1x1 Roleplays discussion

Sure!

No this is fine!

So do I need to make Kocoum a profile?

I'm trying! Popular, hunky native american actors are so hard to come by...

Do you want him to have long or short hair?

Okay! Try Michael Hudson

Omigosh Soren help me out

I don't know who!!!

MArtin Sensmeier

Alright, so what;s his personality again?

Ah. Okay!

So do I need to make a profile or should we just start?

Okay! Who first?

Sure

Sure

Tonkashouw woke with a start as a deer darted by him, sitting up from the log he was slumped against. His breath caught and he raised a hand, stained the reddish-brown of dried blood, to his shoulder, digging his grime caked finger into the hole ripped in the flesh. He couldn't reach it. He could sew himself back together, but his arm was numb with pain if he all but swayed it when he moved. He huffed in rolling anger at the memory and gathered his hatchet as he stood, wincing in pain. Some portly white man had stumbled upon his two best brothers and himself, all out hunting. He had shot them in cold blood, but a miss into Tokashouw's shoulder had let him lay open his shoulder, ripping his scalp from him in anger. He had tried to make it back to camp, until pain and blood loss caused him to collapse in the morning moon.

Now he stood on feet light as feathers, for that was his name. Featherhunter, was the white man's version of his name, though it sounded funny, all garbled and uncoordinated, like speaking with rocks in your mouth. He hated the white man, though he, indeed, was half. The product of the rape and burning of a village, his young mother was a prisoner for years, until she was liberated from the fur trappers that had treated her body as if it were a belonging. He had grown up hearing their language, yet would recieve a firm slap from his mother anytime he tried to copy or listen.

But now, standing in this forest, he knew one of them was her. He could smell the perfumed lotions and creams on the wind, making the birds and the snakes uneasy. There was also some brutish being ahead, crunching and snapping it's way through the forest. He crept toward it and raised his hatchet upon her, eyes on her pile of curls.

He tensed, eyes watching her from the tall grass with the fierceness and wild heart of a tiger. He remained motionless, held back from ending the goddesses life by the sheer curiosity of seeing her. Yet he remembered the hatchet in his hand and raised it a half an inch, catching the sunlight for a fraction of a second, like a fiery warning flash to the young British maiden. He looked up to the strange alien mirror, so alike him in the simplest ways, yet white and powdered as snow, body unidentifiable under layers and layers of frivolity.

His body shifted and swayed in his crouching stance, too weak from pan and blood loss to make much use of the toned muscle he had built up from years of hunting. A cornered animal, filled with fear and despair, he mustered the strength to pull back his hatchet and spring up before her, lining up to throw through her.

He froze for all to long. She was a white men, dangerous to his people, cruel killers. Yet he found a softness in his mind. A tall, powerful white woman from his childhood, who wore clothes of tremendous volume, flamboyant color, a face as alien as the snow it resembled, and her hair all piled upon her head. But she made him clothes, and let him eat with her children, tried to civilize him. Thus he lowered his weapon, but held all the stiff wariness of an animal, watching the predator encroach upon him.

He had vowed to his chief that the white people were nothing but his enemies, but he was hurt and weak and desperate. He grunted resonantly and let her move towards him, his knuckles white on the handle of his hatchet. He would not be fooled by this doe eyed creature. Women in general were dangerous, and this one was no exception

He held firmly to his hatchet, in a stubborn refusal to give it up, though this was more out of some reluctant sense of security than anything else, as if this small, frail woman posed a threat to him. He understood her gestures and made his way over to the log, sitting down, legs thankful for the rest they had been so generously granted. He watched her uneasily, though the aching in his shoulder made him drop the hatchet in an attempt to prove his willingness to cooperate. He nodded to her, eyes darting around.

He did not trust the white man. Nor did he trust the white woman. His eyes met hers in an angry plea, trying to communicate, to tell her that it was her people that had done this. He nodded to the hesitant woman in an attempt to tell her it was alright and that he meant no harm, seeking her help.

