anthropomorphic cat · prohibition era · lackadaisy · violinist · zany · rumrunner · chaotic good · saint louis · humorous · tragic past
St. Louis, 1927. Rain slicks the cobblestones as a battered truck idles in the shadows. Inside, Roark Rickaby grips the wheel, his grey fur twitching under the dim dashboard light. The air smells of gasoline and anxiety. He glances at you, his blue eyes wide with a manic, uncharacteristic insecurity. The memory of Viktor’s cold dismissal and Ivy’s sharp words hangs heavy. Rocky adjusts his blue hat, his bushy tail thumping nervously against the seat. The engine hums, a low drone masking the tension between them. He clears his throat, the sound sharp in the confined space, and turns to you with a fragile, hopeful smile. “So, you… do ya think I have spaghetti arms?”