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 Posted: Sun Jan 30, 2011 1:28 pm
 A collection of all things belonging to Quinn Brindleband, Mouse Adventurer Extraordinaire, and Cadence Magpie, the Treasures Expert
.02 Quinn Brindleband
aaaaa.03 Sticky Pockets
aaaaa.04 RP Archives
aaaaa.05 Contest Archive - How Quinn Was Won
aaaaa.06 Contest Archive - CYOA
.07 - - - - - Break Line - - - - -
.08 Cadence Magpie
aaaaa.09 Cades’ Sparklies
aaaaa.10 RP Adventures
aaaaa.11 Contest Archives - How Cadence Gained Independence
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Posted: Sun Jan 30, 2011 1:31 pm
◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ I am a nomad, a wanderer, I have nowhere to lay my head down;
There's no point in putting roots too deep when I'm moving on, not settling for this unsettling town ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆
"I am what I am, an' ain't what I'm not. Oh, aye, I s'pose I'm brave... enough. Why?"
The gruff, yet kind, little Quinn the Mouse, ladies and gentlemen.
Personality-wise:
Quinn doesn’t have the smoothest of edges one would expect a young mouse to have. Being of a rough-and-tumbler sort of mindset and left well on his own, he’s developed a sort of ego about himself; if he can make others believe he’s a ne’er-do-well, pickpockety fellow, then he’s done well! Face value takes him to be a crude-talker with a somewhat uneducated British(?) tongue, more than willing to chase off any bothers-to-be with a curt word or two and shunning any sort of intelligent conversation - but don’t judge him on this alone! He’s clever, and knows well enough what the ’big words’ mean, even if he doesn’t fully embrace them. He can be very rude and unfriendly if he finds it suits the situation and makes him seem a bit more brutal than he really is.
Truth be told, though, he isn’t that bad of a boy. His Pa raised him to be courteous and kind, though Quinn is reluctant to embrace such teachings, and should he feel himself being too brash he may try to push politeness as a sort of apology. He tries very hard to make it seem as though he could care less than a bag of beans for anyone but himself, but really… not so truthful. He’s a bloody bleeding heart on the inside, if one hangs around long enough to dig out all the scabs, and if he can’t find a way to bluntly help someone, he’ll try to do it on the sly. He’s been known to pilfer all sorts of fun things like food and toys and leave them where an impoverished family might find them - but don’t dare call him any sort of generous! he might bristle and spit and raise his fists to the challenge, but he’s as sweet as sugarcane on the inside. He’s a nice fellow, even if he doesn’t want to own up to it, and utterly disdains the idea of working for a living, but he can be one of the most loyal of buddies - should anyone really bother with him.
·
Background-wise:
There’s a story going ‘round that Quinn’s mother was a rat and his father was a mouse with little worries about cross-species relationships, though it has yet to actually been proven. All he really knows is that Mum skipped out when he was the smallest of babes, leaving a rather ill-equipped father to raise him alone in a tiny nook underneath a less-than-sturdy tree. It helps ease the abandonment issues if he believes his rat mum died fighting as rat mums tend to do, somewhere on the river or in the desert, and so raising a fuss on the impossibility of it all is rather futile (unless you enjoy a good smack to the mug, then by all means, please do). His father was a kind-enough sort of parental figure, and did love the boy, but the poor fool had little idea how to raise a babe on his own - and so Quinn’s childhood was spent in a frustrating mix of gentle prodding and rebellious retaliation. All his father really wanted was a future for him any way he could catch it, and so thought it would be a nice gesture to teach Quinn the business of whittling; small figures, musical instruments, fanciful door embellishments and the like. Quinn wasn’t so appreciative, though was actually quite good at the work… though if his father saw promise and pushed him a little harder, the boy would quickly toss everything down and bound off to play thieves with a mole buddy, knowing full-well he wouldn’t be punished. How could a father punish his only son and family?
Quinn turned out much more like his father than he’ll admit, but the both of them shared a tender heart that would give what little they had to those who had even less - which is most likely the cause of his father’s slow decline in health. What started off as a nagging cough evolved into what could have been pneumonia (though a doctor wasn’t affordable, and no diagnosis was actually figured out), and from there the older mouse slowly wasted away. There was little Quinn could try to do, if anything, and so when his father finally breathed his last, he skipped out of town so quickly he barely bothered to pat the dirt down smooth. He’s been ranging about Woodhaven ever since, trying to figure out his own mysterious path through life with help from his father’s teachings - which never seem to leave him alone, no matter what he tries.
·
Physically, Quinn is a sturdy, slim mouse with a strong set of limbs and incredibly dextrous fingers. He’d be good as a carpenter or a professional whittler, or perhaps even a homestead builder, if he had any fancy dreams of being a working mouse. Which he doesn’t, thankee proper. He speaks with a rough British sort of accent, which flares when he’s particularly disturbed, and has a voice that is both husky and young - he isn’t a very old mouse, anyways, though clearly he’s an adult, so do treat him as such.
