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Please do not comment unless you are Kat or Tea <3 - Plot: Big Lake Ranch stands as a legendary empire in the rugged West: a vast stretch of rolling grasslands and towering mountains where the scent of leather and the low calls of cattle fill the air. This iconic ranch, with its wide open pastures and weathered barns, is known for raising some of the finest beef cattle in the region. Cowboys on horseback roam the land, their sharp eyes always scanning for rustlers and natural dangers that could threaten the herds. Each spring, Big Lake hosts the celebrated Spring Run, a time-honored tradition where ranchers from neighboring valleys come together to drive their cattle to greener pastures. It’s a time of camaraderie and competition, with each rancher striving to keep their stock strong and healthy for the upcoming breeding season and high-stakes cattle sales. |
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Name Atticus Abbott Name Meaning* Name Pronunciation AT-TE-CUSS AH-BOT Gender Male Sexuality* Straight/Open Age* 27 Appearance Atticus stands at a lofty 6’2 and has a trim, muscular body. Like his sister, he too has quite the mane of hair, but keeps it around his shoulders rather than his waist. It’s hard to see since he never takes his hat off, but he too has white streaks (poliosis), mostly at his roots. He shares the same, carmel tanned skin tone as his sister and freckles though he has less. His skin is also riddled with scars, but despite his scuffles, he doesn’t have nearly as much as Betsy. He does, however, have one or two bullet wounds. Something he and his sister do not share. Because of his hat, which constantly blocks his face most of the time, it’s difficult to see his sharp, piercing eyes. Which is a shame due to their unique nature. He has dazzling sunset-golden eyes, the pupil almost in the shape of a star. It’s a rare phenomenon. He always wears his hat, and usually has a black bandana covering his face, at least when he’s on the job. Like Betsy, his clothes are torn and old, but he keeps himself neat. He taught Betsy how to sew, so he keeps his own attire in the best shape he can. Atticus uses most of his money to buy other necessities and has rarely bought brand new clothes. He’s found it’s almost cheaper to make it himself on occasion. Personality He has a more chill, laid back personality most of the time. Atticus is super protective over his younger sister, Betsy, and would do anything for him. He is fiercely loyal and a gentle soul most of the time, but he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty if it means there’s a greater outcome. Atticus’ primary focus is to serve and protect, but if killing is the only option… he’s not afraid to get blood on his hands. He’s built more of a mysterious reputation around town… becoming almost like a self-appointed ranger. He’s been offered a position to become sheriff, but turned it down as he knows that the position will only get in his way of true justice. Atticus is also rather wise for his age. He’s slow to anger and a methodical thinker. Atticus has found himself backed up against the walls many times before, so he knows his way out of a scuffle. He’s great at communication, and has talked his way out of many a situation too. Although he keeps to himself, the few people he calls friends know full well how much of a yapper he is. He’s always up to kick his feet up, lean back, and drink a couple of beers with his buddies while watching the sunset, especially after a long day of work. At the end of the day, he just wants one thing. Peace, beer, and justice. He’d do anything to protect his sister and the people he loves. Voice & Accent* Deep and almost husky. Has a deep southern accent but not as much as Betsy, Strengths Loyalty- Atticus is FIERCELY loyal. He would NEVER betray the people he loves. He is willing to lay down his life for them Great Physical Strength - Atticus is VERY strong as his life of a rancher. And, as a self appointed Ranger, his strength comes in handy when bringing in the bad guys. Excellent Tracker - Atticus has learned to be quite the tracker, whether its a runaway horse or an outlaw, Atticus can find it. Weaknesses Weak Left Hand- During a scuffle, Atticus sustained a major injury to his left hand. Thankfully he’s ambidextrous, so he can use his right hand, but it’s a weakness not many know to exploit. Reclusiveness - Due to his reclusive nature, many have poor opinions of Atticus, and some wonder if he’s truly a good person or not… Partially Deaf - Atticus has partial deafness in his right ear. It’s progressive. Luckily it’s not bad now, but it’s getting worse… Affiliations Sister - Betsy Abbott OPEN Other 𓆩⟡𓆪 |
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Name Rook Beauregard Callaway Nicknames Beau, Bear, Rookie, etc. Gender
