#Cathedral of Carrion

[xaz-fr]

Hana

[dansnaturepictures]

07/03/2024-Winchester and others

Photos taken in this set are of; a view and privet berries on the way to the station this morning, beautiful scenes of daffodils including an amazing area with loads in flower in Winchester, hyacinth and Peregrine at Winchester Cathedral, Blue Tit, periwinkle, view along the River Itchen and view along the water at Abbey Gardens. As well as seeing William the male I saw the new female Peregrine at Winchester Cathedral which was interesting in an action packed few minutes of them on the north tower ledge, squawking and going down into the nest tray in the gully and it was also a chance to think of the fond memories of watching Winnie the longstanding female over the years. It was announced this week that she had been found deceased after a scuffle with the newcomer female. Winnie did so much for her species with all the chicks her and her two mates raised which is inspiring to think of.

Other highlights today were brilliant views of a couple of prominent Ravens in Winchester, Jackdaw, Carrion Crow, Magpie, Red Kite seen from the train, Mallard, Blackbird, white violets, green alkanet, ivy-leaved toadflax and mercury.

[tribbetherium]

A few additional species from the rattile cladogram that have not yet been properly introduced:

In the arid regions of Central Arcuterra, food is rather scarce. A clade of rattiles, the moundators, became specialized insectivores feeding on the abundant termite nests, one of the food sources that were rarely in short supply. However, as the moundators diverged into several species over the eons, competition became tougher for these highly-specialized insectivores. To relieve the pressure from its cousins, one group turned their sights on a much more dangerous quarry: the desert applehead ant (Maluscephalomyrmex trimorphis).

Omnivores that scavenge carrion, hunt other insects and diligently harvest the seeds of the local desert plants, the applehead ants accomplish their work with the cooperative effort of three separate worker castes: small minor workers tending to the affairs of the nest, major workers as foragers and fighters, and large, big-headed supermajors that do the heavy lifting, taking apart difficult food items and acting as the guard to the nest entrances to protect against raids by rival ant colonies. With powerful mandibles, formidable stingers, and able to grow to a centimeter in length, these elite guard are a force to be reckoned with should anything dare to threaten their nest.

Yet this is little deterrent to the blue-tongued lizardvark (Myrmecosauromys cyanoglossus): a moundator species that, in a long arms race not only with others of its kind but also with the ants themselves, have developed a resistance to the ants' stings. Tough, pebbled scales on the tip of its snout are impervious to bites and stings, while powerful curved claws allow the lizardvark to excavate out nursery chambers and gorge on the soft vulnerable larvae as well as the adults. By being able to tackle a prey insect species others of its relation cannot, the lizardvark is ensured a reliable source of food with little competition. Up to 80% of its diet consists entirely of applehead ants, with the remaining percentage being comprised of other insects to supplement its diet, and as applehead ant nests are less numerous than the more abundant cathedral termites, lizardvarks are more solitary and territorial than other moundators, fiercely defending productive ant nests from competitors with their long curved fore-claws that double as formidable weapons.

Aside from slurping up ants from their underground tunnels, the bright blue tongues of the blue-tongued lizardvark serve another practical purpose: as a display organ to other members of its species. While both sexes sport the namesake blue tongue, it is more brightly colored in the males, which use the colorful, flickering appendage, visually contrasted against their dull brown bodies, to both impress potential mates and intimidate rival males especially during the breeding season.

In the same regions of desert roamed by the blue-tongued lizardvark, another rattile, smaller and less conspicuous, makes a living in the desolate land. Camouflaging perfectly in the rust-hued sand when Beta's red gleam dominates the sky, this elusive, hard-to-find creature performs a disappearing act not just above, but below the sand as well to conceal itself both from the midday heat and the diurnal predators: the carmine sanddigger (Erythrosaurocricetus vermiformes).

During the day, when Alpha's searing rays scorch the sandy surface, the carmine sanddigger buries itself under several inches of sand to hide from the searing heat. Small nostrils and a specialized nasal tract keep out sand particles and even allow it to breathe the small air pockets between loose grains of sand even when buried, allowing it to remain entirely hidden under the sand for hours at a time to escape the hottest parts of the day. As dusk, dawn, and Beta-twilight cools the clime, however, it emerges to forage, alternately scurrying across the sand on stubby one-clawed limbs or 'swimming' through the loose grains with side to side undulations of its body, preying upon the various small invertebrates of the dry regions that serve as its primary source of moisture as well as nutrition.

In the earlier days of the rattiles' evolution, during the Middle Glaciocene, the monisaurs produced an experimental lineage that took to the water to become semiaquatic omnivores that fed on a diet of both bottom-dwelling shelled invertebrates but also marine algae in addition. Known as the monitees, their success was ultimately short-lived and would soon give way their niches to the sterapins and bayvers as of the Early Temperocene.

Nonetheless, a few small species of monitees remain, surviving in coastal environments as generalist foragers that seek refuge on small rocky islets offshore the coast of Gestaltia, nesting on beaches and cliff walls but turn to the shallow seas to seek out their food. The dusky mudlap (Littorasauromys bulbocephalus) is one such species, sunning itself on warm rocks during the mornings to heat itself up and raise its body temperature to a sufficient level to be active enough, before plunging into the cold, dangerous seas to feed, propelled by broad, paddling feet, its short, snubbed snout, blunt teeth and powerful jaw muscles ideal for gnawing off algae anchored firmly to rocks as well as dislodging crustaceans, bivalves and quillnobs off of solid surfaces. Being ectothermic as most rattiles are, mudlaps have a short window of time to feed, as they cannot remain in cold water too long or else they could become too sluggish to properly swim and can end up drowning, though their round, compact bodies decrease their surface area and slow down heat loss.

