#Defenders of Wildlife strike

[moonselune]

hi there 🙃

could you write the female companions' reactions to a normally passive (as in, pacifist, -- bard, healer, etc) tav, who genuinly dislikes violence, absolutely demolishing someone after they dared lay hands on their beloved?

not like in a, 'dont touch em!! Take dat!!' way after someone accidentally bumps shoulders with their partner, im talking about someone insulting tavs significant other, both physically and verbally, SO BAD, that tav cant help but go ballistic on em 😦

like, for example, someone berating Shadowheart, mocking her, mocking shar, kickin her to the ground n allat, and before she can even respond or fight back, the very same person who was berating her suddenly has a spear impaling them through the heart ?? As the stranger falls down, tav stands tall behind them, pulling the spear out and hurling it to the ground along with the now lifeless corpse 👽

if this is too dark feel free to ignore 💕

Ahh I love this and not too dark at all xox

Karlach:

The camp was quiet, the crackling of the fire and the occasional distant howl of wildlife the only sounds in the crisp evening air. You watched as Karlach, her fiery mane glowing in the flickering light, paced near the edge of the clearing. Her usual exuberant energy was gone, replaced with a taut line to her shoulders and a clenched jaw. It was rare to see her so subdued, and it made your heart ache.

The cause of her distress, Gortash’s lackey—a smarmy, cruel barite with a penchant for striking where it hurt most—still lingered in the shadows, his mocking laughter replaying in your ears.

“Naive and stupid,” he had jeered earlier. “To think you’d ever amount to more than a pawn, Karlach. A brute without a brain. That’s all you are, just a weapon Gortash no longer needs.”

Karlach had held her tongue—barely. You’d seen the way her fists had clenched, the way her chest had heaved as she fought to keep her Infernal Engine from roaring to life. Instead of lashing out, she had walked away, muttering about needing to cool off.

But you couldn’t let it go. Not this time.

You rose from your seat by the fire and slipped into the shadows, the hidden dagger in your boot feeling heavier than usual. Violence wasn’t your way; it never had been. But for Karlach? For the woman who had given you her heart, who carried so much pain behind her warm smiles and boundless energy? For her, you would make an exception.

You found the lackey leaning against a tree, a smug grin plastered on his face as though he thought himself untouchable. He didn’t even notice you approach.

“Lost, are we?” he sneered, his eyes finally meeting yours. “Or have you come to defend your pet?”

You didn’t respond. Instead, you closed the distance in a flash, the dagger in your hand before he could even register the movement. One swift, silent motion, and it was over. The man’s eyes widened in shock as he crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood staining the forest floor. You wiped the blade clean on his cloak, your heart pounding in your chest—not from fear, but from the fierce protectiveness that had driven you to act.

When you returned to camp, Karlach was sitting by the fire, her head resting on her knees. She looked up as you approached, her fiery eyes searching your face for any sign of what had transpired.

“Where’d he go?” she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. “The loudmouth. I didn’t hear him leave.”

You sat beside her, tucking the dagger away as nonchalantly as possible.

“Don’t worry about him,” you said softly, offering her a reassuring smile. “He’s gone now. Probably realized he wasn’t welcome.”

Karlach tilted her head, studying you for a moment. Then she smiled, a small, grateful thing that made your heart swell.

“Guess even idiots like him know when to back off, huh?” she said, leaning into your side.

You wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close as her warmth seeped into you. If she suspected anything, she didn’t show it. After all, you were the pacifist, the one who hated violence. The idea that you could harm someone—let alone end them—would never cross her mind.

As you sat there, the fire crackling softly and Karlach’s tension melting away, you felt a strange sense of peace. You had done what needed to be done, and Karlach was none the wiser. She didn’t need to know. All that mattered was that she was safe, her spirit undimmed.

You pressed a kiss to the top of her head, your lips brushing against her wild hair.

“I’ll always look out for you,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. And you meant it—no matter what it took.

Minthara:

The dimly lit underdark tavern was alive with the quiet murmurs of its occupants, the air thick with the heady mix of incense and intrigue. Minthara stood at your side, her presence regal and unyielding even in the face of a room filled with drow - some nobles. Their venomous words and sidelong glances were nothing new—Minthara had endured their scorn since the fall of the Absolute. But tonight, one of them crossed a line.

Lady Velrith, a figure draped in finery as dark and ostentatious as her twisted smirk, circled Minthara like a predator.

“The mighty Minthara,” she drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. “Once a chosen of the Absolute, now… what? Cast aside by the very gods you claimed to serve? Even Lolth herself wouldn’t sully her name with your devotion.”

Minthara’s hands clenched at her sides, her jaw tightening as she prepared to retort—or strike. Her amber eyes glinted with barely contained rage, but before she could act, you stepped forward.

“Enough,” you said, your voice calm yet laced with a warning. Velrith turned her gaze to you, clearly unimpressed by your intervention.

“And who is this?” Velrith sneered, looking you up and down. “Minthara’s little pet, come to defend her honor? How quaint.”

Your grip tightened on the hilt of your dagger, hidden beneath the folds of your cloak. You were not one for violence—it was something you abhorred, something Minthara often teased you about. But this time, this venomous noble had gone too far. Minthara was yours, your heart, your everything. No one insulted her and lived to gloat about it.

Without a word, you lunged. The dagger moved like a whisper, slicing through the air and finding its mark in Velrith’s throat. Her eyes widened in shock as she staggered, clutching at the wound, blood spilling between her fingers. She collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

The chamber fell into stunned silence. You stood over the noble’s body, your chest heaving as you looked down at her. The room seemed to shrink around you, every eye locked on the scene. But none mattered except Minthara’s.

When you turned to her, she was staring at you, her expression a mixture of astonishment and something else—pride.

“You… killed her,” Minthara said, stepping closer. Her voice was quiet, but the weight of her words hung heavy in the air. “You, who flinch at the mere thought of bloodshed.”

