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1
Introductions! / you guessed it: it's possum-themed.
« Last post by Tallulah Sloe on 11/16/2017 at 21:50 »
 

hi, i'm christen


...and yes, this is possum-themed again.

Anyway, hi, hello, hey, I'm Christen.  I've been a member of Hoggies on and off for, goodness, seventeen years now.  I'll be thirty-one on 16 December, and I live in Nashville, Tennessee with my lovely husband, Vince, our not-so-lovely dog, Hank, and our cat/my soulfriend, Spaghetti.

I play Dungeons and Dragons, and will happily talk your ear off about it if given half a chance.  I like music (mostly indie of various flavors) and just recently saw The Shins.  I'm a big playlist-maker, too, and have one for most of my characters.  Though my skill level is pretty basic, I like to knit, as well as crochet, and--well, really enjoy most crafty things in general.  I am learning to read tarot, and really love to garden, though, as it's winter, I'm not doing much of it now.  I love animals--you name it, I probably like it--and am particularly fond of local wildlife, like the majestic trash-friend, the possum.  I don't read a fraction as much as I should, but when I do, I favor Southern Literature and the Beats.  My favorite author is probably Tennessee Williams, or maybe William Faulkner, both for their lush, lyrical, deeply place-rooted prose styles.

In short, I'm a huge nerd.

This Summer Term, I'm a counselor for [TEAM NAME HIDDEN UNTIL IT'S TIME FOR SUMMER TERM, YOU'RE NOT GETTING ANY CLUES FROM ME, MWA HA HAAAAA] nestled in [HA HA NICE TRY IT'S SECRET].  It's my first time, and I am really excited!  There's some exciting stuff in the works, and I can't wait for it all to unfold.

Currently, I actively play all of two characters.

Tallulah Belle Sloe, a rising sixth year Gryffindor:
A ball of energy who is going a bit dark at the edges as she tries to navigate her way through life.  Currently a counselor at Camp Loki.

Arlo David Mason, a 40-something Gryffindor graduate:
A poet, a dad, a mess.  Currently unemployed again after a short stint as a Herbology substitute at Hogwarts.

I AM SO EXCITED TO WRITE WITH YOU ALL.  See all those caps?  THAT'S EXCITEMENT.  Please do not hesitate to get at me--in chat, private chat, PM, interpretative dance--so we can plot, or just start me a thread and send me a link!  It's going to be a great Summer Term!

2
Freestyle Roleplaying / Re: What Once Was // Lita
« Last post by Lita Chevalier on 11/15/2017 at 21:55 »
His lips had found hers, a sweet sense of victory washing over her, having wanted to feel him against her for a few years counting. He was gentle, soft even in the way he touched her. Fingertips caressed exposed skin, causing the hairs on her arm to stand, goosebumps rising to the air. A slight shudder coursed through her body as his fingers reached her neck, the trail he left burning with an intensity she had yet to experience before that moment.

He was setting her being ablaze, and she desperately wanted nothing more than to burn.

As Zak shifted, so did she. Extending the arm closest to him, her palm pressed against the grass beside him, the blades tickling between her fingers. She leaned into the lion, feeding into the insatiable hunger he seemed to radiate. Her own cravings came to the surface as the kiss turned darker, pulling her under with each ticking moment. Lita brought her opposite hand up, her own fingertips brushing against lightly his jaw, clumsily letting it fall to the crevasse of his neck.

Zak began to pull back, and she let him lead, mimicking his action. The smirk he held brought her pulse to an all-time high. feeling it trying to leap out of her chest.

"Are you alright?"

"G-great," she said breathlessly, a smiling curling her lips. "Are you?"
3
Freestyle Roleplaying / What Once Was // Lita
« Last post by Fish Weiland on 11/04/2017 at 04:53 »
Summer 1951
Continued from...somewhere


She tasted sweet, like caramel, but warm, as though the saccharine treat had been left too long in the sun and started melting, and he couldn't help but like that. For she always had been sweet, when he cast his glances on her from the distance, when their eyes locked and he could see his own smile reflected in hers, though possibly less in the form of a smirk than his.

Now his eyes were closed, as he made those first trying moves, lips gently upon hers but careful, as though not to scare her away this early in the game. His fingers stroking along the side of her arm, starting at her hand to trace an invisible line all the way up to her shoulder, to her neck, shifting in his seat in order to face her more directly.

What had caused him to leaning in in the first place was hard to tell. Perhaps it was the proximity of their bodies, the way his thigh had touched hers as they say, though without him particularly caring. Perhaps it was the light tone of their conversation, spurring laughter off summer warm lips. Perhaps it was the way that he knew so very well that she'd look at him, the way she had done for so long already, as he caught those eyes, as he invited them into the challenge.

