Recent Statuses

4 mos ago
Current Ever wish life was a game, and you could delete your save?






Still in Character Select screen.

Hoo-man like, with black hair, and brown eyes. Also, a colorful bag.

Goofy sometimes. Tired other times. Lazy most times, cranky at times.


Cute animals.
Video games.
Cats and foxes.
Daring jokes.

A lot of things.
Being bored.
Political correctness.


Sessual' Preferences

RP Preferences
Romantic action horror, with fantasy elements.
More furries.
I like furries.

RP Character Preferences
I always play male characters.
I always play gay characters.
I don't always play male side characters.
I don't always play gay side characters.

Favorite Colors
Rainbow colored.
Other colors.
Raccoon colored.

Most Recent Posts

Lowering his hand towards the streak of fur gently resting next to Milo's chair, the young shoulder ran his fingers through the strands as his eyes fell to the husky curiously keeping its gaze traced across the bar. "There's a meeting?" Milo proceeded, shifting his eyes back to the tender. He had seen quite a few individuals moving towards one collective location since entering the bar.

"Yeah, concerning the crash." A response came, "buncha' leaders going there." The man shrugged, "also people who want to help, from what I could gather."

"Help?" Milo inquired, placing his hands on the counter as his interest was somewhat more piqued.

"Mhm," the tender nodded, "I'm sure you'd get compensated in some way." Any job was worth it, if the payout was sufficient. Milo would have been lying to himself if he claimed that this crash didn't interest him, and whatever came to unfold from the incident was sure to warrant some level of worry. The Riftlands was his home, after all. What happened there, involved him, and concerned him as much as anyone else.

"Might as well take a look," the young soldier left his chair, swinging his rifle over his shoulder as fingers made their way around the leather strap. "Come on, Bubbles." He finished, seeing how the husky scrambled to its paws and followed its owner out of the bar. With a soft wave, Milo vacated the establishment in a straight path for the meeting. It wasn't too difficult to find, seeing as how it was the only place where any notable amount of activity was taking place.
Looking forward to the Deathclaws oe'r yonder!
Reaping Grounds, and Those from Beyond
@Puffhead If you need any help at all, don't be afraid to holler, hun'.
A suggestion. A Discord chat would make ease of communication within the RP rather efficiant.

Also, I found this site, for collaboration posts.
Oh shit, I forgot to give Milo a dawg. I need to give Milo a dawg!!

@Puffhead Hah, I like him. Would get along with Milo xD.
@Puffhead And with that said, I posted.

It was a difficult feat indeed, to remain oblivious to the ever changing winds the Riftlands was suffering from. Slender fingers tapped against a wooden counter, short nails managing a soft clicking sound as they did. In thought, a young man appeared to be resting his chin against his palm in a fashion considered bored, by most. "So, whaddya' think it means?" A voice broke through the silence, urging the young man's gaze towards a larger male serving drinks behind the counter. It was safe to assume Milo's frequent visits to this bar, given the laid back and comfortable atmosphere emanating from the young soldier, or rather mercenary as one would call it, in this day and age.

"Dunno'", a response rung out, silent as if a gentle whisper, "guess shit's gonna' boil over, now." The young soldier finished, sipping from a bottle of soda. Bland, warm and boring, one couldn't be too nit-picky out in the wastes, the Riftlands.

"Mhm," the elder gentleman offered, wiping a cup for what ought to have been the fifth time, "ain't everyday a crash comes around. It's gonna' cause a panic."

"Good for business, and all that," Milo managed a sigh, gently running a set of thin digits through his hair. Despite the young man's appearance stretching no further than one of late teenage years, he had quite the amount of experience to dip into. He was, as one would say, more than met the eye. "People freak out," he continued, "and they kill each other. They hire protection, I get paid."

"S'long as you have bullets, gunner." The bartender chuckled.

"Some people can create storms," Milo returned, his quiet voice maintaining its soft, and somewhat serene tone, "and I don't run out of bullets." It was safe to say, that his power was good for something, at least. After all, most Rifters were just as allergic to high velocity lead, as anyone else.

"Ah, and so it is," the tender snorted, putting the cup away. "Been hired to take anyone out, lately?"

"Professional integrity," the youngster retorted, "classified."

"And so it is," the elder repeated. "Just stay in your skin, kid. S'far as I can tell, I haven't lost no customers 'cause of you. Let's not make you the first to go, eh?"

"I'd say life's short," Milo sighed once more, placing his feet on the floor before pushing himself up, "but a look in the mirror would say I'm full of shit." Not aging, it had its negatives, that much was certain. Though, taking one day at a time helped, however little it may have eased the winds of time which continued to pass the young man by, untouched.
@Irredeemable Milo can go with James, if you'd like.
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet