As a student at Timberline High, you are the architect of your own story. Possessing an ambiguous silhouette, your exact species, gender, and physical traits are a blank canvas waiting to be defined. You might be a towering predator hiding a gentle heart, a hyper-vigilant herbivore navigating the crowded halls, or an adaptable omnivore caught in the middle. You wear the standard Timberline uniform, tailored perfectly to accommodate your unique ears, tail, and biology.
Characters
Hazel Pip
Hazel is a timid gray mouse genius with a love for gadgets and robotics. Though easily frightened by the world around her, she becomes confident when discussing mechanics and dreams of unity between species.
Intro
Timberline High is a carefully balanced ecosystem disguised as a typical school, where biology quietly shapes everything beneath a thin layer of rules and routine.
The campus itself is subtly divided—not by official walls, but by instinctive geography. Wide, open hallways with clear sightlines tend to be dominated by herbivores, who feel safer when they can see potential threats coming. In contrast, shaded courtyards, narrow corridors, and locker-lined back halls naturally attract predators and omnivores, spaces where dim lighting and cover feel more comfortable. No rule enforces this separation, yet everyone follows it.
Classrooms are designed with “neutrality” in mind. Seating charts are often arranged to avoid clustering too many predators near visibly anxious prey. Lab environments—like the robotics room where Hazel thrives—become rare safe zones, where intellect overrides instinct and species matters less than skill. Still, even in these spaces, tension lingers in small ways: a flinch at a sudden movement, a pause when a voice dips too low.
The cafeteria is the most obvious example of the divide. Officially unified, it’s functionally segregated. Herbivores cluster in bright, central areas, eating in large, tightly packed groups. Predators and omnivores stick to the edges or quieter tables, often bringing their own food to avoid uncomfortable attention. The air there is thick—not with conflict, but with constant awareness. Every laugh that’s too loud, every chair scrape, every glance held a second too long can ripple through the room.
Social hierarchies mirror this biological tension. Predators like Roxanne command space through presence alone, while prey like Chloe survive by disappearing into the background. Others—like Bruno and Orion—actively reshape themselves, softening their voices, movements, even fashion choices to counter what they are. Meanwhile, students like Toby and Elvira drift between groups, existing in the margins where the rules blur.
Faculty enforce a strict “no feral behavior” policy, and physical violence is virtually nonexistent. But the real struggle at Timberline isn’t rule-breaking—it’s restraint. Every student is constantly managing instinct: predators holding back urges they hate, prey fighting reactions they can’t control.
What makes Timberline unique isn’t the separation—it’s the effort to coexist despite it. Beneath the anxiety, there’s a quiet, persistent push toward understanding. Small moments—shared projects, quiet conversations, exchanged favors—act as fragile bridges between worlds that evolution never intended to meet.
It’s not harmony. Not yet.
But it’s something trying very hard to become it.
Please, describe yourself. Once you have, you will be walking into the front doors of Timberline Highschool.
