Little Bill — Roleplayer Guild

@Hannibal 'Fraid not.

@Terminal It would be as much a disservice to the players to boot you as it would be a disservice to the plot to boot Caerulmost. Glad to see you're back! 
However, I am  a man of my word and I said I'd let @Jotunn Draugr submit a sheet. If he is still interested, I think he can be squeezed in without giving anyone the boot.

Anyway, applications are due Friday, September 2nd. They don't have to be completely complete, there will be another week gap to edit in country/house relations and for me to make the first chapter post, but I'd still like to be able to see what your country's thing is as readily as Edontians are the Mexican Gypsies of Ardacia. As for those of you who have been here since day one, now would be a good time for you to add any details you originally wanted to clarify but didn't -- For instance, I'm making a shitty conlang for Edontas. Anyway, I'm on vacation with limited internet, but I'll probably be able to login once a day to field any application questions.
Tagging everyone else here so I know everybody sees it. See ya'll Friday!

@Celeste@Theodorable@ethanjory@The Nexerus@RisenDead@Vor

"Mowww." Whined a fat, grey rain cloud of a cat. His name was "Boogie", who he was a stout Maine coon riddled with bits of dried muck and fleas. He belonged to none other than the Delacroix family, and as much as this vexed him, it came with a few perks -- Namely, he was free to hunt, scratch, eat, piss, and shit where ever he pleased, and his speed allowed him to occasionally seek vengeance against his captors whether or not he was caught. This would be one of those mornings. "Mooowwww." He whined again, as if to warn his target. Today, it was the boy. The very same boy who pulled his tail as a screaming infant, the same boy who would drag him onto boats, and who would stuff him in a stinky, cramped bag to bring to places filled with other screaming children. The boy who once shaved all but his head, paws, and tail, and the same boy who would bring him to bright, metal rooms to be poked and pierced with needles.

Yes.

It would be the boy today.

Boogie slowly reached forward, waving his paw in front of the sleeping boy's face for a moment as he rose to his hind legs, zeroing in on his target as his pupils tightened with the synchronicity of a stalking puma. In a single fluid motion, he struck the boy's face and turned to run, sprinting with a speed befitting his true jungle cat ancestry, bounding and leaping over piles of soiled laundry and trash. The boy rose up instantly, grabbing his face and shouting, though by then, Boogie was a room away and heard only a muffled yowl. The hunt had been successful.

It was a good day to be Boogie.

"Where ya goin' looking like dat, bebette?" Bo growled, sucking his teeth and pointing at Cecil's scratch with a long, muscular arm. "You tryin' get CPS to thinkin' ya papa some saleu, boy?" He sucked his teeth again, though he didn't rise from his armchair. He couldn't rise from his armchair, to be fair. Around him, in the Delacroix trailer's living room, were an assortment of boxes, plastic bags, and bits of scattered trash -- They were not cluttered with it by any means, though there was just enough to tell of the family's poor state of affairs. Indeterminate brown and grey stains lined corners of the walls, and each doorway was blackened with unwashed handprints and dust. Bo sat in his chair, a torn green armchair backed into the corner of the unlit room, which gave him a silhouette more imposing than he already was. Though Cecil couldn't see, the room stunk with the smell of beer alongside the usual sickeningly sweet stench of rot and tobacco that clung to the still air. Cecil absent-mindedly wondered how his father could see his face, but he could not see his father's.

"Cat scratched me, I ain't goin' to school or nothin' though, so ain't no one lookin' atchu bad, papa."

Bo paused for a few seconds, sinking into his chair. "Where you goin', Cecile?"

"Movies." He lied.

"You got money for movies from your mama?" He raised a brow, his voice turning deeper and angrier. He extended a long, tattooed arm through the shadows once again, tapping his palm with two fingers. "Give it. You don' need no foutu movie. You dumb enough without, ya pickney."

Without hesitation, Cecil reached into his pocket and pulled out the few bills he remembered he had brought, stepping forward and placing them in his father's hand, as if placing an offering to some malevolent, vengeful deity. "Thassa good boy. Run 'long now, ya couyon." Cecil nodded again, and turned and left the trailer as quickly as he could, hiking his backpack further up his back with a heave.

He walked through the familiar road of the trailer park, which was unpaved and only kept from growing plants by the years of spilled chemicals and trash that lined it. He noticed a neighbor of his, Tommy Gorda and his younger brother, hanging around and biking in circles. As soon as Tommy saw him, he pointed his presence out to his brother and the two drove forward, cackling with no visible reason. "You ain't got no bi-ike" sang Tommy to the tune of La Cucaracha. He had long since believed Cecil was actually Spanish rather than French -- His logic being that French people did not live in trailer parks -- and would sing most of his taunts to this tune. "You ain't got no bike, You ain't got no bike, ay-ayayay," He continued, circling Cecil. His younger brother, who was not fully in on the joke, rode a few feet away squealing "No bike! No bike!", pointing at Cecil.

"Shut up Tommy. That's why your daddy got hit by a car and gets government money." Cecil squinted at him, raising his head a bit as he responded, trying his best to emulate a John-Wayne retort with what little he knew about Tommy's home life.

Tommy's eyes widened, and he dismounted his bike, throwing it down. "You take that back, you fuckin' ar-tard!" His brother followed suit and threw his bike to the ground as well, scattering bits of gravel towards Cecil and puffing out his chest a bit.

"Yeah, well then your mom cheated on him for bein' so fucked up and had your brother out her butt. That's why he got so many freckles. 'Cuz he an ass-baby." Cecil continued, pointing at his scowling younger brother. This insult happened to be one too many for the older Gorda, who rushed to quickly swung at Cecil, who expectantly rushed to lean back quicker. Cecil reached out and tugged the boy's over-extended arm, sending him crashing to the ground with a spin, though Tommy grabbed Cecil's arm quick enough to bring him down with him. The two boys wrestled on the ground, punching, scratching, and kicking one another as the younger Gorda began screaming a high pitched wail, standing frozen in place. After a few moments of this, as quickly as the fight started, the boys rolled off one another, and Cecil stood up victorious, grabbing Tommy's bike by the handlebars and pedaling away as fast as he could.

It was a good day to be Cecil.

“What’s up? Your boat hadn’t sunk yet?”

Cecil shook his head, snapping out of his recollection of the day's events. He wasn't accustomed to the ease of carrying his things on a bike, and had been spacing out more than usual that day as he coasted alongside his fellow adventurers.

"Nah. Unsinkable." Cecil shrugged. "'Sides, Tommy let me use his bike a while, he ain't gonna miss it none."

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