She falls in a sudden reversal of gravity: the ground retreating from her feet as her head spins and whirls, as she struggles to cope with the fact that up is now down. She tumbles into the sky, but her focus is toward the earth, the swamp she calls home, as it dwindles from an all-encompassing sea of greenery around her to a forest of mangrove trees and marshy grass, as that shrinks and she is at last able to see the sharp lines, the jagged formations that the water leaves in its wake, the cuts rivers and streams make through Matope. There is a glimpse of more, of green plains in the distance, of the endless expanse of the ocean in one direction, before her tumble twists and she is instead falling into the sun.
Acerbic, sometimes mean just for the sake of being mean, Bird's Eye View thinks very highly of herself and sharpens when people try to tear her down.

The work is fine, the spider moving in slow, delicate, even stripes. This is not the spiraling, beautiful gem of a spiderweb most kin would be used to seeing, but instead is a tight weave, opaque and heavy and impossibly strong. There is nothing that could slip past it, and nothing that could escape.
Her brother is prone to exaggerating, and so Spidersilk expects everyone to do the same, seeing the world as a tangle of lies. She considers it her duty to catch those lies.
None.

The sun hits his flank and stops, swallowed by darkness. He cannot be brought into the light.
Stop the Light believes a lot of crazy things, and makes up a lot of crazy ideas: not old wives tails but complicated explanations for simple behaviors. He thinks he is a philosopher, shedding light on the world, when really there's not a whole lot there. The genius is all in his own head.
None.

It lashes and sways, it bobs and weaves, a sinuous creature with a narrowed head. She watches it through narrowed eyes, the tip of her own tongue hissing out between her teeth as it mirrors her movements.

It stills, when she stills.

It moves, when she moves.

And finally, unable to take the waiting any longer, she springs — the long points of her fangs sinking through scales and flesh to dig deep, blood filling her senses, thick and heavy.

At the same moment, pain shoots through her like a shock up her spine. As she lets go, poison seeping into her system, she realizes it's her own tail.
Coppermouth is bitter, somewhat bitchy, likely to sabotage her own luck and relationships just because she's not sure how to be happy. Something is always wrong. Something is always off-kilter. And when it goes wrong, it's her fault and she knows it.
no gender yet

It is a badger; he stares at it, and it stares back, and they likely both think how similar they are.
Badgerlock is a Tidewalker and a hermit; mostly he lives on his own in the wildest parts of the wilderness, hunting and scavenging and making do with what he can get off the land.

His greatest flaw is his belief in his own power as a kin. He doesn't think he's a god. It's nothing that simple. He merely believes that, with enough effort, he can enact change -- and can change things to be the way he wants them to be. It means he will never be able to leave 'well enough' alone or to keep his nose out of other peoples' problems. He wants to help.
- male

- by Pigxels!
Winter's Fury - Badgerlock tells a completely fictional of course fairytale.

[META ORP] Journey to the Mountains - Badgerlock heads on an adventure to the mountains, with Merry and another friend in tow. 500+ words
In Spite of Everything - Badgerlock meets up once again with King, for better or worse. 500+ words.
Merry go Lucky - Badgerlock leads Merry on a hunt in the mountains. 500+ words
Mud Bath & Badgerlock - A fight near the obelisk! why? because they feel fighty. 500+ words
Obelisk's Revenge - FINALE ORP; Badgerlock fights a bear and sees a skeletal wolf. 500+ words
CYOA: The Spectral Hunt - Badgerlock hunts with wolves, follows a strange path, and has a vision of import. Also, gains a spectral wolf to whom he is closely binded, After. 500+ words.

"Do you really love me?"
"Perhaps."
Perhaps's name is everything. She says yes and then no and then maybe and can't quite make up her mind ever. Be ready for her to change her mind at the last minute, and decide she doesn't want to go through with it. Oh. Or maybe she does.
None.

The storm blisters and blows. Winds rip trees from the earth and deposit them half a league away, shower leaves across the swamp in battered bits and pieces. The rain blinds and stings, lashing across their flanks, dragging through their hair, hammering them down toward the earth. She looks into the fury and the devastation and does the only sane thing --

she runs the other way.
Leeward's a total sissy, running from everything frightening and hiding her head under a stone. Metaphorically. Okay, sometimes not.
None yet

No illness in life will ever compare to what she feels in her dream: her insides twisting, curled up in the reeds, sweaty and tense, groaning under her breath. Here, no one will find her: no one will ask if she is well, no one will bring soothing herbs to settle her stomach. It leaves her shaky and weak, wasting away until she can't go on any longer. She dies thinking about how sweet that mushroom had tasted.
Deathcap in gleeful, mocking, with a great sense of humor, even if it's usually at your expense. She's morbid, but that doesn't mean she's depressed, sad, or low-energy. It just means she has a bit of a fascination with death and the weird.
None yet

Each word is sharp enough to cut through her flesh, slicing through skin and muscle and sinew, to draw it back in bloody pieces and lay her bones bare.
She's a bit crazy, startled by loud sounds and sudden movements.
None.

A food connoisseur, as a young totoma he sampled anything and everything, with very little thought to the possibility that it might cause him harm. He was lucky to have something of an iron constitution. Berries that made the other youngsters ill, left them rolling and moaning or losing their lunch in the bushes, just gave him a bit of a grumbly stomach.

These berries, in particular, were the strangling sort. They drove the breath from birds so quickly that they fell from the sky and died. They blackened the tongue -- and, indeed, they blackened his, as well.

But they certainly didn't kill him.
Black Tongue is serious, quiet, with easily wounded pride. He likes to eat; really likes to eat. Everything. Even things that might be poisonous. He is adventurous about it.

Sleeping, distracted, unfocused, he feels it low on his spine. The tiniest scuffles of feet, the lightest waft of air. It makes him stir, turn his head, and he watches as the butterfly lights on his fur, lingers for just a moment, and then disappears back upward.
Light Touch is gentle and lazy, fond of lying about, especially with the sun on his back. He is a bit dopey, slow-witted, and nice -- the kind of nice where kin can't think of much else to say about him. He's nice. Yeah.
None.

Always sharp and sarcastic, witty at the expense of others, kin had all kinds of names for her — but none of them stuck until the day of the great dispute. Three bucks, brothers, had come near to blows over an argument so convoluted none of them could even remember the cause. She'd stepped in, unprompted, and proceeded to insult each in turn: neatly, creatively, and cruelly.

It had the desired effect. All three of them turned the brunt of their anger on her, instead of on each other, and the name Lashtongue [the mildest of their replies to her] stuck.
Lashtongue is a total bitch, who frequently rips people a new one just because she can. She is strong and self-sufficient, and likely prone to a bit of physical fighting, in addition to the verbal. She is very butch.

Matope falls away beneath him, dwindling down until the swamp is an insignificant blur below, until he can see strange scenery stretching away into the distance. He rises and rises and would likely escape out into the great beyond of space to become another star in the sky, if not for the long iron tether that binds him and drags him back down.
He's a player, likely to hit on anything that moves. He will flirt, he will pursue, he will achieve, and then he'll flit off to the next thing. Eventually he'll come around again.

His dream is a sound that he can never quite seem to reproduce, a rippling trill that rolls off the tongue, starting as a slow hum and rising to a screech that sends the birds fluttering from the treetops.
Trill is arrogant, self-centered, and extremely talented which somehow makes it all the worse. It's not just pride. He really is that good of a singer. But does that really give him the right to look down his nose at everyone all the time?
None.