While such risky excursions are usually worth the payoff, mudlaps prefer to supplement their diet with food closer to shore: the tidal zones where various invertebrates, particularly snails and bivalves, hide in the soft, perpetually-wet sand. Their forepaws, lobed rather than webbed, make a good compromise between swimming paddles and dexterous digging implements that they use to excavate food from the damp ground.

Unusually among rattiles which typically bear large litters of tiny young, mother mudlaps bear one large well-developed offspring per breeding season, which can fend for itself almost immediately. While fed on regurgitated food for the first few days to acquire its mother's necessary microbiota vital for its immune and digestive system, it quickly becomes fully independent within a couple of weeks' time. More carnivorous when young in order to fuel its rapid growth, it gradually becomes more herbivorous-leaning as it grows older, though always remains opportunistic on whatever food it can find.

On the Fissorian archipelago, a primitive yet specialized lineage of rattiles had capitalized on the vacancy of predator niches by becoming rather large-bodied aquatic ambush hunters, giving rise to one of the largest rattiles next only to varats and seashingles: the garitors. Equipped with long snouts bearing elongated, multicusped teeth, they flourished in coastal wetlands, rivers and lakes, exploiting the biological need of land animals to drink: and thus have their food easily come to *them* rather than having to pursue their next meal.

While the marshland garitor, native to the Fissorian Archipelago, have thin, narrow snouts better suited for small prey, their cousins the mainland garitors have broader, stronger jaws, enabling them to tackle bigger prey including walkabies and ungulopes whenever the thirsty creatures come to seek out bodies of water. The most common species, the mottled mainland garitor (Myosuchoides varicolor) ranges across the eastern part of Gestaltia in wetlands and freshwater rivers and lakes, its mottled coloration allowing it to hide in murky river water among silt, debris and floating water plants to catch whatever may come its way, trying to drag their prey underwater to drown them.

Much like the marshland garitor, mainland garitors bear very large litters of over fifty tiny young, but give little to no parental care and abandon them quickly after birth: ironically, as less of a display of indifference and more of an active attempt to protect their young from their own predatory instinct to attack and eat any animal small enough to swallow in one gulp. The young of the mainland species, however, have one additional trick up their sleeve: they are rather skilled climbers and can escape up into the trees where the adults cannot follow, retaining such a behavior for a year or two until they are both too heavy and ungainly to climb, and too large for adult garitors to view them as an easy meal.

On the forest floor of tropical rainforests of central Gestalia, a strange relic of an early adaptive radiation can be found, emerging from burrows under cover of night to hunt for small invertebrate prey. A last survivor of the first molrocks of Fissor to re-evolve keen eyesight and begin to forage above ground once again, this hardy survivor lost to time endures despite competition by finding an unusual intermediate.

Known as the bristly bareback (Hemisauromys gymnus), this strange animal is the last remaining representative of the stem-rattiles, the rest of its kin having long been outcompeted by the true rattiles with their plated skin, rapid reproduction and slower, less energy-intensive metabolisms proving highly advantageous in the enironments of Fissor. Yet it is these very features that have allowed the bareback to survive: by doubling down on traits true rattiles have lost, it manages to occupy a middle ground between the quasi-reptilian and the traditionally mammalian.

Despite its generally rattile-like saurian appearance, the bareback is immediately distinguished by its wrinkly, leathery skin sparsely adorned with sensory bristles, leftover hairs that in the rattiles became their protective scales. In addition, it has a more erect stance than the sprawling rattiles, their limb posture being a holdover from their burrowing ancestors whose limbs emerged out to the sides for shoveling away loose dirt, a trait that proved advantageous for their new saurian-like lifestyle: yet one the bareback has lost, in favor of more-sustained running in pursuit of prey or in fleeing predators.

Being mesothermic, able to keep itself a few degrees warmer than the environment, it can remain active even on cooler nights when ectothermic rattiles retreat to safe places and become dormant. However, it too has a lower metabolism than other fully endothermic small insectivores such as furbils and duskmice, allowing it to go longer without food and use less energy when foraging. Some of this extra saved energy can then be used in investing in their young: while true rattiles went the full r-selected route to the point of losing their mammary glands, barebacks still do retain them and bear smaller litters of ten to twelve at a time which depend on the mother for at least three months.

A mix of basal holdover traits and derived new ones allow the bareback to occupy a unique ecological niche in the undergrowth. Despite being the last of its lineage, it nonetheless finds success in capitalizing on the best of both worlds: giving it enough flexibility to thrive when conditions favor one strategy or the other.

-----------

[bobbyzombiegg]

THE BLOODBORNE EYE POST

I FINALLY REMEMBERED TO POST THIS!!! Basically, it's something I noticed in the enemy design a few years ago, and this was me explaining it to my friends who know nothing about Bloodborne. Complete copy paste, so sorry if it's a bit redundant.

something i've noticed in bloodborne: a lot of the beast enemies have a weird lack of eyes/sight. The female beast patients have veils over their eyes while their male counterparts have bandages over their eyes like father gascoigne and the huntsmen. The eyes of the carrion crow appear to be glazed over like they're blind. This also applies to the rabbid dogs, scourge beasts, and maybe the labyrinth rats which have swollen, yellow eyes with no pupils. The loran clerics also have hoods covering their heads, along with vicar amelia, and the bloodstarved beast who's head is covered by the flayed skin on it's back. The blood starved beast also lacks any eyes, with just empty sockets in their head like the dark beasts, the cleric beast which only has small divots where it's eyes should be and blood letting beasts, which also have a variant that lacks a head, so again no eyes on either variant. The watchdog of the old lords has many holes in it's head but none of them appear to be eyes. The man eater boar has swollen eyelids under which you can barely see black eyes with no pupils, so again, it's probably blind. The beastial half of ludwig's head also has it's eye glazed over, indicating it is blind. The only exceptions to this are the beast-possesed soul, the silver beast which have pupils and non glazed eyes, and the abhorrent beast which has glowing red eyes, along with the scourge beasts in the upper cathedral ward which have glowing blue eyes. The scourge beasts in the upper cathedral ward probably have glowing eyes because they have probably been experimented on as they have a resistance to fire and a weakness to bolt, like most kin enemies (kin are people who got turned into abominations in the pursuit of becoming a great one) The abhorrent beast is able to talk and mocks you in the forbidden woods so it obviously has some part of it's mind left. The reason this matters is because eyes are associated with the eldritch truth in the game, and the beast plague is the mind becoming stupid and devolving while insight is gaining eldritch knowledge and attempting to evolve. This was inspired by a video on the cleric beast's model. (I forgot who made it and I can't find the video. If anyone knows what I'm talking about, PLEASE link it in a reblog so I can add it onto here)