“I did,” you replied simply, wiping the dagger on a scrap of cloth before sheathing it. “She insulted you. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.”

Minthara’s lips parted, as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. For a moment, the ever-composed drow was at a loss. Then, a slow, almost predatory smile spread across her face.

“You stole my kill,” she said, her tone light but edged with amusement. “But I find I cannot be angry with you. Not when you’ve proven yourself so… capable.”

“I wasn’t going to let her speak to you like that,” you said, stepping closer to her. “You deserve better.”

Her amber eyes locked onto yours, and she reached up to cradle your face in her hands.

“You surprise me, my love,” she murmured. “You, with your pacifist heart, spilling blood for me. I could not ask for a more devoted partner.”

Her words sent a warmth through you, even as the weight of what you’d done lingered in the back of your mind. She leaned in, brushing her lips against yours in a kiss that was both possessive and tender.

“Next time,” she whispered against your lips, “leave the killing to me. But… thank you. For reminding them, and me, that I am not to be underestimated.”

The two of you left the chamber together, her hand resting on your arm as though to shield you from any further hostility. Though you had shocked her, you had also proven your devotion in a way few ever could.

Lae'zel:

The air in Creche Y'llek was sharp with the scent of steel and the faint tang of psionic energy. Githyanki warriors moved through the halls with an air of superiority, their every movement deliberate and precise. You stayed close to Lae’zel, her presence steady and fierce as ever, though you could sense the tension coiling in her like a spring. This was her home, but it was no safe haven—not anymore.

“Traitorous filth,” a sneering voice cut through the air, stopping the two of you in your tracks.

A gith warrior, clad in gleaming armor, stood with arms crossed, his expression twisted into a contemptuous sneer. His name was Ver’sath, a seasoned warrior and a guard they had encountered at the entrance, and his eyes burned with disdain as they locked onto Lae’zel.

“You dare walk among us, tainted by the ghaik’s spawn?” Ver’sath spat, his voice dripping with disgust. “Your very breath defiles this creche.”

Lae’zel’s jaw tightened, but she stepped forward, her gaze like steel. “I am no ghaik, Ver’sath. I bear the parasite, yes, but it does not rule me. I will cleanse myself and prove my worth.”

Ver’sath snorted, taking a step back as though the mere proximity of her presence was offensive. “You are already lost, Lae’zel. A ghaik puppet masquerading as gith. I wouldn’t sully my blade or my honor by crossing steel with you.”

The insult hung heavy in the air, and you felt your blood boil. Without thinking, without considering the consequences, your hand darted to your weapon. Before Lae’zel could respond, you surged forward, the blade singing as it left its sheath.

The movement was swift, fueled by a fire you rarely allowed to burn. Ver’sath’s eyes widened in shock as your weapon pierced his chest, the blade slipping between the plates of his armor. He staggered back, a choked gasp escaping his lips as he collapsed to the ground.

Silence fell over the corridor, broken only by the sound of his lifeless body hitting the stone floor. You stood there, breathing heavily, your weapon dripping with blood.

“Lae’zel,” you began, turning to her, but her expression stopped you short.

Her golden eyes blazed with a mix of fury and disbelief. She grabbed your wrist, yanking you aside.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” she hissed, her voice low but intense. “We are in a creche! Such actions will not go unnoticed!”

You met her gaze, guilt and defiance warring within you. “He insulted you. He—”

“I did not need your protection,” she snapped, though her grip on your wrist softened. “This place is not like the surface. Here, there are rules—strict ones. You jeopardize both of us.”

“But he called you…” you trailed off, the weight of your impulsiveness settling over you. “I couldn’t let him speak to you like that. I couldn’t stand it.”

For a moment, Lae’zel said nothing. Then, with a heavy sigh, she released your wrist.

“You are a fool,” she muttered, her tone softer now. “A reckless fool. But… you acted from loyalty, and for that, I cannot truly fault you.”

Her gaze lingered on the fallen Ver’sath before returning to you.

“Come,” she said, pulling you away. “We must move quickly before his absence raises questions. But hear me, my love—do not act so rashly again. I can handle the scorn of weaklings like him.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you followed her. “I only did it because I care.”

She glanced at you, the corner of her mouth twitching in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “I know. But let us survive this place, so you may continue to care another day.”

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart rarely showed fear. She was a woman forged in darkness, raised to endure pain and thrive in chaos. But as she knelt on the damp cobblestones of the alley, surrounded by sneering Sharrans, her shoulders trembled ever so slightly. Their taunts echoed off the walls, cruel and cutting.

"Look at her," one sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "A failed servant of the Dark Lady. What a disgrace. Did Shar discard you like the trash you are?"

Another kicked her in the side, and Shadowheart grunted, but she refused to cry out. "Pathetic," the second hissed. "Begging for scraps of redemption when you were meant to walk the shadows."

The third leaned close, gripping her chin roughly and forcing her to meet his gaze. "Do you miss her embrace, girl? Or did you run because you knew you weren’t worthy?"

Shadowheart’s hand twitched toward her weapon, but she was outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and worse, they knew her weaknesses. She felt their jeers carving into her like knives, cutting far deeper than any blade ever could.

But then, a voice cut through the din like a blade through silk. “Take your hands off her.”

The Sharrans turned, their expressions shifting from derision to surprise as you stepped into the mouth of the alley. You weren’t carrying a weapon; you never did. You were a bard, a healer, someone who mended wounds and sang away sorrow. To them, you were no threat at all.

And yet, there was something in your eyes—a stillness, a quiet storm—that made them pause.

"Or what?" one of them sneered, recovering quickly. "You’ll sing us a ballad?"

Your gaze flicked to Shadowheart. She was watching you, her face pale but her eyes wide with something like warning—or perhaps pleading. And then your attention snapped back to the Sharrans.