~FIN~
◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ My heart is filled with songs of Forever, the city that endures when all is made new
I know I don't belong here, I'll never call this place my home, I'm just passing through ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ .02 Lyrics: In Exile, by Thrice
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Posted: Sat Feb 12, 2011 4:28 pm
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Posted: Sat Feb 12, 2011 4:29 pm
┏━━━━━━━━━┓
_RP Archives_
┗━━━━━━━━━┛Current RPs
· Slate Gray Afternoon - Quinn and Tristan
Shortly after the death of his father and not but a few steps into his adventure, Quinn encounters a down-on-his luck Fleuvian mouse named Tristan.
· Lost and Found - Lova and Quinn
A rainstorm brings new life to the forest - and a timid new acquaintance, as well. But where'd that carving go?
· Love Strikes The Unwary - Lova and Quinn
During a performance by a particular rabbit bard, Quinn finds himself literally dripping in a sticky love potion... and poor Lova must bear the overwhelming oaths that follow.
*Valentine's Day Contest!*
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Posted: Sun Feb 13, 2011 5:26 pm
┏━━━━━━━━━┓
_Contest Archives_
┗━━━━━━━━━┛How Quinn Was Won: RP Contest EntryA Newbie Contest held by PrinceDave. Thank you so much!
------------Basics
Your Username: ShadowFox-Sama
Which pet are you entering for? Male 3
What you will name them? Quinn Wrindleband - or jus’ Quinn, thankee.
------------Nature
What is their personality like? While he might look (and act) like a delinquent sometimes, he can actually be quite sweet. Oh, but not too sweet - don’t be thinking he’s a hero or anything; he just knows how to play the nice-paw from time to time. His act is the stubborn, arrogant, dun-mess-with-me type of mouse, and he does try to swagger a bit, but it’s a pretty thin mask he wears. Thinking he made it out of cheap paper, anyways. He's got quite the bleeding heart, if you pick off enough scabs and look real close.
What is their hobby? He does like to knick goodies offa the more pompous folk, but really… and do keep this secret? He likes to try his paw at flute music, when he gets the time to make himself a nice one. So is music his hobby, or is whittling…? Hm.
What do they do for a living? Well, what is there for a young mouse to do except live off the fatta the land, cleaning his whiskers in a new slice of river each morning? He’s a bit of a traveller, and when he finds (or ‘liberates’) anything of remote value… well, he just might sell it so he can fill his stomach with something sweet. If he must, he’ll make a carving or two and let them go as ‘artistic treasures,’ but that’s just too boring for him to keep on with.
------------Prompt
1. A lifelong mole friend of yours has come with a nasty fever and you fear for his life. You have heard that a broth made from thistle root can help, but the local merchant is a known price scalper and you can't afford the medicine, the nearest growing thistles are high up into the snowy mountains where predators lurk and pick off forest creatures with ease.
Quinn wasn’t the type for settling down. He didn’t like staying in one place, or thinking of ‘placing roots’ anywere, or of even hanging about any one settlement for more than too long - mostly for fear of the ennui bug that liked to find that place between his ears and gnaw until he became rather sore with it all. Neither was he the ‘make buddies-pals-comrades’ type of mouse, as it took a great deal of effort to maintain a relationship where the main party liked to venture off at the drop of a sparrow’s feather… the main being good ol’ Quinn, of course. Nope, he was an ‘I matter first’ kinda fellow, and while his life was still only a few notches long, he figured that it suit him just fine. Bit better than fine, actually - he was probably happier than most other fellows his age, still tied to momma’s apron strings or fumbling about in an attempt to ‘make a living.’
But (and this was a pretty major but) if (a pretty major if, as well) - IF - he really wanted to call anyone a pal, then it would have to be Dibbun-mate and squabbling partner Berdy the mole. That rotten little scoundrel had a habit of chewing Quinn’s ears till they bled with his complaining, always with the care and concern for Quinn’s well-being, stop doing dangerous things, why can’t you just carve like yer daddy did, eh? Well, Quinn wasn’t his daddy, simple as that. But if he was ever in the general neighborhood (or several miles away and felt like having a good row)… he’d find his way to Berdy’s home. Berdy’s ol’ ma was a good cook, anyways, and as of late Quinn’s stomach had been a-rumbling for something sweet and savory.
That was how he had been enticed back into a homestead. However, good cooking or not, he had not planned on staying quite as long as he had.
Upon first inspection, boots still wet with mud and stomach a little unhappy to see that Berdy’s ma had yet to start any sort of cooking - it looked a bit like that groundbug was fighting a losing battle with some sorta super powered case of the sniffles. Mm. neh, that wasn’t really accurate. It seemed as though every major disease ever known to grace the bodies of mammals everywhere had made it a personal goal to rot out the mole’s lungs and leak from every open appendage, and while it was rather disturbing to look upon…
“Ohhh, moi likkle Berdy!” his ma kept lamenting, pulling at Quinn’s paws whilst simultaneously wiping her face with her apron. “Ohh moi Berdy-babe!”