[swordluck]

Aldrich's faithful have been cut down to the very last, that emptied tomb at the heart of his cathedral an all too fitting place for the dessicated clergy of the Deep to likewise rot away within. Amidst the still twitching corpses and the cooling pools of blood flits and steps a ragged figure, a carrion bird looming over those clerics still clinging to their fascimiles of life. He lingers only long enough to ruin them, his culling blade piercing and flaying them apart as any scavenger's beak or talons ought to, and when at last those that befouled this place are themselves debased... Crow offers Anri a warning with a breath that rattles his worn lungs. "Being stalked, ya are." With a moment's hesitation, stained fingers lingering and gaze flitting about uncertainly, he tugs down the ragged mask to reveal his gaunt face and tired eyes properly. Least that she deserves. "Londor. Hollows. Want ya. Dunno why. Least not th'whole of it." Crow hesitates with a cough smothered into his cloak, lingering a moment longer than maybe he ought to. He gnaws his cheek. He sighs. "Ya would've done it. Slain him, I mean. Still can. They... They'd have thought so too." I did, he can't quite say. I still do.

It was a ghastly homecoming.  Horror still lived in these halls, festering in its murky corners, dripping from the altars.  Childhood remained a blade lodged in her throat, and monsters continued to roam.  Far from being banished to the dry, dusty dark beneath dormitory beds, here they were given dominion, anointed in incense, proclaimed holy.

Anri stood at the heart of a massacre.  Her helm hid the trauma etched into her face, though affliction spoke through her trembling.  Her cream complexion had soured, turning ashen, the star-blue of her eyes unfocused.  Blood pooled around her boots, sealing her in place with a viscous, accusing grip.  Old wounds wept anew, unspoken horrors surging, sealing a scream in the tomb of her throat.  She shivered violently, a tremor so fierce it was a wonder her armour did not betray her with its clattering.

The cathedral’s stagnant air pressed against her like a shroud.  The stench of rot and ordure clung, as thick and unrelenting as the blood smearing the cracked tiles beneath her.  Each corpse seemed to reach toward her in mute accusation, their hollowed faces fixed in expressions of fury and frozen despair.  The lamb they should have slaughtered, the one they should have offered as sacrifice, was left standing among the dead.

And then there was him – a shadow moving between the fallen.  Crow.  Aptly named, given that he glided like a carrion creature, his blade rising and falling with measured finality, ensuring no heretic remained to draw breath.  It was unholy work, this grim ritual.  Hers, as much as his.  It left Anri spellbound and sickened in equal measure.

When he turned to her, his voice split the silence, carrying a warning that cut through her like a chill wind. 

Stalked?

The word sent a shiver racing south along her spine.  Her fingers twitched toward her blade, her body instinctively aligning with the threat, though no new shadows stirred in the gloom.  Instead, she studied him – the harbinger of unsettling truths – as his stained hands hesitated, fumbling at the mask that hid his face.  And then, as though granting her a solemn offering, he lowered it to reveal gaunt cheeks carved inward, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, lips pressed thin against unspoken words.

“I don’t – ” Anri began, but his coughing silenced her.  It was a raw and violent sound, leaving her own chest tight with concern, her heart betraying her with a treacherous lurch. 

This man saw her as more than the sum of her frailty.  He who had braved the dark alongside her.  He who had stayed, when others might have fled.  He who had fought.  He who believed in her even now, with a scream burning in her throat.

“I will do it yet.”  Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, her words carrying a weight that steadied her trembling hands.  Anri reached for Crow’s arm, her touch light but resolute.  “I will see to it that Aldrich pays for his sins, even if it kills me.”

It had to be done.  There was no one else left to do it.

A flicker of curiosity lit in her amidst the resolve, her thoughts briefly shifting.

“The Londor hollows – are they a grave danger?”

[naoa-ao3]

A Night in New Orleans

Years before Jean-Luc adopts Remy, he watches him from the balconies and galleries of the French Quarter and wonders if he's doing the right thing. While he wonders, others have plots of their own and Remy, oblivious to it all heads to bed.

The boy was growing and as he did, Jean-Luc LeBeau found himself worrying for him.

He had already removed the child from the Antiquiary but he couldn't remove the boy's eyes from his head nor the whispers and rumors that circulated about him through the air and through the guilds.

He watched the child from a gallery one night as the boy picked pockets along Rue St. Anne.

The boy wore dark shades to hide his eyes now, big, plastic lenses obscuring his face. He didn't know he was being watched but Jean-Luc knew and he knew he wasn't the only one watching that night.

Above the crowed of tourists and drunks, locals out for fun and a million sweating bodies he saw familiar faces on galleries around him. Dark faces hidden in shadow and he knew there was a plot.

People were scared of the boy. His own people. People who should have heeded his words and didn't. He'd said the boy wasn't to be touched and yet here he was, watching them, watching the boy, watching them watch the boy and down below the child had no idea.

His life consisted of reporting his ill gains to Fagin and avoiding a swat to the back of the head. The child didn't know the war fought over him and Jean-Luc wanted to keep it that way. It was better while the boy was still young.