It happened so fast they didn’t have time to react. In one fluid motion, you grabbed a discarded spear leaning against the alley wall—likely dropped there by the very fools now surrounding Shadowheart—and hurled it with deadly precision. The first Sharran crumpled to the ground, the spear embedded in his chest.

The others blinked in shock, their bravado faltering. Before they could act, you closed the distance. Your movements were a blur, driven not by technique but by sheer, unrelenting determination. You snatched the spear from the lifeless body and swung it in a wide arc, knocking the second Sharran to the ground. He tried to scramble to his feet, but you drove the butt of the spear into his skull with a sickening crack.

The last Sharran, the one who had dared lay hands on Shadowheart, stumbled back, his confidence shattered.

“You’re mad!” he spat, drawing a dagger. “You’re just a bard—!”

His words were cut short as you thrust the spear forward, impaling him through the heart. He looked down at the weapon protruding from his chest, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words. Then he fell, lifeless, onto the cobblestones.

You stood there, breathing heavily, the spear still clutched in your hands. Blood dripped from its tip, pooling around your feet. Shadowheart pushed herself upright, staring at you in stunned silence.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, your voice softer than she expected. You turned to her, your hands reaching out, but when you saw the blood on them, you hesitated.

Shadowheart shook her head, stepping closer. “You…” Her voice faltered, her usual poise slipping. “You just…”

You dropped the spear, letting it clatter to the ground as you moved to her side.

“They touched you,” you said simply, as though that explained everything. “No one touches you.”

For a moment, Shadowheart didn’t know what to say. She had always seen you as the gentle one, the light to her shadow, the person who hated violence and refused to carry a blade. And yet here you were, standing over the bodies of her tormentors, bloodied but unbowed.

“You didn’t have to—” she began, but you cut her off with a look.

“Yes, I did,” you said firmly. “And I would do it again.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she closed the distance between you and pulled you into a fierce embrace, her hands clutching the back of your tunic as though afraid you might disappear. You held her just as tightly, the adrenaline in your veins slowly giving way to the aching reality of what you’d done.

“You’re a fool,” she murmured against your shoulder, her voice thick with emotion. “A reckless, beautiful fool.”

“And you’re worth every risk,” you replied, your lips brushing against her hair.

For once, Shadowheart didn’t argue.

Jaheira:

The evening at the tavern had been pleasant—cozy firelight, a few shared drinks, and soft murmurs of conversation between you and Jaheira. That was until a brash mercenary swaggered in, loud and boisterous, his voice cutting through the calm like a blade. His gaze had landed on Jaheira almost immediately, and the mocking began.

“Well, if it isn’t the elder druid herself,” he sneered, leaning on the edge of your table. “Tell me, Jaheira, do you need a cane to walk the forest now? Or do you just lean on the young one here to keep from breaking a hip?”

Jaheira’s lips tightened, her calm exterior betraying the faintest flicker of irritation. “Is there something you need?” she asked coolly, clearly unimpressed by his attempt to bait her.

The mercenary chuckled, ignoring her measured tone. “No need to get prickly, grandmother. Just surprised to see someone your age still kicking about. Aren’t you tired of pretending you can keep up with the rest of us? Retirement suits your kind better.”

Your hands clenched under the table. You hated violence, avoided it when you could, but the disdain in his voice and the way he looked down at Jaheira lit a fire in your chest. Before Jaheira could respond—before she could dismiss him or turn him into a toad with a flick of her magic—you stood up, your chair scraping against the floor.

“Step outside with me,” you said evenly, your voice calm but cold.

The mercenary blinked, surprised by the sudden challenge from someone who looked so unassuming. “What’s this?” he laughed. “The pacifist wants to have a word?”

“Now,” you insisted, your tone brooking no argument. The quiet intensity in your gaze must have unnerved him, as his smirk faltered before he shrugged and followed you out.

The alley behind the tavern was dark, the cold night air biting at your skin. The mercenary turned to face you, still smirking. “So, what’s this about? You gonna give me a little lecture? Maybe cry about—”

His words were cut off as you moved faster than he expected, the dagger in your hand finding its mark before he could react. A choked sound escaped him as you withdrew the blade, letting him crumple to the ground. You wiped the dagger clean on his tunic and left him where he fell, the anger in your chest finally settling as you turned back toward the warm glow of the tavern.

Jaheira looked up as you reentered the room, her sharp gaze immediately locking onto you.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

“Nothing,” you replied, slipping back into your chair with an air of nonchalance. “It’s taken care of.”

Jaheira’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she reached across the table, her thumb brushing against your cheek. When she pulled her hand back, there was a faint smear of red on her fingertip.

“I see,” she said dryly, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the situation. “And I suppose I shouldn’t ask for details?”

“Probably not,” you admitted, leaning back in your chair.

Jaheira studied you for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she reached for her drink, raising it in a small, almost imperceptible gesture of gratitude.

“I don’t need to know,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “But… thank you.”

You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the firelight.

“Always,” you said simply, and Jaheira’s small smile widened just enough to light up her face. The incident, though dark, faded into the background as the two of you resumed your evening, the connection between you stronger than ever.

I hope everyone is having a very happy holidays, here are some bg3 ladies for you all. Hope you enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Christopher Brown’s ‘A Natural History of Empty Lots’

On SEPTEMBER 24th, I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!

Christopher Brown is an accomplished post-cyberpunk sf writer, a tech lawyer with a sideline in public interest environmental law, the proud owner of one of the most striking homes I have ever seen, and an urban pastoralist who writes about wildlife in ways I've never seen and can't get enough of:

https://fieldnotes.christopherbrown.com/

All of these facets of Brown's identity come together today with the launch of A Natural History of Empty Lots: Field Notes from Urban Edgelands, Back Alleys and other Wild Places:

https://christopherbrown.com/a-natural-history-of-empty-lots/

This is a frustratingly hard to summarize book, because it requires a lot of backstory and explanation, and one of the things that makes this book so! fucking! great! is how skillfully Brown weaves all that stuff into his telling. Which makes me feel self-conscious as I try to summarize things, because there's no way I'll do this as well as he did, but whatever, here goes.

