the Night, and Make Friends of the Dark.

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Our Home, our Haven, stolen by the prying Raven.
The shelter Mr. Prynce has found for us, is none other than a disheveled theater, the stage fully set and the curtains ready for their next big performance. The building is gigantic, three stories excluding the atticspace where the dustiest of props are stored, and the access to the roof is located.

The first floor is where many come in off the streets, and it is also where people- be it of our lodging, or of kind heart- drop off food. The stage is also located on this level, where you may spend your free time, roam among the rows of seats, or practice your talents. A door to the basement is located on this level, though it is locked and cannot open.

The second floor is a good place of rest, housing many comfy sofas and cots, as well as storage space for well.. anything that need be stored. Anyone may claim a space here, but don't be expecting to see Andrew hanging around here for too long. A doorway to the side opens to reveal a fire escape, also connected to the third floor.

The third floor is exclusive for friends of Andrew, and the people who earn the most money for the group. The living areas are cleaner, and much well kept than downstairs, kept so by Andrew's niece Autumn. An incredibly large half-round window lets the members view the downtown lights of our city, glimmering like stars. On foggy or cold nights, Andrew sleeps on this floor.

The rooftop is the main abode for Andrew, but is also host to many musicians who stop by to admire the 360' view of the city. Two walls and a roof of the bus shelter make enough of a room for the group's leader, and his surplus cot nestled snugly beneath. The view from the rooftop's edge is magical be it dawn or dusk.

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Andrews Rules and Regulations, to be Modified
- Children and the sick are to be cared for first out of anyone.
- If you are a performer, half your profits should go to the leader, to help pay for food and new props or clothes.
- No violence or act of serious disrespect is to be done inside the theater.
- You may come and go as you please, though please wipe your feet.
- Upper-classmen and Pigs need not enter.
- The pregnant or ill are to be seen by the street-nurse at 437 Talbot Street.

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Rules of Toffee's
- This is to remain 'decent', meaning if you want to do higher-rated rp, take it to the pg 13+ board and we can make a link.
- Power Playing or God Modding will not be tolerated, and will be reported upon your second offense. Such in bios will result in having to change it.
- Every other day once the rp has begun, I will post a weather bulletin near the top of the first-post in the rp thread. Please keep it in mind for rp.
- If you play as a child, they must have a caregiver.
- No powers: magicians, fire-breathers, and the like must have only minimal control over their attribute.
- If you were homeless your whole life, you would most likely be illiterate, and in dire need of a good lesson in hygiene. Keep this in mind.
- All religions, sexual orientations, race, and ethnicity will be tolerated. (:

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Form- Feel free to start filling it out.

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Open Roleplays
[size=7pt]The Old Theater[/size]

Private Roleplays
[size=7pt]None Yet![/size]

Plottage Page
[size=7pt]None Yet![/size]

Name||
Andrew Prynce
Age||
20 Years, 2 Months, 12 Days
Gender||
Male
Upbringing||
Performer, 'purebred fire eater'
Appearance||
Andrew is very tall for a person found in a cramped and clustered city, his height topping the chart at 6'5" and a weight of a healthy 180lbs. For a medium frame, he is pretty toned, spending his time moving about the city instead of how most people are raised on poptarts and spongebob. His hair is a bit long for a buzz-cut, but too short to call it much else, his short fuzzy hair sticking up in bright strawberry blond tufts. A pair of almost hazy green-grey eyes are set in the middle of his gruffly shaped face, red stubble dotting his jawline and in a patch just under his bent nose- a result of fistfights as a kid.
If Mr. Prynce is seen without his shirt, you may spot a remarkable array of tattoos crossing thisway and that on both his back and front, the most curious of which being the outline of a tree on the core of his back.
The usual outfit of the leader of the outcasts, tends to be a pair of roughed up jeans, a black nylon belt, a grungy sleeveless undershirt, and a somewhat stained white button-up shirt with thin blue pin-striping. Other than that, he has a white and black fireproof-waterproof jacket stored in his rooftop bunker.
Personality||
Andrew is a caring man, with a large heart and a steady goal in life- to protect those he cares about, and to keep the street art alive. Though he can be sweet around his friends and in the company of his niece, the young man can turn sour -and dangerous- in an instant given the right opportunity. His bulk helps him most in that predicament.
History||
Born to two street performers Walter and Andrea Prynce, famous for their late-night juggling and breathing of fire, Andrew was left on the steps of a local church, not far from the theater, when he was a few weeks old. He was raised to the ripe age of seven by the current pastor and Sister Malissa, until he found out his true talent while hiding in a broom cupboard housing a booklet of matches. Just about setting the church organ on fire, the young child fled the confines of the house of God, into the busy streets. Though the police attempted to find young Andrew, he had hidden himself away on the rooftop of an old building, the theater, where he could see the big wide world in all directions. He grew up on the streets, finding others who had come to be there in the same ways he had, and began to form what came to be the group under which he rules. Since leaving the confines of the church, he has passed through many small jobs to get by, ones that don't require a high-school diploma, but the ginger-haired boy found a fondness in the harmonica.
Job/Occupation||
Leader of the group, Fire-Eater and Juggler, plays harmonica.
Other Information||
The only place you may find him playing his harmonica is the roof. He plays it from his heart, and not to make money. He is bisexual, but virtually no-one but Autumn knows this, since he has no interest in anyone yet.