She had reason to be so fulla fret, really. Berdy looked to be at least a thousand degrees hotter than normal, and just wasn’t breathing right. Quinn wasn’t a doctor or anything of the sort (and had no dreams, wishes, or fantasies of becoming one), but this was one of his few decent friends - so perhaps he could do a quick turn of the paw to relieve a bit of medicine to help out a bit. Also, it would get that molemm from plucking his whiskers out in distress…
On a more serious note, Quinn figured he’d have helped out Berdy just ‘cause he was a friend, and those were rare. But it was nice to have an excuse in the back pocket, in case anyone really ever asked. The problem was, deciphering molespeak happened to be a bit difficult when it was drowning in great big blubbering tears… it took a great deal of comforting and paw-patting to get the molemum to sit still long enough for Quinn to take peek-sees at the sickness for himself, and then when she tried to explain all of his symptoms… “Erra, marm, I’m gonna take a quick jog to the medic-merchant, see if he ain’t got sommat for Berdy - you gonna be aright?” He talked very calmy, and moved just the same, for fear of upsetting her once more. “It’ll be a moment, yeah. Try some tea for yer nerves, aright?”
And so the old madam finally saw the wisdom in the young mouse’s words - she set to busying herself in the kitchen, still sniffling away, and Quinn set out bravely for the dangers of the marketplace - which, in all its glory, scared his tailfurs stiff to think that anyone there might remember him from younger days. The bandy-tailed old hedgehog merchant monster sure seemed to find something familiar in Quinn’s patchy face, anyways, and looked at him as though the ‘I’mma steal yer things’ mindset was printed on Quinn’s forehead plain as day. “Wot’r you wantin’, lad?” he was asked, not quite so cordially and with a bit of a side glance. “You seem fit as a sparrow.”
“Oh, I am, but my buddy an’ nurse mate is just wasting away, sir,” Quinn said quite honestly, and then began to list off ailments. “Might you have sommat for that?”
“…Aye.” The merchant was tucking his things in close to his quills, though, where Quinn couldn’t snatch. “If you’ve the goods, of course. Wot’r you offering? T’is a rare brew made from the thistles found at-ta top of a greeaaat mountain, very hard to come by.”
Right. Rare thistles. Sadly, Quinn’s purse and pockets were rather bereft of anything worth such grand cures, and so he said so.
He was kindly told to bugger off and not come back until he was serious about making a purchase.
If one were to leave the further adventuring of Quinn the Mouse to the reader’s imagination, at least let it be known that Quinn was quite badgered to find himself crawling up the side of a particularly treacherous mountain. They woulda read about his encounter with eagles and vipers, and how he bested them with cunning trickery (and more mud than he’d ever admit to in future tellings of his story), and they would have found his little quips with death to be both frightening and awe-inspiring - but then, how many times can one tell of nearly falling offa cliffs, or burrowing like a coward until danger and threat had both ceased and desisted? He won out with patience and an uncanny ability to become a rock (a really lumpy, sorta twitchy rock), and was more than glad he wore his warm pants when he did hit the snowy bits.
It occurred to him ore than once that he coulda just socked that merchant in the face and be done with the whole thing, or perhaps to even let the molemum handle the costs, but then… well, they weren’t that well off. And Quinn was full of the venturing brandy, so he didn’t quite rue the experience as he otherwise should have. He just wished it didn’t hurt his paws so bad when he grabbed a rock wrong, or when he fell a little and found himself rather rudely placed on his tail some great distance from where he had just BEEN why is this whole thing so unfair!?!
But when all of civilization hung far beneath his paws, and he could look over the forests and rivers from a right regal sort of perch, he had to admit it was the right thing to do. Dash it all. With no one to complain to he found himself doing it less and less (he was getting tired, that’s all…), and worrying more and more (cause he was being rather slow at this mountain-climbing thing, why couldn’t he move just a little faster?). If Berdy bit the dust just because he couldn’t find some push to his backside…
Nope. Berdy would live to be a great-great-grandmole, and would be the one spouting eulogies at Quinn’s funeral - not the other way around. Quinn climbed higher, reached out further, chewed his lip harder, and kicked his tail with just a bit more oomph, until - -
Until he hauled his shaggy, travel-tattered carcass over a big, rocky lip swept clean by an abrasive wind… and faceplanted into something sharp and unpleasant. He nearly tipped right off the edge again, and flailed about wildly to catch himself, but there it was - that darned plant, that bristly, angry, medicinal thistle, looking up at him as though to challenge the authority of a mouse on a Cliffside. I got roots, it seemed to say, but you sure don’t.
“I got paws, but you sure don’t,” Quinn countered, and swooped it up in his bandanna to keep it from injuring him more; gloves were nice, but insurance in case they were a bit thin from all that tugging was also pretty sweet. “You’d better be the right thistle, else I’ll be very peeved ‘bout this whole thing. You hear me?”