Brown is a transplant from rural Iowa to Austin, where he set out to start a family, practice tech law during the dotcom boom, and write science fiction, as part of a circle of writers loosely associated with cyberpunk icon @brucesterling. After both the economy and his marriage collapsed, Brown started his restless perambulations around Austin's abandoned places, sacrifice zones, the bones of failed housing starts and abandoned dot-crash office parks.

When he did, something changed in him. Slowly, his eyes learned to see things that they had just skipped over. Plants, animals, and spoor and carapaces and dens of all description, all around him, a secret world. These were not pockets of "wilderness" in the city, but they were pockets of wildness. Birds' nests woven with plastic fibers scavenged from nearby industrial dumpsters; trees taking root in half-submerged tires rolled into a creekbed, foxes and rodents playing out a real-life version of the classic ecosystem simulation exercise on the edge of an elevated highway that fills the same function as the edge of a woodland where predator and prey meet.

As Brown fell in love again – with the artist and architect Agustina Rodriguez – he conceived of a genuinely weird and amazing plan to build a house. A very weird house, in a very weird place. He bought a plot of wasteland that had once housed the head-end of an oil pipeline (connected to a nearby oil-storage facility that poisoned the people who lived near it, in an act of wanton environmental racism) and had been used as a construction-waste dump for years.

After securing an extremely unlikely loan, Brown remediated the plot, excavating the oil pipeline, then building the most striking home you have ever seen in the resulting trench. Brown is a pal of mine, and this is where I stay when I'm in Austin, and I can promise you, the pictures don't do it justice:

https://www.texasmonthly.com/style/christopher-brown-edgeland-house-austin/

Formally, A Natural History of Empty Lots is a memoir that explains all of this. But not really. Like I say, this is just the back story. What Natural History really is, is a series of loosely connected essays that explains how everything fits together: colonial conquest, Brown's failed marriage, his experience as a lawyer learning property law, what he learned by mobilizing that learning to help his neighbors defend the pockets of wildness that refuse to budge.

It's an erudite book, skipping back through millennia of history, sidewise through the ecology of Texas, all while somehow serving as a kind of spotter's guide to the wild things you can see in Austin – and maybe, in your town – if you know how to look. It's a book about how people change the land, and how the land changes people. It is filled with pastoral writing that summons Kim Stanley Robinson by way of Thoreau, and it sometimes frames its philosophical points the way a cyberpunk writer would – like Neal Stephenson writing a cyberpunk trilogy that is also the story of Leibniz and Newton fighting over credit for inventing calculus:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/11/20/neal-stephensons-system-of-the-world-concludes-the-baroque-trilogy/

Brown is a stupendous post-cyberpunk writer, and also a post-cyberpunk person, which I've known for sure since I happened upon him one morning, thoughtfully mowing his roof with a scythe:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/46433979075/

You can get a sense of what that means in this lockdown-era joint presentation that Chris, Bruce Sterling and I did on "cyberpunk and post-cyberpunk":

https://archive.org/details/asl-cyberpunk

Brown is a spectacular novelist. His ecofascist civil war trilogy that opens with Tropic of Kansas got so much right about the politics of American demagoguery and was perfectly timed with the Trump presidency:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/07/11/tropic-of-kansas-making-america-great-again-considered-harmful/

The sequel, Rule of Capture, uses the device of courtroom drama in a way that comes uncomfortably close to the Orwell/Kafka mashup that the authorities have created to deal with environmental protesters:

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/08/12/rule-of-capture-inside-the-martial-law-tribunals-that-will-come-when-climate-deniers-become-climate-looters-and-start-rendering-environmentalists-for-offshore-torture/

And the final volume, Failed State, is one of the most complicated complicated utopias you could ask for. This is what people mean by "thrilling conclusion":

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/12/failed-state/#chris-brown

As brilliant as Brown is in fiction mode, his nonfiction is unclassifiably, unforgettably brilliant. A Natural History of Empty Lots is the kind of book that challenges how you feel about the crossroads we're at, the place you live, and the place you want to be.

The paperback edition of The Lost Cause, my nationally bestselling, hopeful solarpunk novel is out this month!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/17/cyberpunk-pastoralism/#time-to-mow-the-roof

[planetsviews]