It hardly mattered now, as he pushed forward just a little bit, to deepen the kiss, again to test, to lead her into it.

Before pulling away, gently, opening his eyes and look at her, ever so smugly.

"Are you alright?"

He couldn't remember what was the topic of their previous conversation.
4
Numbed by the long trek and the horse’s muscles shifting constantly beneath her, Helen was left to enjoy the relative quiet company of her thoughts.

Now that the initial adrenaline rush had faded out of her bloodstream, she was left the overwhelming desire to simply turn around and return to the town. This was so far out of her little bubble of comfort that she didn’t know what exactly to do; to think; or to feel.

When the pair finally arrived at the little brook, Hel simply followed the gunslinger’s instructions because there was nothing else for her to do. She could run, yes— but would it truly ameliorate her position in society?

This man was callous; and he was course and unrefined and a criminal— but he was also the nicest man she’d met. Not openly misogynistic, for one. He let her wear breeches; he was going to teach her how to shoot. If this is what freedom tasted like, she could sure get used to the flavour.

After watering the horses, and locating the tinder, and building the husk for the fire— she sat back on her haunches and watched the outlaw move about their little campsite. “I’m here now,” she said, and waited for the racket to still before she spoke again.

“How’d you know?”
5
The man's silence was given to her remark. If he confirmed or denied, she might even turn him in for the bounty. "We'll be there soon. We'll start when I say we start, love."

It would be an additional half hour before the sound for the streams overpowered the idle sounds of the night. A thud ricketed against the hard ground once a spot enclosed off by a ravine had been picked for settling. They were close enough to refill canisters the horses not too far from sight.

Jim hadn't asked. it was not that he wasn't interested in who she was, but he wanted to see if she could be someone else when offered. Whistling away a broken tune he unfurled the bedroll and pitched up the few ropes and sticks of tent, a makeshift shelter for one they would both need to tend to.

"Y' can start by making sure the horses are watered, an' stick some tinder t'gether to from the saddlebags an' start a fire. I can cook my specialty. Canned beans." It was likely a majority of his diet. "Unless you feel like a lizard kebob." he set down the one tarp to keep their clothes from muddying. The stars above providing enough light for them both to set up.

The rattle of tin and pot moved. Jamie speaking up over the racket.

"In the morning, we'll work on your name, aim and path t' fame. M' second hand can't be unequal to my best. That is... if you are interested."

6
He whistled and she winced-- because the ghost of Earl the Barkeep and his melodic plethora of appreciative whistles reverberated between her ears. She had hated Earl, but it wasn't something she needed to tell the cowboy. It must have been something he'd seen.

His comment about the fellow she'd stolen the hat from flew over her head at first-- until she saw the smirk on her face. A slow smirk crawled over her lips, and she looked away to alleviate the low-swooping burn inside her chest. Earl may have perpetuated the exact same type of behaviour, but the gunslinger was different, somehow.

When he said his name aloud, however, the pieces fell into place-- and Helen had to fight to stay on her horse.

"'Quick-Fingers Jim'?" she said, and curled her thumbs into her palms so hard that the nails left crescent-moons in their wake, "The outlaw?"

He didn't say another word-- and he did not ask for her name.

Finally, as the night settled and the unbearable heat waned, and their horses began to slow-- did the cowboy speak again. Something about camp, something about beans; but Helen wasn't listening anymore. Instead, she filled with an awkward anxiety-- she'd never shared a room with a man before, not willingly. She'd never camped; she'd never even been outside the township.

"So, uh- Where do we start?"
7
Only one hand was required to control his docile horse, the mare well trained enough by whoever had owned her before. The unmarked dirt path they followed harder to read as the township in the backdrop vanished from the horizon. The blistering heat dying down to something just above tolerable until the sweet chill of night gusted through the pair of them. Their path soon to be lit by constellations.


"I'm sure you can finish the picture." He rode ahead of the girl, his jovial tune returning in the soud of an impressed whistle.

"Poor fella, quick shot. Sounds like you got the better end of the bargain." he turned his head, one eye on her as she followed on her own horse. His name was not shared with many - but posters painted a pretty enough picture of nicknames.

"Huckleberry won' do for now, will it?" he laughed, fingers pinching the brim of his hat as he tilted it forward in greeting. "Jamie. Though, most call me quick fingers Jim." He would not get into the lit of names women company had. Golden streaks of orange and honeycomb graced the sky for the last half hour - fading into deep blues.