male Sexuality* eh, he's not picky Age* 23 Appearance Rookie is the kind of pretty that feels like a wild dare: a sun-kissed, windswept brand of beauty that never apologizes for itself. His mullet, once a crisp, clean cut, has grown out just enough to catch the light, the sun-bleached curls falling messily around his neck and over his forehead. It isn’t perfect anymore, but maybe that’s what makes it better? Wild, a little reckless, a little harsh. At least, that's what he likes to think, whether it's complete BS or not. His face carries the soft dusting of freckles that comes from too much time in the sun, scattered across the bridge of his nose and the high points of his cheeks. It should make him look boyish, and it does sometimes, but more often it just makes him look like a ghost of summer, a dangerous something you can’t quite shake. His jawline is sharp but often softened by a hint of scruff, the kind that shows up when he’s gone a few too many days without caring, or has been out with the cattle too long. Rook’s eyes are a lazy, honeyed hazel, warm golds and greens that can go from sleepy to sharp in an instant, the kind of gaze that feels like a promise or a threat, depending on his mood. He has a sleeper build, lean and wiry but strong, the kind of frame that comes from a life of stubborn work he doesn’t always want to do but can’t escape. His skin is sun-brushed, a natural tan with the sort of warmth that hints at long days spent outside, and on his left forearm, there's a small, dark tattoo. Rook dresses like someone who’s given up on pretending to be anything he isn’t: worn jeans that have seen better days, old sports tees that cling to his lean frame, and a few silver chains that glint at his collarbone or wrap around his wrist. There’s a rough, lazy charm to the way he wears it all, like he could be mistaken for just another troublemaker in a backroad bar if it weren’t for the way he looks at you. Personality Rookie is a study in contradictions: snarky and sharp-tongued, but too lazy to keep up the act for long. His sarcasm is second nature, a defense mechanism and a source of entertainment, but underneath it all is a boy who never quite got to finish being one. He was a rising star once, a player in the NTDP, a talent that could’ve taken him anywhere. But life had other plans. His father needed him back on the ranch, and Rook’s dreams of hockey melted under the heat of family obligation and the hot summer sun of the ranch itself. Now, he moves through life like he’s got all the time in the world, half-lidded hazel eyes never giving away too much. He works when he has to, because he’s good at it, but he’s the king of avoiding effort when he can get away with it. Lazy doesn’t mean weak, though; Rook’s the sort who can go from lounging in the shade to swinging a haybale onto a truck bed without a second thought. Despite his tendency to act like nothing really matters, there’s a simmering bitterness under the surface. A quiet, unspoken resentment at the life he could’ve had, and a gnawing guilt that he’s even angry about it in the first place. But even on his worst days, he’s impossible to ignore. Rook is quick-witted, sharp-tongued, and too much for his own good: dangerous because he can talk his way into trouble and look good doing it. He’s the boy who never quite escaped, pretending he never wanted to leave in the first place. Voice & Accent* Rookie has a bit of a twang to his still rather boyish voice, but he hates it, and normally does his best to cancel out the swing in his cadence. Strengths -Fast- -Strong- Weaknesses -Bitter- -Guilty- -Lazyyy- Affiliations His father is a co-owner of the ranch Other |
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SLAM! Boxes were smashed into splinters and bits from the body that crashed into them from above. A few gasps sounded from bystanders as they watched the dust settle around the groaning man. He sputtered up some coughs, droplets of blood falling and mixing into the dirt below him. Just in front there was a thud as someone landed perfectly on their feet, followed by a soft chuckle that stirred and rumbled deep within his throat. The way he strode forward, and how the gentle breeze rustled his against his spurs and metal on his clothing made a rattle-snake like sound, adding to his almost eerie appearance. The man on the ground gave another pained groan, his eyes slowly opening as a muscular frame before him blocked the sun. The newcomer had his large brown hat blocking his eyes to the world, his hands bruised from punches, resting against his hips. His right hand taunting tapped the colt walker revolver that rested ready for action on his side. And, when he finally spoke, a deep rumble of a voice emerged, his words stringing out in a heavy southern accent twang. “You ain’t from around here. So you don’t know who I am,” He rumbled, flashing his teeth,” So I’m givin’ you to the count of five, to get your tail up and outta here, you understand?” This newcomer didn’t need to be warned twice. Before Atticus could even begin the countdown, he