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About Aristocat

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  • Blu

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    • King
    • Aristocat

    *declares love*

    • King
    • Aristocat


    1. King


      It's me.

    2. Brayces



      You did a good, King.

    3. Aristocat
  1. I'd like to thank @King for the awesome, new profile picture.

  2. Lo's Diary - Letters to Mom and Dad

    Stop power gaming me! Gawd! "Will seemed once more lost in thought, running a thumb over the feathered ends of his sharpened sticks, toying with his man-made arrows while his eyes gazed deeply into the rusted lockers in his view." Always interesting to read about events that I've been involved through the eyes of another; especially ones so young and naive. It will be fun to look back on all these journal entries in the future and track Lo's gradual descent into a state of murderous psychopathy. Keep up the impressive writing.
  3. One day; Lo to Will:


    1. Show previous comments  10 more
    2. Aristocat
    3. Brayces
    4. Romenthegreat


      when will get bited and lo got to kill him ( this is how will should died.))


    *Will watches with diminishing enthusiasm as the last of his tiny pumpkin seeds skims rapidly across the lake; its smooth, flat shape stirring up barely perceivable ripples in the water's surface every time it dips to kiss its reflection, only for them to dissipate without a trace mere moments later. Wiry arms stretch their way towards the sky, their ascent heralded by a series of stifled yawns. Careless to the journey's end, he slumps to the sturdy wooden planks beneath his feet and unzips his hiking jacket. Sprawling out on the wooden jetty, languishing beneath the baking heat of the midday sun, he reaches back and adjusts his pack. Once it had borne all of his worldly possessions, protecting them through all the arduous days and nights, now it was destined to bear his lazy countenance.* "Signs of better times.. or just another brief reprieve from the storm?" "Give it a rest.. You're not a writer anymore," he sighs audibly as his subconscious silently chastises him for his own grandiloquent excess. *Intrusively alluring in its tranquil serenity, he forcibly tears his gaze away from the diverting, natural vista that surrounds him. Reluctantly he makes acknowledgement of the radio gripped in his hand, its tacky, black plastic case slowly scorching his calloused palm, punishing him for his indecisiveness. Grinding his teeth, he brushes his thumb over the nail bitten cover, it's rough surface agitated by many an uneasy conversation. Rescinding his commitment, he divorces himself from the nagging black box with an exasperated huff. Content to wallow in his guilt, he closes his heavy lids and slips a hand behind his head, praying for a sleep that he knew would never come.* *There he would have remained, plagued by turmoil, if it weren't for the wonderfully irritable shrieks of childish laughter drifting over the reeds. Opening an eye, he peers through the obscuring foliage to watch a young girl balancing precariously on the rusting hulk of a partially submerged sedan. Noticing his attention, she pauses to smile and wave at him, fore continuing to partake in an unfathomable game, the rules of which were known only to her. Spectating from the side-line, he spots an unsightly blemish upon her cheek, the tell-tale sign of a heavy hand. Furrowing his brow, he turns again to consider the discarded radio. Plucking it from the ground, he teases the transmit button hesitantly.* "Pain comes and goes.. and bruises will fade.. But never break a promise to a child.. That's a wound you can't heal." *Cursing his own bleeding heart, he squeezes down hard on the PTT and musters his courage.* "Jeremy? It's Will.. Listen, I don't know if you can hear me.. so just shut up and listen.. The girl is alive and well.. I'm not sorry for taking her away.. the city wasn't safe anymore.. However, I fear in my haste to escape I may have exposed her to an entirely different manner of danger.. one that I'm not sure I can protect her from.." *He glances over his shoulder, ever wary of the attentive guard which stalks the perimeter of the camp, shotgun cradled in his arms as though it were an innocent, new-born babe.* "I'd tell you where.. but there are some things I need to explain to you first.. wolves live here.. and I can't guarantee your well-being.. We'll meet in Chernogorsk tonight.. at the bar.. You'll be able to see her again soon, I promise.. but for now you need to trust me." *Releasing the PTT, he casts aside the viperous device, running a hand shakily through his untidy mess of brown hair. Visibly perturbed, he turns to regard Lo in her state of blissful ignorance, never having felt quite so unsure of his actions.*
  5. Spiffing interview. Good to know more about the man behind JJ Colt and that hyperactive fellow with the frying pans.
  6. Trent's Art Thread -Requests open

    Farmer, philosopher, artist. Truly you are a man of many talents. Very nice work, I might have to request a portrait of Will.
  7. Happy to help! Thank you for allowing William to be complicit in his murder.
  8. Marcunt's cunt stuff.

    Who's that handsome cunt in the wellies?
  9. I'm much obliged to @FinskaFiskar & @Marcunt for taking the time to tutor a malnourished, brain chilled Englishman the ways of the new world. Looking forward to continuing our ill-fated road trip soon.
  10. Will Holdsworth

    Will Holdsworth was born the eldest son of a Devonshire landowner. Growing up many miles from the small market town of Buckfastleigh, he spent most of his early childhood in the quiet isolation of his family's country manor house. No sooner than he was old enough to walk, his father would take him exploring in the Dartmoor. From a young age, he'd learn how to navigate his way between the rocky tors and through the dangerous bogs that mired the area. When he wasn't out getting lost in the wilderness, he'd be at home tending to the livestock and helping to maintain the dilapidated outbuildings. Once his chores were completed, he'd spend his evenings reading the few books that adorned the dusty shelves of his father's neglected study. The prose was difficult but the stories provided a welcome distraction for his juvenile mind, taking him to exotic lands beyond the wearisome, green hills of his birthplace. Privately tutored for many years, he struggled to integrate into secondary school, becoming something of a social outcast. Quite often he would bunk off class to go trespassing in the old military ranges that littered the moorlands, where few were likely to tread. Education held little interest to him and his grades suffered as a result; creative writing was perhaps the only subject he excelled in, which was often derisively attributed to his capacity to daydream. The local archery club provided a rare chance to socialize with like-minded individuals, giving him something to focus on outside of his failing studies. Though proficient, his skill with a bow never warranted any significant merit outside local county tournaments. Despite the protests of his more traditionally minded kinsfolk, a month after his 19th Birthday, he departed the West Country to study English literature in London. There his childhood wanderlust was rekindled by his exposure to the diversity of city life. Shortly after graduation, his father suffered a fatal stroke. Much to the dismay of the community, he sold his share in the family estate, using the money to pursue his dream of becoming an amateur travel writer. Switzerland, South Africa, Brazil, India, China to name just a few of the notches on his passport. Driven by his yearning for new horizons, he ventured to Chernarus for a rare opportunity to go climbing in the Black Mountains.
  11. Lopatino's Church Massacre Comic

    Nooooooo! Horses can't gallop in snow! You should know this!