The Graceful Cheetah: Nature's Speed Demon

When you think of speed and elegance in the animal kingdom, the cheetah is likely the first creature that comes to mind. Known for their breathtaking speed and striking appearance, cheetahs are truly one of nature's most remarkable animals. Let’s explore what makes these magnificent cats so special. Speed and Agility Cheetahs are the fastest land animals, capable of reaching speeds up to 60-70 miles per hour in short bursts, covering distances up to 500 meters. Their bodies are built for speed: long, slender limbs, a flexible spine, and powerful muscles all contribute to their incredible acceleration. Their large nasal passages and lungs allow them to take in more oxygen while running, and their tail acts like a rudder, helping them make sharp turns while chasing prey. Physical Characteristics Cheetahs have a sleek, golden coat covered with solid black spots, which provides excellent camouflage in the grasslands and open plains where they typically hunt. Unlike other big cats, cheetahs have distinctive "tear marks" running from the inner corners of their eyes down to the sides of their mouths. These marks help to reflect the sun's glare and enable them to focus better on their prey during daylight hunts. Their claws are only partially retractable, which is unusual among cats, giving them extra grip and traction when sprinting. This is similar to the way track spikes help human runners. Hunting and Diet Cheetahs are carnivores, primarily hunting small to medium-sized ungulates such as gazelles and impalas. They rely on their exceptional speed to catch their prey, often approaching stealthily before launching into a high-speed chase. Cheetahs aim to trip their prey with a swipe of their paw, then deliver a suffocating bite to the throat. Because of their immense energy expenditure during a chase, cheetahs need to rest after making a kill before they can eat. They typically hunt during the day to avoid competition with larger predators like lions and hyenas. Family Life and Social Structure Female cheetahs are solitary, except when raising cubs. They give birth to litters of up to six cubs after a gestation period of about three months. The cubs are born with a thick grayish fur, known as a mantle, which helps protect them by providing some camouflage and possibly mimicking the appearance of a honey badger, a fierce animal that most predators avoid. Cheetah mothers are highly dedicated and will move their cubs to new hiding spots every few days to avoid detection by predators. The cubs stay with their mother for about 18 months, learning essential survival skills before venturing out on their own. Male cheetahs, on the other hand, often form small groups called coalitions, usually consisting of brothers from the same litter. This social structure helps them defend territories and increases their chances of successful hunting. Conservation Status Unfortunately, cheetahs are listed as vulnerable by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), with an estimated population of only 7,000 to 7,500 individuals remaining in the wild. Their numbers are declining due to habitat loss, human-wildlife conflict, and a decrease in prey availability. Conservation efforts are underway to protect these incredible animals, including habitat preservation, anti-poaching initiatives, and programs to reduce human-cheetah conflicts. Conclusion Cheetahs are more than just the fastest animals on land; they are a symbol of grace, beauty, and the incredible adaptability of nature. Their unique adaptations and behaviors make them one of the most fascinating creatures on our planet. By understanding and supporting conservation efforts, we can help ensure that future generations have the chance to marvel at the breathtaking speed and elegance of the cheetah.

[theink-stainedfolk]

Rasira

3 Berries Chronicles

---

The late afternoon sun filtered through the towering trees, casting a warm golden glow on the meadow where the three of them sat. Well, "sat" was a generous term. Rasira was sprawled across the grass with his arm thrown dramatically over his face, Balin was perched precariously on a rock, and Cheruu was kneeling beside an open book, his glasses perched crookedly on his nose.

"I’m just saying," Balin started, his tone filled with his usual mock exasperation, "if Rasberry here keeps sulking like that, he’s going to attract the local wildlife. Probably something small and angry, like him."

Rasira lifted his arm just enough to glare at Balin. "I hope the local wildlife carries you off first, Blueberry. Maybe then I’ll finally get some peace."

Balin gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. "Did you hear that, Cherry? He’s wishing death upon me again. So cruel, and after all I’ve done for him!"

Cheruu didn’t even look up from his book. "You mean eating all his snacks? Accidentally breaking his door last week? Or maybe the time you—"

"Okay, okay!" Balin waved his hands. "No need to drag up the past, Cherry Pie. We’re all friends here, right?"

"Don’t call me Cherry Pie," Cheruu muttered, finally glancing up. "And don’t distract me. I’m trying to figure out how to fix Rasira’s cursed necklace."

Rasira groaned and sat up. "It’s not cursed, it’s just... annoying. Like you two."

"You hear that?" Balin leaned closer to Cheruu. "He called us annoying. The audacity, considering we’re the ones keeping his gloomy self alive."

"By sheer accident," Rasira muttered.

"By sheer dedication," Balin corrected, puffing out his chest. "Blueberry Power, remember?"

Cheruu snorted, finally breaking his usual calm. "That’s not a thing."

"It could be," Balin insisted, hopping off the rock and striking what he clearly thought was a heroic pose. "Blueberry Power! Defender of friends, stealer of snacks, master of—"

"Chaos," Rasira supplied dryly. "And bad decisions."

Balin stuck out his tongue. "You’re just jealous because you don’t have a cool nickname like me."

"I’m Raspberry because of you two," Rasira shot back. "There’s nothing cool about that."

Cheruu smirked, his sharp memory dredging up a quote he knew would drive Rasira nuts. "‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Even if it’s a Raspberry."

"Stop quoting Shakespeare at me!" Rasira grabbed a nearby stick and half-heartedly threw it in Cheruu’s direction. It missed by a mile, landing with a soft thunk in the grass.

Balin, ever the opportunist, scooped up the stick. "Careful, Rasberry, you’re arming the enemy."

"Oh no," Rasira said flatly. "What will I do against a stick-wielding Blueberry?"

"You laugh now," Balin said, brandishing the stick like a sword, "but one day, this Blueberry will save your life. And you’ll have to admit I’m the hero of the group."

Cheruu adjusted his glasses, deadpan. "If that day ever comes, I’ll eat my own shoe."

"Deal!" Balin pointed the stick at Cheruu. "And I’ll hold you to that."

Before Rasira could make a sarcastic comment, a sudden rustling in the bushes nearby made all three freeze. Balin slowly lowered the stick. "Okay... that better not be the ‘small and angry wildlife’ I was joking about."

Cheruu squinted at the bushes. "It’s probably just a rabbit or something. Relax."

But when a low growl echoed from the shadows, Rasira shot to his feet. "Does that sound like a rabbit to you, Cherry?"

The growl grew louder, and Balin, for all his bravado, edged closer to Cheruu. "I knew it. My amazing blueberry instincts were right. Nature is out to get me."

Cheruu sighed, snapping his book shut. "Let’s just go before whatever it is decides we’re dinner."

"Agreed," Rasira muttered, already walking briskly in the opposite direction.

But Balin, ever the impulsive one, stepped closer to the bushes. "Wait, what if it’s something cool? Like a magical fox? Or a—"

The growl became a snarl, and a flash of something dark darted out of the bushes. Balin screamed, tossing the stick like it was on fire and bolting toward Rasira and Cheruu. "NOPE! NOT COOL! NOT COOL AT ALL!"

Rasira grabbed Balin by the arm and dragged him along as they all broke into a run. "This is why we don’t investigate growling bushes, Blueberry!"