Accepted~

The break of dawn had come, casting the horizon hues of pink and orange, like silk and satin sheets thrown wildly into the chilly morning sky. The day promised clear skies, but a drop in temperature during the crown of night had sent small imps of frost to decorate the ranch with a delicate layer of crystals. In this early morning light, the stable hands in charge of feeding the horses would have needed to rise, and get prepared for the hefty scent of fodder or haylage to give to the resident equines.

Stretching her arms through the sleeves of her grey parka, Winona blew warm air into the polyester collar, warming her neck and the top of her chest as she jogged her way to the barn, cropped brown hair fluttering into her eyes like thin feathers dancing around her face. Almost every day she got to the barn, an hour early of her brother so to feed and tend to the animals, give medicines need they be distributed, and give some special attention to one of her favourite horses: Frank. However, as Winona reached the bark door, she stopped and blinked down at the black latch, covered in glimmering clusters of frost. Sighing once into the collar of her parka, the girl leaned over, wiping a small finger over the frost and ice to melt it away.

--

All the while, her brother lay fast asleep, half slumped out of his bed with a leg over the post and headphones echoing music in his sleep-deafened ears.

Hand easily able to clasp around the latch once the hoar frost had gone, Winona breathed a chirpy smile onto her face, and unbolted the latch, letting herself into the humid, earthly scented barn. Her green-grey eyes scanned the long faces of the horses, some appearing to be dozing, where others -including Frank- had awoken as she slid the door shut and the bolt locked in place. With quiet steps, the rubber soles of her sneakers barely making a squeak on the floor, she picked up a bucket filled halfway with haylage, in a small pellet form. She unzipped her parka, slipping one arm out, then the other as it wasn't of use in the
stuffy, warm stable, and tucked it beside a broom on the far wall.

Gingerly, the brown haired girl sifted the fodder into the feed box of each equine, a good amount for the horse's first meal of the day. Stooping as Frank leaned over to nibble the haylage, Winona ran three gentle fingers over his fuzzy pink snout, greeting him with a quiet 'good morning' and a small smile.

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Just as he let out an oblivious snorting snore, Francis' weight pulled him from the mattress, and onto the floor of his room, while his headphones clattered noisily to the floor. Jarred from his sleep, his bright green eyes stared up at the ceiling, before slowly lolling down to his carryall. On top of which, a rather fat looking hen roosted, the feathers of her abdomen had been plucked from stress, but otherwise a lovely bird. Despite the mess of feathers and the pulls she created in the fabric of his bag.
"Muffy! Bad hen!" He croaked, throat dry from the long sleep as the older man pulled himself off the floor and onto his knees. Edging himself towards the buff hen, her orange feathers fluttering around his hands as he crawled on the floor, Francis gently took her from his carryall, and set her in a snug basket on the chair beside it.

I would like to create a cat group which would be a sort of crossover from Downton Abbey. With a Lord and Lady of house and the footman and maids, and such.
Also, I'd like a few dedicated players to join me as partners. ^^
Such partners would have special places in the group, and will be allowed any rank they'd like (be it low or high).

More shall be edited here. ;3

A kit's round, kitten-bue eyes had gazed wide, up at the night's stars from a spot of leafy scrub to the very left of the nursery. Her sight was clear, and gleamed with the shine of the gathering's moon, but behind them her mind was muddled. Thoughts heavily dragging on her shoulders, the petite four-moon old kitten let a shallow sigh abscond from the brace of her lungs, whirling into the air in a misty current. She was young, that was true, but Whimzykit had the working mind of a much older cat, oddly so, always whirring and stuffing her little head with questions about the outside world.

Her mother was a young cat as well, and went by the name of Cherryfur. She was a kind she-cat, with a large heart despite her obvious paralyzed tail, but the feat of giving birth had seemed too much for her to take, and the van queen had died shortly after Whimzykit and her brother Basilkit were born.
She herself, didn't miss her mother so- even after being told about her death, but rather, admired the young she-cat of whom had brought her into the world.