Even this kind of childhood was better than none.

Even so his eyes followed the man across the street. Bourbon was loud tonight and people spilled out of doorways, sweating and wilting in the evening humidity. Even as a native he thought it was hot out that night and his eyes followed the boy who had stopped to watch a Dixie Land Band lead a wedding procession out of the St. Louis Cathedral.

The boy leaned against the fence around Jackson Square and watched them, eyes following the party behind his glasses. Jean-Luc wondered if he had ever been to a wedding. Most probably not, or at least not any he was supposed to have been at.

No one notices the child alone and yet his eyes follow him as the child unwraps his arms from around the fence and saunters off. He dips his little hand into a purse as he does and scoops out a wallet.

Jean-Luc feels a measure of pride for this child he's never spoken too. He's got a son of his own, Henri is a little older and everything he could have ever hoped for but he's always felt a kind of connection with this child, since the night he'd stolen him from the hospital.

There's music pouring into the street and below Remy walks on, not knowing he's being watched, not knowing he's got a destiny. He doesn't have any idea that there's expectations waiting for him.

Jean-Luc wishes he could protect the boy from them but he can't. He's the leader of the Thieves Guild and one boy can't be put above the Guild. Not even his own son Henri could take priority. There's older and more powerful things at play.

Jean-Luc watches the men across the street. Their eyes are fixed on the boy and he doubts they have any good plans for him.

He closes his hand around the railing and frowns hard, the French Quarter below him, spilling the masses onto her streets, hiding a little boy with demonic eyes.

Across town, his own son is asleep in his bed in their garden district manor. He's surrounded by iron fences the old south there, heavy curtains on the windows and antiques. Henri sleeps well and he feels a kind of guilt as he watches Remy in his dirty jeans and old t-shirt. This boy doesn't know anything about that world.

He watches them and then they move, following the boy. He follows them, silent and hidden, they haven't seen him yet but he isn't the leader for nothing.

They move in, hovering from galleries like carrion birds over the boy who walks on oblivious.

Jean-Luc catches up to them when the boy cuts away from Bourbon Street and begins to wander out of the French Quarter, away from the noise and crowed streets.

He knows a few of the places the boy goes to sleep in. He's already staking himself away from Fagin, already too smart for the man. Soon he'll have to take the kid away from Fagin or else risk wasting him. The kid is good but tonight he's just a kid.

"What do you think you're doing?" He asks as he catches up to the other thief. He knew it was Marcus Delacroix from afar. Now that he see's him up close he can see the look on the mans face and knows Marcus didn't know he was watching.

He savors the element of surprise and asks again. "What are you doing?" He asks. "I told you eight years ago that the boy was off limits. I'll handle him."

Marcus hangs for a second before righting his posture. "I remember but you can't trust him, Jean-Luc."

Jean-Luc isn't about to hear this. He knows the superstitions, he's kept then in mind just in case. He knows. "We're not assassins, Marcus." He says. "We're you really planning to harm the boy?"

They're standing on a roof top now, watching the boy as he picks his way along the less crowded streets outside the French Quarter.

"Not harm." Marcus whispers, looking down at the child.

"Then what?"

"Was gonna take him to the Bayou."

Jean-Luc scowls, not pleased and not surprised. "And do what with him?" He asks, knowing probably what. "Hope the gators take care of him for you? Dat boy wouldn't be done that easy, even you should know that."

Marcus winces. "He's dangerous, Jean-Luc. Everyone can see it."

He can see their superstitions. He's heard it all before. "They're just rumors." He says. "And he's just a little boy."

"You know that ain't no boy." Marcus scoffs, voice a little hurt.

Jean-Luc shrugs. "You t'ink so? I wish I could t'ink that way." He looks down at the boy, farther away, disappearing into shadows and the summer heat. What fucking life is he giving this child?

Marcus shakes his head. "Don't know what power he has over you." He says. "De boy will bring us ruin, Jean-Luc. Everyone knows it."

"Everyone knows what they've been told and it's men like you doing the telling, Marcus."

Marcus gives him a grieving look this time, mind unforgiving, unable and unwilling to understand.

The boy is gone.

"He'll doom the Guild."

"Or save it."

Marcus nods, quarry lost, plans aborted. Remy gone. "Maybe." He whispers.

Jean-Luc understands and wishes he still had eyes on the boy. It's when he feels the least guilty.

Remy however is gone into the night and of course knows how and where to hide from the world.

Jean-Luc goes home and watches Henri sleep, wondering if his own son understands how much he loves him. Wondering if he'll forgive him when he gets old enough to know him.

He wonders where Remy is sleeping, knows he's not in a bed like Henri. Know's he's not safe and loved like Henri and he feels like he's letting two children down.

Out there among the street lamps and stars, the one way streets and cemeteries the shot gun houses and superstitions, Remy has a little place to rest and for the night he sleeps unaware

But destiny is coming for him and it'll come in the shapes of Guilds and marauders, X-Men and lovers. Mistakes and trusts and while Jean-Luc knows the boy has a fate he has not a clue of these things.

When he closes the door to his son's room he only knows that Remy is out there asleep and he feels guilt he can't explain. Guilt unfitting of a Guild leader. Guilt of a father and in just a few years time that's what he'll be to the boy. He'll have two sons then and he won't feel he's doing any better.

[portugalandspain]

May 24

Pamplona to Leon, Spain was our journey today. Along the way we stopped in Ubide to partake in an interesting conversation about archeology in Spain. Afterwords a light lunch from a local vendor and onward to Carrion to continue our walk along the Camino de Santiago. Arrived later in Leon and enjoyed a walking tour of the historic town and viewing of the Cathedral of Leon.