Of course, it didn’t. It was a plant. But Quinn had reached his goal, and now, he was allowed a bit of rest. Toppa the great mountain, his left toe. That was still a ways away. “HOPE YOU CAN HEAR THIS, BERDY!” he crowed, cupping a paw ‘round his muzzle and letting the mountain echo with his triumph. “I GOT THAT OL’ THISTLE! YOU’D BETTER STILL BE KICKING WHEN I GETS OFFA THIS MOUNTAIN, GOT IT?”
And so the mountain did echo, though there weren’t many relevant souls to hear it. Quinn the Mouse - no - Quinn the Brave had conquered its peaks, taken its treasure, and was now trying to figure a good scurrying way to get himself down. Berdy would go on to live, Quinn would go back to traveling, and the world would be right.
Of course, only if Quinn didn’t slip and break his little neck trying to deliver his goods.
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Posted: Sun Feb 13, 2011 5:27 pm
┏━━━━━━━━━┓
_Contest Archives_
┗━━━━━━━━━┛CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE!
Sat, Feb 05, 2011 - a CYOA set up by Keppit! Quote: You're sitting at home (describe your house a little please in your post) and suddenly you hear a noise outside. It sounds kind of like a scraping noise, and you're not quite sure what's making it.
Do you::
1. Go outside to see what it is?
**2. Stay in your chair and call out to whatever it is?**
Toss, turn, wiggle. Thrash, grumble, kick.
Sigh.
“Auugh!”
Dangit, if this wasn’t a proper pain in the tail! The whole of this ‘nesting’ thing was abstract and strange, a waste of time, and definitely was not Quinn’s favourite place to be - regardless it being so darn necessary. He’d have rather curled up underneath a leaf than go through the motions of digging out this rotty hole, but what was done was done… and all he had to show for an afternoon of toil and pain? A slight indentation near the base of a petrified tree just big enough for him to find shelter, with a hairy sort of root that served as a bed and several immovable pebbles that, given certain circumstances, could probably be used as tables of some design. As for comforts… well, he had a nice vest and a set of leggings to keep him in a warm way, and a sort of satchel he’d snatched before leaving home that would serve as a pillow well enough (though it had grown lumpy with all kinds of carvings he’d decided he needed to make, and therefore wasn’t much better than resting his head on the root itself). No doors, no shelving, no familiar table or chairs, nothing that would ever make this place a bonafide home - just a slab of bark covering the entrance and forming a covering somewhat similar to a roof, to keep out prevailing winds.
Eh. He supposed it was better than freezing his furs off or suffering any surprise adverse weather.
But it was still a sorry excuse for any sort of protection against other, more malevolent things, especially the sort of things that liked to eat up little, poorly-protected, harmless spotted mice, and so even if he had been able to push himself into a sort of comfortable position between the damp root and the damper dirt walls, he’d still have been unable to catch a wink. This was the freedom he had wanted, anyways, the stuff he’d run off to find, and this was just a part of his travels that he’d have to get used to… which was absolutely wonderful, and something he looked forward to oh-so enthusiastically.
No matter, he wouldn’t be here long anyways. He was on a great journey, going wherever his paws would take him and seeing the world in all its glory for himself. If that meant discomfort and a little danger, then have at thee, nightcrawling beasties! Quinn the Furious would strike them down in a heartbeat, using only his fists and his severe willpower (or perhaps one of his carvings, if it seemed a good stabby sort of weapon), overcoming even the darkest of darkness, chewing through the toughest of monster hides, coming out the hero and survivor, the one and only Mighty Mouse -
Something was moving about outside.
With a squeak and a thrashing of paws tucked up into the hem of his leggings, Quinn rolled straight off his root-bed. In a less-than-graceful way he landed on his nose, scuffled about in the dirt, found his paws, lost them again, and finally rolled out of his poor excuse of a nest, bristling in an all-over fierce-like way with his pillow-satchel held above his head like a bola.
“Ey, whoever’s sneakin’ about! Show yer face! Come where I ken see yeh!”
Quote:
Go outside to confront the scratcher
So you decide to get up and go meet the noisemaker head on! It's a brave move really, or at least it would be if it had been something more threatening than a bug. Well done, you were scared/put on guard by a sweet kind little Lady bug. You're so brave. The bug looks up at you with giant puppybug eyes and whimpers slightly, saying 'Lost' in a pittiful little ladybug voice.
Do you::
**1. Take the creature with the Puppybug eyes in search of it's home?**
2. Decide to keep the bug and invite it into your house for dinner (not to eat you creep)
Where was it? Where was that beastie making the racket, threatening Quinn’s life and the whatnot? He’d knock it a solid one, he would, if he ever got his paws on it! Quinn peered about distrustfully, ready to swing his one and only weapon, ready to start smashing skulls and taking names… he was rather looking forward to a brawl by this point, and so was terribly disappointed by what he actually found.