The cream-hooded van kitten peered wide-eyed up at the moon, a weary smile gracing the white of her muzzle like the faint overcasting clouds slipped over the bottom of the glowing sphere in the night sky.
She wondered what Cherryfur would want her to be.

Bump
-x-

x~Link to Sign-Up~x

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Nestled on the left corner of the stage, the husky figure of a young man crouched beside a brown-paper wrapped package, and his hands wrapped around a dimly glinting instrument only millimeters from his mouth. From it's metallic body, produced a unique and sad tune, a steel c-note, an iron G, the harmonica was soulful, he believed, even if others found it odd or disgruntling. Andrew's large hands, dry from the chilly winter's air in the outside world, held firm to the sides of his prize, haze coloured eyes skimming the world above, where his followers slept and kept their personal objects to themselves.
This early in the morning, it was just about time for them to wake up, and get ready for the day ahead. Today would be cold, and there was a chance of snow- but Mr. Prynce would take that chance, for it was to make the sustaining green paper that ruled the world, and would put food in their systems.

It was rare for the leader of such organization to bring his harmonica out in front of the people, but today was a special day for him, the anniversary of when he had first hid upon the rooftop of the theater as a small boy. He was fully grown now, muscle guiding his arms, and hair shaved down to a mere half inch above his head. A body as a gallery of tattoos, covering a good portion of his core, and a meaning for every one.

Sorry for the atrocious wait, my math work has interrupted a lot of my life. But you'd be smart to pass college prep the first year you have it, so... there's no avoiding it.

All are accepted, and there's a roleplay link under Open Roleplays.

The studious brother of the level-minded sister. Basilkit was a unique sort, for a kit. His mind whirred and raced for answers of which he yearned to search for despite his age, despite his weak body. Like his sister Whimzykit, the young red and white tom had the working mind of a feline much older, and it was obvious in the way he spoke, in the way he moved, and in the way he thought. As the four-moon old kitten walked with duty around the clearing, his kitten-blue eyes, flecked with the sweet colour of ripe grass scanned the scenery; the trees far beyond the nursery, the tiniest of buds emerging from the colourless branches. If one thing hadn't entrapped his mind more often, it was foliage. Leaves he could identify by scent and shape, maples, oaks, cherry, birch.. He had found a fondness for all of them.

And yet his mind just kept whirling.
Planting his white rear in an indent of the ground, Basilkit let a quick yawn snap from his tiny mouth. To his far right, lay the pile of prey the apprentices and warriors had gathered during the night, and surely a dawn hunting patrol would wander by soon, the sun painting a swirling glaze of purple and orange on the horizon. The scents made the young red tabby and white yearn for food, but he found it rude to partake on just a simple whim. He would wait for other cats to help themselves first, maybe his sister, maybe a warrior or even the deputy. Whomever was more hungry than he.

[Dogpaw|9 Moon Tom|Riverclan Apprentice|Insomniac]

In a small nest tucked in the far back corner of the apprentice den, a small, dark red tabby with short, thin fur had made his nest. Fearing sleep, the tom had lain himself in a most static position for a cat. Crouched down, but without his head against the soft bulrush fuzz and moss. He resisted sleep, he did, and Dogpaw knew that if he set down his angular red-furred head, the tom would be whisked away into a torrent of taunting, gory nightmares of which he had come to believe had no end.

His slanted hazel eyes had sunken slightly, rimmed with darkness from lack of sleep, and lack of food. His stomach churned beneath him at the simple thought of prying open a freshly caught mouse.. But if he ate, he would become even more tired, and if he became exhausted.. Then he would be consumed by his terrifying dreams of bigcats, towering and menacing with a maw set full of teeth, bloody and gnashing bones of their prey...

Dogpaw gave a terrified shiver, his nest rustling as he tucked his skinny tail, petrified of what may come to haunt him in his sleep. Whimsylocket, my Mother in the Stars.. Why must I be tortured by my unconscious..? Hidden thoughts knew his prayers would not be answered, for the young tom's mother would not hear him where she lays, in a nest far, far away.

In a single shaky movement, the deep red tabby was to his paws. At nine moons, the cat had gained some wiry muscle to lace around his postlike limbs, but even such, he was frightfully skinny, and moved about his fellow sleeping apprentices with a ghostlike silence. Taking shivering steps towards the entrance, Dogpaw's ears lay flat against his head. His brain ticked like a clock which tocked too loudly. He would need some fresh air to help calm his nerves.