[displacer-beasts]

In Zarbinzet

@lisa-and-shadow and @swindlefingrs. So this takes place when they get to Zarbinzet the first time. Before they split off into seperate groups to deal with the soulstone and Elias.

---

“So, what is the deal with you and the Wanderer?”

They had just reached Zarbinzet and were preparing to head out once more. Donan and Nico would go to prepare the soulstone for Lilith, while Lorath and Neyrelle would hunt down the secret to Elias’ immortality. There were a number of items they would need to gather for their journey through the swamp. 

Nico and Neyrelle had volunteered to collect the supplies. Zarbinzet did not exactly have a bustling marketplace, but as the last bastion of ‘civilization’ before entering the swamp proper, there were a number of merchants selling supplies to whatever travelers were brave enough (or foolish enough) to travel to Hawezar.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lorath gave Donan a sharp look, “Have you noticed anything? Signs that Lilith’s blood is beginning to corrupt him?”

The possibility of it haunted Lorath. In his time he had seen and read numerous accounts of people–good, noble people–corrupted by demonic influence. King Leoric. Aidan the Dark Wanderer. Leah. The history of Sanctuary was in part a history of humanity’s corruption by evil. Nico might end up as just another name on that dark, bloody list.

And yet for all that Lorath watched intently, he could see no sign of it. Other than a few frustrated outbursts, Nico had kept remarkably composed throughout their travels. But between Lilith’s blood, the blessings from all three Prime Evils, and Mephisto apparently appearing to him in the form of a bloodied wolf, it seems almost an inevitability that at some point Nico would falter.

(Lorath knew he needed to ask about the wolf. But, just like talking to Donan about Scosglen, when he tried the words turned to ash in his mouth. He didn’t know what to say, what words could offer meager comfort, had no solutions to offer, nothing that could make a difference. No, better to just focus on stopping Lilith and Elias. Everything else could wait.)

“Oh no, nothing like that. On the contrary, he and Y–” Donan faltered for a moment. 

Lorath’s fingers tightened on his polearm. He could say something now. Anything. I’m sorry about your son. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out at any point these last few decades. Why didn’t you write to me about the soulstone? I would have come. I would have put up with the bloody Cathedral of Light. I would have helped you bear that weight.

He said nothing and Donan continued.

“He and Yorin apparently ran around volunteering their aid to many villagers in Braestaig. And he’s made a name for himself. On my journey here I heard more than one inn talking about the strange Wanderer who cleared out a demon infestation, or found someone’s missing husband, or delivered food to someone’s sick bairn. Truthfully, I thought most of it to be an exaggeration.”

Lorath snorted, “No, he’s been like that the entire time I’ve known him.”

A part of Lorath urged to snap at Nico for it. Wasting time helping a poor villager when, if Lilith and Elias got their way, said villager would just be carrion for their ‘new world’ soon enough. 

And yet. 

When Lorath saw the way Nico threw himself into helping anyone who asked, the way he seemed to care so deeply, his voice turning gentle and soothing even the most terrified child, the way he didn’t make a big show of it like the Knights Penitent did, just as if it were another step on his list. Upgrade his weapons, save a poisoned man on the road, buy a new water canteen, infiltrate a city overrun with cannibals and save a woman. 

There was a hot, feathery tightening in his chest whenever Lorath thought about it. A sensation he resolutely ignored throughout their journey, but which haunted his dreams as much as his nightmares did.

“But you haven’t answered my question, Lorath. What is it with you and the Wanderer?” Donan watched him with eyes far too sharp and knowing. 

Lorath resolutely kept his gaze forward. 

“He was drugged by villagers and fed Lilith’s blood. He was rescued by a lone monk, who sent him to me. I sent him to you. I believe you know the rest of the story.”

“Hmm. And that was the first time you two met?”

Lorath hesitated.

Donan picked up on the hesitation and his gaze grew more intense. “Well?”

“No. We had met before,” Lorath scratched at his beard, “He came to my cabin seeking information about demons, curses. I believe he wanted something that might help the druids at Túr Dúlra. We spoke about the nature of demons, the history of Sanctuary.”

“All that in one night?”

Again, Lorath hesitated, “No, he visited a handful of times.”

Donan raised an eyebrow, “Braving that journey through the mountains multiple times just to ask for history lessons?”

Lorath grit his teeth. He was not going to gossip about his personal life like one of those widows in Kyovashad. He was not going to tell Donan about that first moment of weakness in his cabin, when he had commented about seeking distraction in drink and Nico had joked about better ways to forget. When Lorath had challenged him on it and then took him up on that offered comfort.

It was a moment of weakness that Lorath didn’t intend to repeat.

And he told himself that each time. When that weakness happened again in Ked Bardu. And again after Nico returned from Orbei Monastery, haunted by what he’d seen. And again after Ghuulran. And Mt. Ciro. And after Andariel. And–

Well, Lorath had had decades of experience avoiding his own roiling emotions. He could deal with this complication later. After they stopped Lilith.

“Why don’t you ask him about it then if you’re so bloody curious?”

His attention was caught by movement, and he saw Neyrelle and Nico beginning to approach, carrying bags of supplies. Neyrelle was animatedly saying something, one hand gesturing in the air. Nico walked in step beside her, his ear tilted in her direction to listen, but his eyes carefully scanning the surroundings, one hand resting lightly on his sword. 

He had a tense frown on his face and–paired with his dark kohl-smeared eyes, the tattoo markings on his face and muscled arms, wild hair sticking up, long, curved blades at his side, and a large, wicked-looking crossbow along his back–he looked no different from any of the numerous bandits that plagued Sanctuary. 

Dangerous. 

As they walked the people gave them a wide berth, eyeing the strangers in their midst with suspicion. Perhaps he felt Lorath’s gaze in particular burning into him, because he lifted his head and met Lorath’s eyes.