So much for a terrifying monster. Skittering about and finally finding his cause for disruption, Quinn had to face the facts that this was, by definition, no terrible monster. Big refracting eyes, orange-ish shell, polka-spots from head to toe - and the saddest, most miserable face Quinn had ever seen, ever. A little ladybug was perched on the makeshift bark roof, little legs scrabbling about as it rattled its wings and wimpered piteously. “Ye’r… ye’r not that scary,” he grumbled, watching himself reflected in the big black eyes. “Tiny bug. What’re ye doin’ up there?”
The ladybug seemed to be in a great deal of distress - and it wasn’t afraid to let Quinn know it. The moment it realized he was speaking it began a frantic, fluttering squeak - lost, lost! Looost! It was really all quite sad, and tossing his satchel to the ground Quinn gave his shoulders an immense shrug. “Well, bug, I ain’t got a clue as ta where ye hail from - but ye won’t be makin’ a perch of my roof, so geddown.”
Rude as he sounded, he was still very careful as he plucked the bug up in his paws and brought its shining eyes closer to his face. Lost, lost! Help? Looost… What a predicament. Quinn needed a bit of rest, but his nest was a failure. So he’d be on his merry way anyways… “Well then, I s’pose I ken help y’out a bit. Nothin’ left to do hear, anyways.”
And with that he set the bug between his ears. “Let’s go an’ search a bit, eh?”
Quote:
Try to take the Puppybug home
So you decide to try and help the cute little creature find it's way back to where ever it is that it lives. This is a valiant move on your part, and after walking the little bug to several homes without even a little bit of recognition on the bug's part, he leads you outside of the designated clan area. You haven't been out this far in forever *or ever* but somehow the Ladybug seems to know this area. He leads you to a den made out of a hole in the muddy ground, and as you get closer, he starts calling out 'HOME! HOME!" You think he's talking to you for a moment, and then the Badger comes out... She's tall, covered in sores and as she looks at you, she licks her lips. "Yeh brought Canker Blossom some dinner Bug?" She grabs you by the arm, not letting you get away and clouts you one on the head, knocking you senseless for a moment. "Y's a goodbug, yes yeh are." Then you fall unconscious... When you awake again, you're in the den, laying on a pile of something dirty (your choice)...
Do you::
1. Call this dinner part quits and jump out the window?
**2. Grit your teeth, ball up your little fists, and start throwing punches... and maybe rocks and chairs and whatever else you can get your paws on.**
“I’ll tell ye now, bug, I don’t hold high hopes on findin’ yer owner…”
It had already been hours since he first donned his ladybug adventuring hat. HOURS. And not a damn thing had been found, ‘scept a handful of shrugged shoulders and somewhat miffed-lookin’ neighbors not wanting much to do with the noisy bug or the brash-mouthed mouse. Well, if it wasn’t yer bug, then just say so in the first place! Don’t go asking dumb questions, like ‘where’d you find it’ or ‘why’s it on yer head.’ Quinn felt he was searching far and wide for a whole load of nothing, save for a ringing in his ears where the ladybug decided to squeal away its misery every time he took a wrong turn.
Quinn didn’t care too much that the bug was directing him far from his usual stomping grounds; nowadays it was hard for him to recognize any landmarks at all, what with his constant moving-about. But the bug’s flailing legs were pointing him toward darker, deeper woods, and even if this was an adventurer’s bread and butter… Quinn didn’t like it one bit. It seemed to think this was the right way, though, and every step Quinn took made it squeak a little louder, a touch more enthusiastically. The ground grew boggy, and stills of standing water started to line up along his path, but Quinn bravely pushed on.
What fun this was.
But then, hope! Right as Quinn thought he’d toss the bug to the side and find a more pleasing place to wander, a hut appeared in the distance! A ragged, miserable-looking thing that sat on stilts and looked more than ready to tip into the marsh below, yeah, but it was still an abode of some sort. The ladybug was pleased to see it, anyway, clacking its wingshells. Home, home! So this is where that little bug originated from, then.
And, lo and behold, as if summoned by the ladybug’s excited yelling, a figure emerged from the hut.
Euuughh… That wasn’t so much a figure as it was a disheveled potato wearing a badger fur. A hideous old she-demon with a lopsided grin and a voice like rocks in a bag came forth, swiped the bug from Quinn’s head, and mentioned a dinner… “I am a bit hungry, miss-”
WHUNK.