Tonkashouw had indeed, refused to stay put, and had chosen to ignore her firm gaze. A steep hill led from the clearing to a wide riverbed, tall grasses meeting slippery rocks that trickled from the flow of water. He crouched at its side, feet gripping the stones like an animal, raised and formed by the wild. He was far more comfortable here than any white man could ever be in a stuffy home. At least, that's what he thought. For to him, this was not just home. It was a lover, a friend. The way the grass caressed his shins and the breeze ran its long and spindly fingers through his hair.

He splashed water upon the wound, grimacing in pain as he did so. He was a finicky and impatient creature, and, after an all too short amount of time, had hotly given up and figured she either wouldn't turn or was going for help. Yet the sight of her eyes lingered and seemed..almost pained and sincere. He shook his head and cleared his mind of the thought as he dipped his ax blade in the water and began to clean it.

He straightened, and had raised into a defensive position, yet relaxed when he saw the flurry of tumbling blue careening down the hill. He couldn't help but chuckle as he pulled her from the water and sat next to her among the reeds. Now that he was close to her he could smell the imported sandalwood she used to wash her hair, the extracted perfumes she sprayed on, the lotions and oils she annointed her skin with. It was a dizzying and enchanting mix. He took the things from her hands and eagerly rolled them around in his callus ones, looking over them.

He then saw the discomfort that registered on hr face and he filled with concern. What was causing this white woman pain? He threw up the skirt of her dress, as modesty clearly was not in his vocabulary, and touched her ankle gingerly, looking up to her face. He held out a hand, as a universal sign to stay put. Foolish white woman. He found a green leafy plant by the water's edge and scooped mud into the leaves he pulled off, then returning and wrapping it around her ankle before tying it tightly and nodding.

He wrapped the leaf tightly around the paleness of her thin and fragile ankle, so delicate it was no wonder she had hurt it. He looked up to her in understanding and nodded, reaching back in to the broken English he knew from his far past to respond. "Medicine" he nodded again in an assuring way, patting the cold mud compress. He smiled up at her in the pride of being just as capable as the pathetic white men.

He shook his head at the silliness of the layers upon layers of fabric she wore, running his hands across them in awe at the softness. Animal hide was never this soft. It was as if she were some sort of goddess. Was she? Had they been worshiping white people all along? It was a reasonable thought, with her perfect features, her delicate whiteness, he colorful eyes

He let out some form of ungodly whoop, somewhere between pain and a war cry, pulling roughly at her skirts to make her stop. Once the pain faded, he merely whimpered, looking up at her like abetrayed animal, shaking his head. "Ow!" he declared, as if she hadn't been alerted by his original reaction. "You-hurt!" he scolded, brow furrowed low on his nose.

He was like a child in his wonderment and reactions, reaching up to take the bottle from her in a scornful way. "No" he shook his head firmly. Then his nose filled with the smell of liqour, of what the white man drank. He tentatively sipped it, looking suspiciously at the bottle before slowly drinking the rest and handing it back to her

He stopped and held his cheek where she had slapped him, looking up at her with large and sad eyes, betrayed and offended by her behavior. He had never been slapped by a woman before, especially not one so fair. He snorted in shock, standing with his hand still pressed firmly to his cheek. He pouted slightly in confusion. "Ow.." he repeated shortly, sniffing again.

His brow was still furrowed, but he slowly realized what was about to happen, and, needless to say, he was far less than thrilled at the idea. He grunted, pushing her gently back onto the grass and standing, his hand out in a look of defiance. He had war paint for a hunt on his chest at one point, but it had washed off with sweat and was now streaky and malformed. "Woman. No." He said firmly, hoping this would work to stop her, shaking his head to reinforce the message. Seeing her try to get up again he shok his head, repeating his words. "Woman. No." he then looked down to his shoulder and pressed his dirty finger into his wound, nearly screaming through his grit teeth and locked jaw. His vision swam, but he produced a bullet for her.

He looked down at her, cheeks burning red, chest heaving as his breathing slowed, breathing heavily down onto her as his eyes pored over the girl. He raised a calluses hand and touched a strand of her soft curled hair, marveling at how true it's paleness was in the sunlight. He did not know what to say to the woman. Rather, he could not think of the English words to say it. But he nodded to her, holding her small, smooth hand in his, eyes gracious. "Thank you" he finally managed to remember, still nodding persistently.

((Like Peisoners, I like this! Your choice though))

((Haha okay.))

((No I'm all up for that))