And oh, how the expression changed. The frown falling away to reveal a grin, eyes shining (too far to see the color at this distance, but Lorath knew it was a deep green, the same vibrant shade as one of the leaves of Glór-an-Fháidha), tense shoulders loosening in relaxation, pace picking up a bit to reach them faster. 

“Hmm, I think I already have my answer.” Donan sounded smug and far too knowing as Lorath jerked his head around to glare at his old friend. He had perhaps been staring. He wasn’t sure what expression was on his face, but whatever it was made Donan’s grin widen in amusement. 

Before he could retort, Neyrelle and Nico reached them.

“Hey! We got some water resistant bags, food that should last even in this humidity, snake venom antidote, plenty of water,” Neyrelle handed a large satchel each to Donan and Lorath, “There’s an oil that, according to one of the merchants, should ‘discourage all but the most persistent of bloodflies’.”

Nico nodded along in agreement. “I got us all some new boots as well. These are coated with a special oil that makes them extra resistant to water. So it should keep our feet dry even in the swamp.”

Neyrelle lifted her foot to show off her new boots, and Nico handed a pair to both Donan and Lorath.

“And here, Lorath,” Nico held out a pair of gloves, “I saw that yours got damaged when we were in the desert.”

Lorath reached out and took the gloves. Turned them over in his hands. They were soft, of excellent quality, dyed a dark grey, simple and not ostentatious at all, with the fingers free just as Lorath preferred. 

In other words, they were perfect.

He looked up to thank him and his breath caught in his throat at the soft look in Nico’s eyes, the smile tugging at his lips. It was a simple, practical gift for a– a– fellow comrade-in-arms and should not have made Lorath’s ears feel as hot as they did. 

Donan coughed loudly. 

Lorath cleared his throat, “Right well. We need to be off. We’ve wasted enough time as is.”

[twistedisciple]

(bitch [@ griss]) There's no way that Alcryst could forget that horrendous, monstrous face. Ever since what happened in Destinea Cathedral, what happened to Father...

His face runs hot. His fists clench. You should be dead. It's a horrible thought, not one Diamant would think, but everything else spirals from there. Why are you here? Who thought you fit to have a second chance at life? You, and not Father? Is it because they committed patricide? Would Father have been able to come back like this, had they been able to find the body?

Alcryst pushes past a crowd of students, eyes locked on that foul creature's face until it's no more than a hand's breadth away. His first words are low, just a hair below a growl, full of hate. "You."

"Huh?"

Griss is used to being accosted. Shouted at, pointed at, being slapped out of the blue (he liked that one) - it wasn't new to him in Fódlan because it came with the fell disciple uniform back in Elyos too. Maybe not Elusia, but he'd traveled enough to know that revulsion looked the same across the world. That's not what surprises him though. It's those eyes, hard as rubies, he's certain he'd seen behind the curve of a bow.

The surprise doesn't last long, opening up into a provoking sneer, hands following and turning out, palms-up in invitation. The kid looked like he wanted to hit him, and who was he to deny anyone's impulse.

"Want something--"

In the time it takes to ask, a snowy field churned and muddy by battle and blood comes to mind. He'd been a hyena in the underbrush, waiting to swipe the carrion right out from under this boy, his bow, and his fury.

Recognition lights up his face with perverse excitement.

"--Princey?"

[eligobrrrrr]

Yesterday I was officially back on my bullshit (playing Bloodborne)

And I just noticed I missed a day of what I did but tbh they mix together well for this post so fuck it we ball.

I've been finally exploring the Cathedral Ward further, from Oedon Chapel there are the exit on the left (open), the exit on the front (open) and the open on the right (closed), yeah?

Went through the front first, found some carrion crows, killed some carrion crows, found some church enemies, got smacked, didn't die somehow and went up the stairs.

Of course, it was closed.

Walked back into the chapel and explored the exit through the left, found more church people, killed more church people (this all was before I got grabbed by the hand lmao).

Saw a shiny spark on a corpse that shows loot, got excited, walk over there, got more hunter gear.

Fuckin got grabbed by an invisible hand and got put frenzy all the way up.

Somehow didn't die?????????

I legit was at like, 1 hp or some shit.

Walked back to the church and the hunter's dream to get my life and restock. After that I went back to the courtyard on the left, I originally was gonna go through the stairs on the right of the courtyard but I saw a huge ass bitch and immediately nope'd out of there.

Went through the path on the left that went down because I was on a fuckin mission to find Alfred. Ran into some basic enemies and those fuckin hellhounds I hate the dogs so much. Killed them with ease, I originally went through the main door on the ground but it looked ominous so I backed off again.

Saw there were some stairs on the left, saw the guy with the rifle, decided to continue anyways, saw the rabid dogs, fuck.

Backed down to take care of the dogs without having to worry about the rifle guy, after that I just rushed through the stairs to beat the shit out of the rifle guy. Looked around and went through the door on the right.

I am a lil bitch so I ran to the other side because I 100% expected to be followed (which I wasn't). I look on the right and I finally find the dude, the man, Alfred. Talked to him, got the emote, got the fire paper. Had him yap my ear off, took some pictures, opened the tomb, picked some stuff and headed back to the chapel.

From here it's what actually happened yesterday

I headed back to where I met Alfred because I really wanted a picture of him and Espen praying together and I actually finally explored the part under with the Tomb (but not what was under the tomb itself).

Went back to the courtyard on the left with the stairs and the big guy and fuck it we ball'd it. I still find hilarious that the "Stay close to the enemy's crotch" strat really works well with some of the big enemies so I killed the big guy then went left. Found more carrion crows and some brick trolls. Killed them, picked up some stuff and found another big guy now with a ball and chain.

I should've died so many times while fighting him but somehow didn't. Saw like a tomb down there but I was a lil bitch and reading a guide for that section confused me so I went back to see what was on the other side of the first big guy.