And then, Quinn found himself where no mouse should ever be finding themselves; on his back, dizzy eyes watching a mouldy roof drip above him, the top of his head sticky with a bit of his own dried blood - and something much more displeasing underneath. He didn’t wanna assume that he was lying in a pile of squashed, half-rotten body bits… but he was lying in a pile of squashed, half-rotten body bits. He figured they were all the little pieces that this she-demon decided weren’t worth eating - a little spewing organ here, a few bits of bone and - was that… stomach matter? - there. He wanted very much to scream and leap to his paws, fight his way free of the decay if possible, but he reeeally didn’t need that Canker beast coming to see if her latest meal needed tenderized a little more. He needed to think this through, creep out when the coast was clear, and steal off into the wilderness…
Aw, to hell with that. He could hear the heavy, lunking footsteps as the distinctly-hideous badger made her approach, babbling something to her bug (that damn conniving, sweet-talking, backstabbing little bug) with a slur that was probably the result of her magnificently hair-lipped muzzle… Quinn rolled onto his stomach, ignored the squish of unpleasantries that moved about under his paws, and took hold of the biggest chunk of something he could find. Femur bone? Probably. Quinn wasn’t an anatomist. It looked heavy on one end, sufficient enough to be a club, and pulling it closer to his body Quinn waited.
The floorboards creaked. Quinn lay still, heart pounding in his chest.
The door slid open, and a ghastly shadow filled the empty gap beyond; the badger, complete with ladybug perched on her shoulder. Quinn didn’t move. “Time fer eatin!” the badger rumbled, diseased body filling the little room.
Up went the little spotted mouse straight to his paws, bone club held deftly as though he knew what he was doing. Aim for the eyes, aim for the eyes! He roared wordlessly, and threw his little body forward with as much gumption as he could muster. He'd knock this monster offa it's rocker, then dart away into the wilderness, free as a bird!
... if he could manage it, anyways.
Quote:
Fight that Canker Blossom, and throw it all in her face
So you decide to be a fighter at heart and go for the gold... at least, the slightly brown and red... ew... You grab a weapon from the room and wait in a patient moment of terror until the badger comes in. You get two good swipes at her, but she's like a zombie version of Fezzik the giant, and fighting her does about as good as bashing your head against a brick wall. She holds you tightly by the scruff of your neck, and you reel out of control at the end of her paw, feet hanging at least a head's width off the floor. "Yis goana be a tough beast, makes a tough steak yis does." With a sigh she takes you over to the window and shakes her head at you. "Kint eatem toughs, nots enough teef." She grins at you to show you all her teeth... all? More like both of them. Her breath... it's bad... like _______. "Yis goana wait in the hole." And with that she chucks you out the window and you land in a giant hole in the ground. The whole thing seems to be made of mud, and try as you might, there's no way you're going to be able to climb out of this... and every step gets you more and more covered in mud... "Jis sit an wait. When you stops yelling and being all tough, Iz a let you out to eat yis."
Do you::
**1. Call for help until some passing beast may hear you?**
2. Put the lotions on your skin like a good little pit beast.
Well, at least he had fought magnificently.
Quinn probably should have realized that a mouse in combat with a badger probably wouldn’t succeed. But oh, he had fought gloriously! He had smashed the femur bone against the rock-hard head of the mighty canker sore, felt it shatter in his paws, and had continued with his own claws as though he actually stood a chance; he had kicked and struggled, bit and yowled like a demon, but alas, it just wasn’t enough.
Ol’ blockhead was more braindead than Quinn had given her credit for. Chucked unceremoniously into a dank, muddy pit and still flailing wildly, he endured a roung of wailing laughter that seeped through her bulbous lips as a prisoner of war would - he cursed and screamed right back, hardly hearing her threats and scrabbling for purchase on the sliding walls. “When you stops yelling…”
When you stops yelling… No. No, Quinn would never stop yelling, then! If she wanted a nice, polite snack outta him, she shoulda strangled him when she had the chance. “YOU LET ME OUTTA HERE YA FANNY-FACED SACK O’ SEEPING WARTS!” he bellowed, magnificently throwing himself against the dirt walls. “HAIR-LIPPED, SAGGING, ULGY OL’ WENCH-TAIL -”
He didn’t think to call for help. He didn’t really care for any help - if it came before he lost his voice, then well enough, but this taxodermist’s nightmare was gonna have to deal with his hollering on his own terms.
Quote:
In the pit, hopping around like a madbeast, calling out for any kind of help there may be.
Hopping around does you little good, as you could have guessed, and eventually Canker Blossom comes back down the hill to either collect you for eating or yell at you for being a tough little steak. As the badger looms over the lip of the pit you think she's grown shorter, but it's dark and it's hard to tell. As she clamps down on your shoulder with a massive paw you think she smells better too... like she was rolling around in flowers or something. You quickly sink your teeth into the badger's paw, only to be rewarded with a very masculine "AAAAHGHHHG! Stopit! Or she'll catch us, and I'll get in trouble and she'll eat you." You take a moment to blink your confusion (here... use this face--> O.o ) before you realize that this is a smaller male badger who is in no way disgusting. He drags you away from the pit and the mud, explaining that he's Canker Blossom's son and that if you don't run now, then you're a deadbeast. You don't need a second bidding, and with a quick thanks you take off through the woods... covered in foul smelling mud and sporting a pretty serious set of concussions.