Behind them, Cheruu huffed as he tried to keep up, his breathless voice carrying over the sound of their frantic footsteps. "‘Curiosity killed the cat’—and if you don’t stop running, it’s going to kill me too!"

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @frostedlemonwriter-deactivated2

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this Op-Ed from The New Republic:

The terrifying truth of the climate and mass extinction crises is that we don’t understand all that we stand to lose. And without extraordinary acts of imagination and foresight, as a society, we won’t understand what’s being lost till it’s too late—at which time we’ll have to look back at what we might have done with a heartbreak and remorse that have no remedy. 

So we need to protect the living world with the best tool we have: the law.

Evolution is slow, while the climate is changing at a breakneck pace. For organisms like elephants and whales, who can live as long as we do, or trees, who live much longer, both the path to potential adaptation to this rapidly morphing planet and the path to our understanding may stretch beyond any time frame that could help us to save them before the clock strikes midnight. 

Small animals, whose lives and reproductive cycles tend to be shorter, can be more readily studied across generations. Some researchers have seen signs of resilience: Mother zebra finches in Australia, one scientist found, warn the embryos inside their eggs of warming conditions outside by uttering certain calls. The chicks those embryos hatch into have lower birth weights than those who weren’t exposed to the mothers’ calls, which helps the young birds stay cool in hot weather. Lizards in Miami appeared to lower their cold-tolerance thresholds in response to a cold snap in 2020, which might defend against future environmental fluctuations; certain male dragonflies grow paler in warmer weather, losing some of the bright ornamentation that attracts females but making them less vulnerable to overheating.

But examples of seemingly speedy accommodation are tiny flags fluttering on a battlefield where the overwhelming outlook for biodiversity is catastrophic. Instead of shifting gradually over thousands or even millions of years, environments are being transformed so fast that adaptive mechanisms don’t have the opportunity to kick in. 

In many cases, due to human-caused habitat loss and other pressures, of which the unstable climate is a massive threat multiplier, strategies that may have saved other life forms historically are no longer available to them: Pikas, for instance—cute little squeaking mammals native to western North America and Asia—may be able to move up a mountain to reach colder climes as the lower elevations get too hot, but if they reach the peak and it gets hot too, well … there’s nothing left for that wingless pika but the bare blue sky. The desert where I live is getting too hot even for arid-adapted wildlife—a lizard that had thrived in Arizona’s Mule Mountains for three million years is now newly believed extinct, and plants from the small acuña cactus to the Seussian Joshua tree are struggling to hang on.

The list of our dependencies on the other beings with whom we’ve coevolved is nearly infinite. So visionary policy is called for to protect those other beings and systems—not only for their intrinsic and cultural value but because they’re our life support, worth far more to our continued welfare intact than liquidated for short-term profit. If the goal is a livable future, for which we need to achieve a paradigm shift from exploitation to conservation, the services these networks of life supply need to be fully and properly valued. Their right to exist has to be enshrined in law.

Both domestically and internationally, species and ecosystems need to be endowed with legal standing to give local and native stewards the tools to save them from the depredations of industry in the short term and sustain them over the long. 

Luckily, bestowing legal standing on extra-human parties isn’t a fanciful idea: The U.S. Supreme Court did exactly that in the 2010 case known as Citizens United, when it declared that corporations were legal persons—a decision that hobbled American democracy but also set a neat precedent for extending legal personhood to nonhuman entities. And corporations are clearly more abstract and disembodied than animals: Just a couple of weeks ago scientists and philosophers from many nations published the New York Declaration on Animal Consciousness, which argues for the likelihood of consciousness in all vertebrates and many invertebrates, including cephalopods and insects.  

[nexionswild]

IN WHICH reader defend bill from micah's mockery.

includes: bill williamsom x reader

content warning: micah is his own warning, but nothong crazy, fluff, bill's real name "marion", no pronouns. [GN]

a/n: bill doesn't get enough appreciation imo.. i mean poor guy everyone bullies him.

word count: 1, 375

You're not the confrontational type.

Like Mary-Beth or Hosea, you like to sit back and relax as you enjoy the songs of the wildlife while reading a nice book about the fantasies of the world or the events of some author's life, and nobody bothered you about it. Aside from drowning yourself in words or games, everyone knew that you know how to handle yourself, perhaps from time to time you had to be the one in distress but it was remotely easy, given the fact that you already got the dirty work done, hence granting the gang members an easy access to get to you. All of that to say that you're not messed with, and despite Micah's barking, do you really care? No, and it infuriates him how boring your reactions were, there was no flavor, no taste. Slowly, his annoying bickering slowly drifted onto Bill, and you've noticed how increasingly loud he's become.

Each times he'd strike a conversation with him, he'd sarcastically reply or straight up mock him while claiming he was just "messing around" when obviously he's desperately pushing all of his buttons to get him riled up and fuming in nothing but pure anger, and fortunately for Micah, he was aiming at a man who's temper is as fragile as a flower. And though Bill knows he shouldn't be easily driven up into madness knowing Micah's intention, he can't help it. He can't just ignore it, why do you think he keeps replying to his mischievous questions? You couldn't help but feel bad for Williamson, all he does is quietly finishing his job then drinking himself to death if not for Micah's teasing, otherwise he'd be playing Dominos or Poker, or make sure he has ammunition and check if his equipment's clean.

Recently, you've been noticing his drinking habits has been progressively worse to the point where he deals with a massive yet agonizing hangover the next morning. You've been trying to help him through it, but being full of himself, he'd often brush it off and claim he'll be fine without bothering you too much. You're a pacifist, and he knows. That's why he doesn't snap at you like he does with others who try to reason with him or smack some sense into that thick brain of his. Today is another day where you sit quietly in your corner as the crackle of the campfire plagues your ears with the laughter and the drunken slurring sentences of the gang. Like usual, you use the light source of the campfire's dancing flames to keep track on what you're reading with a bottle of beer by your side, there's nothing to do around these hours really, so the least you could do is entertain yourself with fancy words and overly detailed description of an item that could be something as simple as a silver spoon.