The slight wobble of his mares steps indicated the tired nature of their horses after a few hours. They would both need watering and fed.

Only when he mentioned it, above the night calls of critters and the scuffle of dirt was his statement obvious to hear. "We shouldn't dally too long, we can set up camp somewhere by the stream o'er yonder. Hope yer fan of beans, an sharin." They would have to share more than the cookpot.
8
There was a shift in the cowboy now that he was out of the bar. There was no tension in his shoulders; he actually smiled when she approached. It formed such a direct contrast to everything she'd seen before-- she didn't know what to think.

In the end, she just stood there, chin tilted upwards in silent challenge. She was wondering whether he'd say anything about the breeches. She was wondering whether he'd change his mind.

Another moment passed, however, and the cowboy hoisted himself atop his horse. A tossed comment about the hat fell between them, and Helen felt a reckless grin crawling over her lips. It was a story she was unafraid of telling, and she set the Stetson a little further on her head.

"Fella got to close when I was servin' him," she said, placing a foot in the stirrups and hoisting herself up, "I'm sure you can finish the picture."

Once seated, she gathered the reins in one hand and tapped the mare's flanks with her heels. The horse began to move forward, and she surprised herself by the ease of it all-- like she was taking a natural step forward instead of eloping with a cowboy she didn't know.

They started down the thoroughfare of the main street. The sun was sinking lower and lower. "Can I get your name?"
9
The girl had finally caught up. The sun low on the horizon - slowly moving to tuck itself behind the line of mountains in the horizon. They would need to head towards that if they wanted to find somewhere more hospitable to crash.

The gunslinger smiled, his hand calming the twin colored mare he had saddled already. Camping supplies tied securely to the backside of the horse. "Y' finally joined me, Darlin. Had a bih of a worry tha' you weren' going to turn up." She suited the pants, not that he would mention anything about the social conventions that remained in place in todays society.

"Which poor bloke lost his hat?" With a hop and a climb he lifted himself up onto his horse, looking down at the girl with reins gently in his grip. "Suits you better. You least look the part, but before we get rastlin we best train you proper in draw and aim.
 In th morrow."


Spurs lightly tucked against the mares side, the horse beginning to move at a slow pace away from the confines of the time. Hopefully, she knew how to ride.

Riding was only one part of their adventure.
10
Helen's eyes narrowed, almost like she was prematurely squinting into the hot summer sun. She couldn't tell whether the cowboy was taunting her, or pulling her leg, or simply throwing his masculinity around because she was a woman, and he was not.

Her expression soured at some of the choice words that left his mouth. The barkeep had once used similar language, and it didn't matter how handsome the gunslinger was-- nothing repelled her like casual sexism, veiled though it was. There was no need for that kind of behaviour, not anymore-- not when Tabitha Greenway was managing her own ranch whilst her husband was out in the plains. As far as Helen was concerned, the only inequality between herself and the cowboy was their difference in height.

She must have played right into his hands.

"Thank me?" she dropped the cloth onto the bar and leant her elbows over the edge, "You oughtta be thankin' me for not pullin' a gun on you."

She released a breath through her nose. "I ain't gotta call the sheriff to put you to justice, cowboy."

She felt herself puff up already, chest heaving in bloodrush and apprehension. Dull as it was, being a barmaid had prepared her well for the types men that came off the Oregon trail-- and her fists were no strangers to blood. She liked to think she was particularly independent. She could take care of herself and she certainly need no cowboy telling her what to d--

Her mouth fell open, wide enough to catch flies and entire motes of dust, when the stranger finished with his proposition and walked backwards out of the bar.

"Hold up!" Her face scrunched in frustration, and she hurled the wet cloth at the closed doors. It landed in the centre of the room. "I don't even know you!"



Evening. | Still very warm.

At the tenth toll of the bell, Helen stepped out from behind the retaining wall adjacent to the milkery and approached the cowboy's horse. The mare stood at thirteen hands high, by her estimation, and she turned her head when Helen approached. She was calm, and merely puffed out a gust of hot air from her nose when Hel placed a gentle hand on the bridge.

She placed her knapsack of meagre belongings on the ground and crossed her arms over her chest. It was late, thankfully, which meant she'd not be arrested for wearing men's breeches until she and the cowboy arrived in the next town-- and she was planning to take advantage of her brief freedom until then.

Perhaps the gunslinger wouldn't even object.

Truth be told, Helen still wasn't sure what exactly had drawn her to the man-- but there was a hot spiking thing in her chest, and it implored her to take up the cowboy's offer. She knew she was never getting an opportunity like this again-- and the battered Stetson sitting on her head had never sat more securely than now.
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