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Posted: Mon Feb 21, 2011 12:04 pm
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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Posted: Mon Feb 21, 2011 12:05 pm
★ ☆ ★ ☆ Take in the restless nature, the promise of a bold adventure
Careful what you wish for, careful what you wish... ★ ☆ ★ ☆
COMING SOON: THE MARVELOUS ADVENTURES OF CADENCE THE MAGPIE★ ☆ ★ ☆ Please be quick and swear forever, we can draw the stars together
Trust me, I'm a thief ★ ☆ ★ ☆ Lyrics: Trust Me, I'm A Thief, by The Guggenheim Grotto
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Posted: Mon Feb 21, 2011 12:10 pm
┏━━━━━━━━━┓
_Cades' Sparklies_
┗━━━━━━━━━┛
“Lookit all my shiny goodies! Aren't they fabulous?”
... But there's nothing here!
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Posted: Mon Feb 21, 2011 12:23 pm
┏━━━━━━━━━┓
_RP ADVENTURES!_
┗━━━━━━━━━┛
... But there's nothing here!
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Posted: Mon Feb 21, 2011 12:41 pm
┏━━━━━━━━━┓
_Contest Archives_
┗━━━━━━━━━┛
How Cadence won her independence~
Massive adoption held by Keppit: Thank you so much!!
I WOULD LIKE TO ADOPT A CHILD! Which one?: #5, Magpie~ Child's Gender?: Female Child's Name?: Cadence Gaia Name: ShadowFox-Sama If your preexisting character is adopting this child, then which one?: - - - If not then your child will be a runaway and will need a clan... which one?: Woodhaven Prompts:
It. Was. Perfect.
It was round, it made jingling sounds when it was shaken, and - most importantly - the way the light hit it made its golden surface literally explode with millions of tiny dancing lights! And it wasn’t very big, either, just right for little talons to wrap around. It even had small grooves on its sides, as though it was just made for being carried away! It was oh so beautiful, and oh so alluring, and… well… Cadence had to have it.
Shame was, it seemed to be in someone else’s possession at the moment; it had been tied, very carefully, to the cart of a traveling puppeteer, along with several of its other brethren that danced and sung so prettily at the end of their strings. What did one beast need so many bells for, Cadence always asked herself as she sat before the stage, toes pressed to her belly and head cocked ever so gently to the side. They were good for attracting a crowd, but to have at least a dozen of them dangling about?
MADNESS.
For four days Cadence had been shirking her duties at the orphanage to be a part of the crowd, never really watching the old squirrel who made the puppets move about, eyes focused solely on obtaining that particular bell she just knew belonged to her. It rang brighter whenever she was about, and shone as though begging her to take it away from its lackluster, dusty life. No one could appreciate it up there, where it was out of reach and impossible to play with; it was pretty, yes, but how it longed to be rolled about in the grass, where it could feel morning dew, or tucked safely in Cadence’s talons, where it could be flown about and showed the grandeur of the world below! It was not meant to be boxed away at the end of the show, folded into darkness when the puppeteer shut down his collapsible stage. Why, Cadence was about certain it was hardly even polished, as any good and sparkling thing should be.
Sacrilege. Cruelty. This squirrel never should have been gifted with it, and it was only right for Cadence to claim it as her own. However, she was having a time figuring out how to sneak off with it unnoticed - hardly a thing she could do often, given her own distractingly gorgeous wings. But she was very clever, a right genius indeed, and had not only been staring at her treasure, but also carefully casing the joint out. One does not see the same show eight times and not learn the habits and break times of the thespian behind the curtains, and her case was hardly any different; she knew when the old puppeteer liked to set up in the morning, how he would take tea shortly before the sun hit its highest mark, and when he had his meals, and while he never left the stagecart for very long he did occasionally turn his back to it in conversation with passing adults. He would have his tea and make light conversation a few steps away, but sometimes became so involved in what he had to say that surely he couldn’t have been paying much attention to the bell. All she had to do was wait for the right moment, let him get into a good conversation, then sneak up all unsuspicious-like, flutter herself up there, and -
“Cadence? Caaadence!”
Eep! Suddenly, a clasping of paws ‘round her midsection, plucking her from the ground! Cadence twisted her body about and tried to free her wings from arms that held her tightly in place, knowing that finally, Zephya had found her. “So this is where you’ve been running off to?” the white rabbit asked, turning Cadence about and giving her a very stern look. “Don’t you know you’ve got chores to do? Do you think it’s right to let all the others work while you’re watching a puppet show?”
Well, Cadence really didn’t care about that much fuss. But, all the same, she most certainly did not want for Zephya to know her true intentions. Her little wings drooped and her eyes began to water; she shivered a little, hung her head, and, very apologetically, she whimpered, “No, I s’pose not - I just wanted to see the show before it left, ma’am! I wasn’t trying to make it hard on anyone, promise!”
“Well, then, you won’t mind doing a bit of extra work, would you? To make it all fair, of course.”