Another closed gate because fuck me in particular.

Rn I'm farming blood echoes to get the badge to get that shit open.

[xaz-fr]

Sovkayar

[dansnaturepictures]

7th September 2023: Winchester, Lakeside and home

Photos in this set: 1. An enchanting Long-tailed Tit that I enjoyed seeing in the sun when cutting through Lakeside this morning. 2. A Peregrine at Winchester Cathedral I believe Winnie. I was very excited to see a Peregrine here for the second day running I am on quite a good run of seeing them here for the time of year as we come away from the breeding season. It was exceptional to watch her once more, seeing some wing stretches and preening. And I'm thrilled to early on make it another month consecutively that I've photographed a Winchester Peregrine in. 3. Lovely Woodpigeon at the River Itchen. 4. Beautiful red flowers in Winchester which it was great to see. 5. A stunning sunny scene at the river. 6 and 7. Yellow and green leaves and a view at Lakeside this morning. 8 and 9. Views in Winchester, I relished seeing green leaves against bright blue sky again today with a fair few yellow leaves on the ground and on trees a key theme this week. 10. Herb-Robert by the River Itchen.

It was also good to see Small White, Magpie, bee, wasp, hoverfly, raucous bold Carrion Crows at Lakeside this evening, Herring Gull, ragwort, fleabane, white clover, broad-leaved clover, ivy-leaved toadflax, willowherb, daisies by the water at the river and near Lakeside, pineappleweed, orpine, roses, fox-and-cubs, red or henbit deadnettle and hear a Robin's lullaby at Lakeside this evening. Fly, moth and ladybird were interesting to see at home in the evening with Magpie and Collared Dove out the back today and yesterday.

[omalahsocs]

It wasn't often that she dreamed. Or maybe it was more appropriate to say that she didn't remember what she dreamed. So when small thoughts lingered with her when the sun went down, she made a habit of writing them down to see if she could make sense of it later.

It wasn't images that stayed with her this time around, but rather words. Not even words in her native tongue, but they were ones she was familiar with all the same.

Basilica de morte.

A basilica of death. Not quite the same as the one that her Sire had warned her about when he was teaching her the beginnings of fleshcraft, but it had to be linked.

Staring into the middle distance, she considered it. The original cathedral was rumored to still exist. Continuing to live and be free of banes by virtue of being it's own home, or perhaps because at its core was a large section of Carpathian Soil. There was no way to know unless she found it. Unless it found her.

Her nails clicked against the countertop and she frowned absently. The craving to create wasn't something solely in the realm of those artistic Toreador and Ravnos. Her own clan had their own achings to creating, usually kept to their own bodies and sometimes stretched to their guard dogs. And when one found the best spot and freshest prey? Their homes could be converted with bone and skin and love.

Looking over, she snatched up a napkin and took a pencil from her pocket, idly begin to make a sketch. Maybe after her shift she would look on Pinterest for mood boards related to that game Carrion for inspiration.

[attic-zine]

the sounds of july

aka the 15 songs i’m hooked on right now... in no particular order

1.‘No Cure’ BRENDA KAHN Destination Anywhere (1996)

2. ‘The Village in the Morning’ THE MAGNETIC FIELDS Get Lost (1995)

3. ‘Open’ THE CURE Wish (1992)

4. ‘Rhymes of an Hour’ MAZZY STAR Among My Swan (1996)

5. ‘The Way Young Lovers Do’ JEFF BUCKLEY Live at the Bataclan (1995)

6. ‘Breathing Fear’ KITCHENS OF DISTINCTION The Death of Cool (1992)

7. ‘River of Deceit’ MAD SEASON Above (1995)

8. ‘Germayne (Like a Cathedral)’ THE CLEANERS FROM VENUS Number Thirteen (1990)

9. ‘In the Gold Dust Rush’ COCTEAU TWINS Head Over Heels (1983)

10. ‘Planet’ THE SUGARCUBES Here, Today, Tomorrow Next Week! (1989)

11. ‘The Letter’ DEUX FILLES Silence & Wisdom (1982)

12. ‘Boys Don’t Matter’ BLUEBOY Unisex (1994)

13. ‘Carrion’ FIONA APPLE Tidal (1996)

14. ‘Primitive Painters’ FELT & ELIZABETH FRASER Ignite the Seven Cannons (1985)

15. ‘Feed Me’ JULIANA HATFIELD I See You (1992)

photograph of mazzy star

[golden-lionsnake]

Everyone in the temptation thinks they know everything about Thaddeus. And it isn't hard to believe because he likes to loudly tell everyone everything about him. Which he does so they don't actually pry into who or what he is.

Or what he isn't. Thaddeus is either the best con artist alive or the biggest idiot to ever walk the face of Sorienth. Thaddeus joined the Cathedral because he thought they were some weird cult. Then he was asked why he never hunted or consumed Essence and he started to get nervous. After a bit of prying around dragon clans in the neighborhood he found out the problem. He hadn't fallen in with a cult of weird dragons. He'd fallen in with a temptation of Prime Hunters. And he wasn't a Prime Hunter. Naturally this made him very nervous. ...But for a long time he was the only Pearlcatcher in the temptation. He didn't have to worry about sharing a meal and brushed off them never seeing him consume Essence as him just hunting and eating when he was hungry, though he never joined any hunting parties- saying he preferred hunting solo. He didn't even mind so much. He never had to work and the Hunters loved playing card games, not even seeming to care Thaddeus always cheated. Then, Anna Leigh appeared and nearly ruined the entire thing. She was so excited about meeting another pearlcatcher guised Hunter. He was awkwardly shoved into a friendship with her despite his desire to push her away. She forced him to hunt with her and Thaddeus was faced with some very difficult decisions. He could either hunt with her and keep up the façade: or he could come clean and reveal he wasn't actually a Hunter. There were non Hunters in the temptation, he knew it could work. But he'd also lied about it the entire time and he knew how Eva and Aiden felt about liars. He wouldn't make it out of that. So he just kept the charade up. He even completed a hunt with Anna Leigh. He even partook in the rewards of a hunt with her despite being a vegetarian. That went a long way in proving to the ever suspicious Fir that he was, indeed, a Hunter. Fir had his number, and was convinced he wasn't a Prime Hunter. But it's hard to argue with a successful hunt. What actual dragon would willingly become a cannibal? His story and alibi secured Thaddeus felt a lot more relaxed around Anna Leigh. Which was good because only a blind idiot (or Carter) hadn't noticed she was quite smitten with him. He feels really weird about returning any attraction, as he's literally watched her hunt, kill, and eat a member of his own breed, but she's just following her nature. She doesn't do it for pleasure like some Hunters do, just to survive. So he's convinced himself she's alright enough to want, to fall for. It was difficult not to. She's such a sweet, well meaning, naïve girl.