suddenly scrambled to his feet and began to skitter away. The gathered crowd split in half, all watching as the injured man make a run for his life. Atticus cleared his throat with slight amusement, fixing his hat as he traveled the opposite way. He knew the outlaw wouldn’t dare to come back. And if he did, Atticus would just have to deal with him. Not a word was spoken to him. Not even one of thanks. Though Atticus didn’t seek for one. He didn’t seek praise nor validation. He was just doing his job. The young man mounted his steed and without a word to anyone, he started his trip back to the ranch. He;d only gone into town for a few supplies. The outlaw was just… a crime of opportunity. He’d been away from the town for quite some time in preparation for the Spring Run, so Atticus couldn’t say he was too surprised that a few outlaws had weaseled their way in. Hopefully, the law could take care of them in his absence. Afterall, he’d have his hands full soon. Eventually, he returned to the ranch after a prompt ride, and slipped off his horse, securing it in one of the stables. He swung the heavy bag of supplies over his shoulder like it was nothing, and fiddled once more with his hat, still shielding his eyes from the others. Yet… he noticed that there was a larger crowd than usual. Was someone coming today? An investor? A new shipment? Atticus couldn’t think of anything off the top of his head. At least nothing his was informed about. He glanced at the people shifting around and let the sack drop off his shoulder. He tilted his head to the side and lingered behind the gathering crowd, finding his curiosity to be piqued. |
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Rookie stepped out of the truck, slamming the rusty door behind him. The engine groaned, shuddered, and finally went silent, leaving only the dry whisper of the wind rustling through the overgrown weeds around the main farmhouse. It had been almost a year since he’d set foot on the ranch, and somehow, the place still smelled the same—sunbaked dirt, hay, and a faint trace of old leather. A dusty breeze kicked up, tugging at his sun-bleached curls, and he puffed out a slow breath, squinting against the glare. It was already too hot. He missed Michigan’s breezy summers, the crisp bite of the rink, the lazy banter of his teammates. He missed the smell of ice and the sound of skates slicing clean lines into a fresh sheet. But that was then. This was now. The ranchers were coming over—men with weathered faces and dusty boots, the kind who’d known him since he was a kid chasing barn cats and falling off colts. They greeted him with loud shouts and rough pats on the back, all good-natured teasing about his grown-out hair and whether he’d gone soft out in the world. Rookie chuffed, shoving his hands in his pockets and letting the banter wash over him. It was easier than thinking. Easier than remembering the cold blue of Superior and the sharp slap of his father’s call bringing him back here. And there was his father, same as ever, tall and broad-shouldered, his once-dark hair now more gray than not. He looked proud, but tired, the lines on his face cut a little deeper, his shoulders a little more stooped. Rook’s career wasn’t mentioned. It never was. His father had never really been that invested anyway. That had always been his mother. She’d been the one who cheered loudest at his games, the one who knew the difference between every call and what the boys wanted. The teasing eventually faded, the ranchers going back to their work, and Rook slipped away, his duffel dumped unceremoniously on the porch steps. He could deal with it later. What he needed now was the stables. The barns were clean and neat, in better shape than the leaning farmhouse. Probably because they made money, and the house didn’t. But Rook barely noticed, his gaze skipping over familiar shadows until his eyes found the tack room, the rows of saddles and halters lined up like they’d never moved. He reached for a halter without even thinking, the worn leather smooth under his fingers, and his boots crunched against the dry earth as he made his way toward the fields. Ophelia, his old mare, was out there, a tall, high-stepping beauty with a coat like liquid copper. But she wasn’t what he needed right now. Not today. Today, he needed a fight. Two years ago, he’d worked with a young gelding—Hatty, a scrappy, stubborn lithe beast who thought he was ten feet tall and bulletproof. They’d butted heads back then, and Rook had loved every second of it. The dry mountain air burned in his lungs as he stepped through the gate, his boots stirring up puffs of dust. The horizon stretched wide and empty, mountains clawing at the sky, and somewhere under it all, his heart twisted in a way he didn’t want to name. It didn’t feel like home. Not anymore. But it was familiar. And maybe that was enough. |
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Fall Month: 1 
Day 
Hurricane