Usually your mind gets foggy and automatically cancels out noises to focus on your activity, but your concern for Bill has hit a point where you'd willingly stop your reading to look over, then slide your eyes back to the dirty, yellow pages of your novel. "Got yerself a bodyguard, Marion?" Micah's voice spoke up with a harsh tone as he looked over to Bill, who'd been peacefully drinking his whiskey before grunting at the man's new attempt at making his blood boil. You'd relax on your back, watching it unfold to figure out the best moment to put an end to it. Bill stared before taking a deep breath as he was looking in silence. "What's yer deal, Micah? Always pickin' on me for nuthin'... what is it?"

You'd take a sip out of your bottle as you glanced over, switching your gaze to whoever's talking. And soon enough, the conversation slowly built up with tension as Bill's grip on his bottle increased to the point where you could see the cracks forming on the glass as he sneered back. And Micah? He was sickly enjoying it. You could tell by the smile on his face as he seemed to be analyzing Bill's expression while he spat all the possible insults that came up in his head. "I was just playin' around, Marion. Just playin' and yappin' as usual, f'course.. no need to be cryin' bout it, Williamson."

"You little—" Bill got up as he gripped on his holster where his gun hid as a twitch became noticeable on his face, a vein popping out of his neck while his eyes narrowed in fury.

"Micah, you'd be cryin' on your knees if Dutch told you to shut up and walk away. Ya think we ain't seeing ya lickin' his boot like a dog everytime you spoke to him, Mr. Bell?" You'd talk back with nonchalance as you slowly put your bottle down, your brow raising as you tilted your head to the side. It was new, because you never searched for any problems with anyone, and picking a fight with you was quite difficult since you'd quietly brush it off as if whatever they say to you in an effort to get a rise out of you was nothing but a mosquito bite. Micah would stare at you, caught off guard before bursting in malicious laughter. "Have I angered the little slacker? Oh, how wonderful.. my, oh my, how nasty."

"The only nasty thing here is yer mouth runnin' wild. Why don't you put those cocky lips to work and start gettin' it on with Dutch? Since he's so great, and amazing.." you'd quote him. You know damn well how it goes with him and his tendency of pleasing and swaying Dutch by saying the most ridiculous of compliments to gain more affection points from his part, you've been keeping a low profile, yes, but you've been listening to everyone in silence too, it felt like knowing everyone's secret being in your position. Your head cocked to the side as you watched with your bedroom eyes, your lids falling slightly revealing nothing but boredom. You weren't entertained by this, you didn't get the thrill of an argument like Micah. Obviously you weren't as bright as him and he knows. He'd stare for a couple of minutes before laughing, coughs interrupting in as he hummed. "Yer a clown, real funny. Fine.. apologies for touchin' yer prince. Cowpoke." He grunts with a distasteful smile, before eventually walking away. Bill could only watch in dreadful silence before huffing as he groggily sat down on his seat, an exhausted sigh purring out while he messily took a sip from his bottle.

You didn't expect a thank you from his part, and he isn't in the mood to express his pitiful gratitude right now. He'd cough for a while as if to fill the void between the two of you before tilting his head down where his hat would cover half of his face, only revealing his beard and dry lips. His body was burning hot with anger and the alcohol he consumed. "You.. you didn't have to do that, y'know?" He mumbled under his breath, his fingers twitching and fidgeting around his whiskey as he cleared his throat before looking back at you. You'd stare at him in a haze, your brows raising slightly before blinking. "It wasn't for you."

You'd lean on your seat as you spoke. "I was just makin' sure big bad Bill wouldn't be killin' anyone." You said, boring into his eyes as he kept his head slightly low. There was another moment of quiet, but then suddenly you'd hear a choked out laugh, sounding like an overheated kettle as he snorts. You'd chuckle along with him, figuring you've put him at ease for now.

"Fine, I guess you were right for that." He blurted out, looking away for a moment before his eyes dragged back to you. He seemed way more calm and relaxed, it was seeing him that way. Usually he was always grumpy or stayed in his own corner, where he'd be doing nothing but chopping wood or picking a fight with everyone, or even sharpening his knife and prepping his guns.

"Thank you."

He said. You look up, surprised. But a warm smile rushed over. "Sure, you're welcome, Bill."

[nisafari]

The Caracals of Namibia and South Africa Masters Of Survival In The Wild

The Caracals of Namibia and South Africa: Masters of Survival in the Wild Caracals, known for their striking tufted ears and agile bodies, are fascinating wild cats native to the arid landscapes of Namibia and South Africa. These medium-sized felines are highly adaptable, thriving in a variety of habitats, including savannas, scrublands, and mountainous regions. Caracals are primarily nocturnal hunters, relying on their exceptional hearing and keen eyesight to locate prey in the dark. Their diet mainly consists of small mammals, birds, and rodents, which they skillfully stalk and pounce upon with remarkable speed and precision. This hunting prowess, combined with their ability to camouflage in their surroundings, allows caracals to survive in the challenging environments of southern Africa. Please visit https://nisafari.com for travel guides and tips. 

 The day-to-day life of a caracal is a blend of hunting, resting, and territorial behavior. These solitary cats establish and defend their territories, which can range from 20 to 100 square kilometers, depending on the availability of prey. During the day, caracals often seek refuge in dense vegetation or rocky outcrops to avoid the heat and conserve energy. As dusk falls, they become more active, embarking on their nightly hunts. Caracals are also known for their unique vocalizations, which include growls, hisses, and purrs, used to communicate with potential mates or assert dominance. Despite facing threats from habitat loss and human-wildlife conflict, conservation efforts are underway to protect these remarkable cats and their natural habitats in Namibia and South Africa.