-Bio by @xaz-fr​

[tribbetherium]

The Early Temperocene: 145 million years post-establishment

Just Deserts: The Arid Center of Arcuterra

As the climate of the Temperocene warms, regions once covered in ice give way to savannahs and grasslands and forests with the increase of the global temperatures. But with some areas close to the equator, especially the center of continents not reached much by rainfall, they not only become warm-- they become very hot.

Such is the case of the Mid-Arcuterran Desert, a region of Arcuterra that, shaded from cool air currents and rainfall from the sea, is as dry and hot as imaginable, its landscape seemingly an unending ocean of dunes. Here water and food is scarce, and life is very inhospitable-- a world where few species can survive. But where there is an empty niche, something evolves to fill it, and this barren wasteland has seen the rise of some truly innovative ecosystems yet.

About the only vegetation here are saggros (Macrocactinogramen spp.), a descendant of the clackti of earlier eons that has evolved into a segmented, armored shoot with woody stems and its vulnerable joints lined with defensive spines. Despite resembling some kind of succulent crossed with bamboo, the saggros are in fact grasses: a trait that can be traced by their underground rhizomes that grow sideways, allowing new shoots to easily take root and colonize wherever there are accessible traces of water far beneath the sandy soil.

Few animals can breach this precious source of water, save for one: the cathedral mites (Polygynotermes spp.), descendants of the bombermites that once evolved their extreme defenses and highly-specialized colonies to combat the now-extinct armored giraard. They since have dominated the desert ecosystem by a novel adaptation" the formation of supercolonies with hundreds of individual queens each pumping dozens of eggs daily, in colony networks spanning many miles and housing trillions of individuals. Tunneling up through the stems of saggros, the cathedral mites partake of the nutritious pulp and the concealed moisture, recycling even the waste they excrete as substrate for underground fungus farms which they feed to the many queens and their larvae. King castes still exist but are fewer than queens, and, more mobile than their bloated mates, regularly switch queens currently fertilizing to maximize genetic diversity.

The saggros and the cathedral mites form nearly all of the food chain in the desert, with a wide array of insectivores and herbivores capitalizing on the rich abundance of termites where little other food is available. Most specialized of them is the black-tongued moundator (Myrmecosaurus melanolingus): a large rattile specialized for tearing open the numerous mounds that dot the landscapes with its powerful claws and use its narrow snout and long tongue to feed on the termites that come swarming out. It is a tried-and-true niche that has evolved countless times on Earth, and here is no exception. The moundator, in turn, is often accompanied by a small podothere known as the sandy moustrich (Struthiomys gymnocauda), which, lacking the moundator's digging claws, waits for its partner to open up the mound before joining the feast. There is enough for everyone and thus the two don't compete: they tolerate each other's presence and may even have a mutualistic benefit with the keen-eyed moustrich in turn serving as a lookout and giving alarm calls in case of danger.

Predators are small and far between in the desert: the big-eared bugwug (Aridovulpecyon megalotis) is a tiny zingo with large ears and a bare snout adapted for heat loss, and is primarily an insectivore and scavenger, though in groups may be bolder enough to attempt to hunt bigger game, moundators included. And in the skies is the white-striped desert ratavult (Aquilopteryx albanura): predominantly a scavenger, it nests on the vast mounds the cathedral mites make, and while eating mostly carrion, also eagerly indulges in the winged termite alates when they swarm in the breeding season.

But the biggest, and strangest-looking of the desert's inhabitants are the rumphumps: members of a group of basal hamtelopes called llamsters that have specialized to the desert environment with various unique adaptations. Most conspicuously, their brightly-colored, hairless hindquarters serve both as a means of losing heat and as a storage for fat, with their unique coloration also serving as display and an indication of health to members of the same species. Their faces and large ears are similarly bald to act as heat sinks to cool off, their strong teeth and thick lips allow them to bite into saggros to access their succulent inner flesh, and their feet, rather than being hoofed as with most hamtelopes, instead have long splayed toes, with an oddly birdlike appearance, to spread their weight evenly and avoid sinking into soft sand. They can also go without food and water for days: by excreting dry droppings and very concentrated urine, they avoid wasting water, and the fat stores in their rumps provide energy even when food is few and far betweeen.

Rumphumps thus are a very successful clade that since has diverged into many different species that are active at different times of day to reduce competition. The most common of them, the scarlet caboose (Cricetocamelus erythroposterius) is active in the middle of the day, where its light coat helps deflect the heat of the main sun Alpha at high noon, the twotone tush (Gymnoposterius bicolor), with its brilliant colors on its hairless regions, being active at earlier in the morning and later in the afternoon, and the smallest species, the black booty (Microcricetocamelus nigraposterius) being active during Beta-twilight or at night, in order to avoid diurnal packs of bugwugs which it is small enough to fall prey to.

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