- - - - -
Cadence was, in no way, being abused whatsoever when asked to do a little extra work. She was such a slacker that it was about time she received some sort of punishment, actually, and several of the other orphans were of the same mind that she definitely deserved to be pulling bits of bracken from the roof of the orphanage’s cabin addition. All sorts of things tended to get blown up there and pressed against the edge still connected to the stump, piling up and growing heavier with each season until eventually it would all cave down on little sleeping heads late at night (and probably during a rainstorm; why stop when you’re ahead). There were leaves and sticks and bits of paper and fabric that blew in from Mossflower, as well as a pinecone and a few chunks of bark that were nearly as big as the chick herself. Deciding what stick was bad and which was roof had the little magpie busy for nearly the entire morning, and taking them down one by one was beginning to wear on her wings; she was only an amateur flier, anyways, and she could only hold so much in her beak and her talons that she was certain this job would take her entire life to complete.
She didn’t even know how to begin removing the bigger chunks of debris, and was near tears when she finally plopped herself down to take a well-deserved break. “How’s it going up there?” a little taunting voice crowed - one of the squirrel children, come to give her a ‘rally her spirits’. “Working hard, birdie? Or hardly working? Ah haar har haaar!”
Cadence simmered viciously. She was certain now that she hated squirrels, especially the ones she had to put up with day in and day out. “Why aren’t you up here, ya little vulture?” Cadence retored, poking her head over the side and shooting down a warning glare. “You and your little siblings hang up here so much, why don’t you clean it up from time to time?”
“Oooh, well. Can’t be bothered!” the squirrel replied, flicking his tail and grinning right back. “You do such a nice job of it, anyways. Guess you weren’t be able to see the puppeteer’s last show - aw, such a shame.”
“Wh - WHAAAAT?!”
”Yeah, old man said he put on his last play this morning. Guess he’s on the road by now.”
Nooooo! No, he couldn’t just up and leave like that! CADENCE’S BELL! Scrabbling madly to her feet and bounding anxiously for the tallest spot on the roof, Cadence tried to see as far as Mossflower market. No such luck. “Oooh, what do I do?” she wailed, beating her wings furiously.
This was beginning to wear abrasively against her already short nerves. She was tired, sweaty, and frustrated, and all she really wanted was that bell! was that so much to ask for? A bell, one bell, her bell, to have and to treasure and to ring whenever she pleased. She stomped about the roof, kicking bits of debris and doing her very best to make sure at least some of it landed on the squirrel’s head; she had a fairly accurate kick when she pleased, and now - oh, she pleased. “You KNOW how I wanted to see that last play! It was very IMPORTANT to me and I NEVER ASK FOR MUCH why couldn’t you at least give me EARLIER WARNING -”
Poor little dear was in a right tizzy! No one pouts quite the same way a magpie does when denied their treasures, and true to form, Cadence was in full-flung tantrum. “Ah-atch-Cades - CADES!” the squirrel shrieked, arms covering his head as he scurried from the wrath that was Cadence; “TREESUS, CADES, STOP! The puppeteer - och - hasn’t - HE HASN’T GOTTEN THAT FAR AWAY YOU STUPID BIRD!”
And then - the rain of twigs stopped. “Wot?”
“I said, he only just left like a few minutes ago,” the squirrel mumbled, pulling small twigs from his ears. “If you move quick, you might be able to get that bell you like so much. You’re no fun to pick on, you know?”
Joy once again returned to the beating breast of the young chick, and song once again filled her spirit with renewed energy! “Oh, there’s hope!” she trilled so merrily, never mind that he had known her true goals all along - and that she had really wished he had been skewered by her attacks.
“Yeh, hope…” the squirrel shrugged. “Only if Zephra doesn’t hear you wailing like that.”
The little bird, though she still skipped about the roof, figured the squirrel’s words to be wise. Zephyra had put her to work on the roof, and had made her miss her greatest opportunity to snatch up her bell. If Zephyra knew Cadence was after a nice, shiny bell, she might take it as revenue for the orphanage and use it to buy things like foodstuffs for the other orphans - which was an abuse of power in definition, and could never be allowed to happen. So, what to do…
Well, what else to do? She had a fine pair of wings, didn’t she? And the last time she checked, rabbits couldn’t fly. She would take to the air, then, and soar high above Mossflower, searching out the puppeteer and swooping down like the mighty hawk hunts its prey, plucking it daintily from its string like a berry from its vine, singing victory and tiumph as she went -
But, as was revealed before, she was only a somewhat decent flier. She took her leap of faith and, flapping madly, found herself gaining a bit of height; “So long, Squirrelmate!” she cried, raising her beak to the heavens as though to sing.
WHUNK.
She rolled with the sudden contact with the earth, floundered a bit, found her feet. “Ah-hem… Bye!”
And she booked it for all her little bird legs were worth. It never occurred to her that she would never see the orphanage again, but, just that one taste of freedom…
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