 #Caracal #WildlifeConservation #Namibia #SouthAfrica #WildCats #NocturnalHunters #SavannaEcosystem #AnimalBehavior #CatsofAfrica #HuntingSkills  

[olivine-gal]

Spider-Man keeps fighting the same one or two dozen guys, so I came up with a bunch of new villains - info under the cut!

The Red Dragon - human-reptile hybrid from the same technology as the Lizard, albeit retaining his full intelligence and sadism. Mob boss, breathes fire

Blink - failed attempt at recreating the Spot, short-range unstable teleportation ("blink of an eye") and quantum duplication

Cityscaper - guerilla artist who has fallen out of touch with the common people and into madness, constructing elaborate death-traps and bizarre and hazardous pieces

Runt - diminutive mob enforcer with an absurd level of strength and durability, mostly limited by his lack of ambition and preference to dick around

Centipede - genetic engineer betrayed by her employers and made into a guinea pig, turning her into a stretchy, boneless mutant with nothing to lose. Fluctuates between anti-hero and anti-villain

Blue Blood - police officer mad about Spidey being "soft on crime" and uncooperative to cops, turned himself into a human tank with advanced SWAT gear. NYPD refuses to condone his vigilante massacres

Troubleshooter - an "invisible man", specializes in doing tasks for supervillains quickly, quietly, and efficiently. Frequently the only sane man amongst a cast of colorful criminals

Gasbag - a "gas" addition to the solid-liquid-plasma triad of Sandman, Hydro Man, and Molten Man. Transformed into a permanent vapor state by particle shenanigans

Dynamite - mad bomber, does bombings for hire or because she likes it. Cyclops goggle helps magnify for fine construction

Sightline - sniper hit-man with bionic eyes that enhance his vision in every practical way. Deeply disrupts Spidey's typical pattern of fighting in open-air

Bunker - giant fishman created by chemical waste poured into the East River and mutating wildlife. Probably eats people

Acid Bath - mercenary for hire specialized in chemical warfare. Acid sprays, flamethrowers, nitroglycerin explosives, etc

Spookum - looks like a big burly guy in a bedsheet ghost costume. Definitely something much worse. Shows up during lunar eclipses, blue moons, and other nights when the world is a little less real

Moon Man - astronaut given a corrupted neutral training implant filled to the brim with science-fiction. Believes himself to be stranded on an alien planet and with only his advanced spacesuit for protection

Miss Appear - paparazzi reporter with the ability to turn invisible. Technically not doing anything illegal, more of a nuisance for Peter Parker the reporter

Roach Woman - a woman who is also a cockroach. Keeps trying to take over the city with elaborate roach plots, really needs more human friends

Mummy Joe - bonded with a super-adhesive medical tape, able to lash it out and manipulate like a collection of tentacles.

Checkmate - up-and-coming criminal with the ambition of becoming Spidey's new arch-enemy for the fame. Fleet of chess-themed androids

The Corporate Raider - anarcho-capitalist and self-proclaimed defender of the rich and wealthy everywhere. Terrorizes unions, strikes, and whistleblowers with extreme prejudice

Memento - psychologist assigned to work with alien technology wound up a little too close. Now essentially a nervous system with legs, fond of psychically manipulating Spidey and other characters

Gnat - all the proportional abilities of a gnat, at the scale of a gnat. Scarily competent in espionage and heist assistance

Snot - artificial human created to experiment with disease symptoms and treatment, now turned into a walking super-spreader. Can also shoot globs and webs of mucus

The King of New York - fuckboy, self-proclaimed king of New York, and with a set of Superman-like powers only matched in intensity by his stupidity.

Shutterbug - at first a photographer paying supervillains to commit crimes to create exclusive reports for him, later becoming a professional spy for hire.

[spectraspecs-writes]

Manaan - Chapter 130

Link to the masterpost. Chapter 129. Chapter 131.

@averruncusho @ceruleanrainblues @chubbsmomma @darthvendar-blog @80strashbag thank you for reading, you get a tag. @skelelexiunderlord thank you for support, you get a tag.

A/N - yes, I changed the impact of the sonic emitter on the firaxan sharks, but that's because I wanted to make my life easier later. Cope lmao

——–

“You can’t be serious,” Carth says, "You want to go out there with the sharks?”

“I mean, I’d love to not have to,” I say, “but you’re right, this almost definitely has something to do with the machinery, and that’s on the other side of the base. That’s only accessible through the flooded portion of the base. And there’s still two people alive over there, one of them has to know something. We can get environmental suits from storage.” I put out my datapad and consult the map. “And that’s… that way.” I point. “First door on the right.” I lead the way.

The door hangs open, trying to auto-close but the mechanism is impeded somehow. We squeeze through the narrow gap, and find the thing stopping it. One of the base scientists had his hand in the wall panel interrupting the signal and tripping a safety mechanism, and was killed there by one of the deactivated droids, based on the blast scarring. His other hand is wrapped around a round device. Must be important if he held onto it even while dying. The room is dark, but from around a corner I can see a bright flickering light. Something’s still on, then. I should have thought to get my flashlight from the ship. I activate my lightsaber instead, so I at least have something.

The flickering light is the display for a research station. It’s still displaying just fine, the brightness just keeps changing. And there’s a research log still active. Let’s see… Nothing about the current situation with the Selkath, but I see designs and mockups of the round device clutched in the dead man’s hand. A sonic emitter. “This device emits a powerful sonic pulse useful for scaring off or stunning various wildlife,” the notes read, “It normally has an extremely limited range, but in an underwater environment the signal would travel quite a distance. It has proven a useful repellent to several species of firaxan sharks.” Sounds like it could come in handy out on the ocean floor. I go back to the dead scientist and gently pry the device from his fingers. 

I consult my map again. There’s a series of pod-like rooms between here and the envirosuit storage. Four rooms, one with a little hallway room thing jutting off the side and entirely avoidable. And I smell fish. (God, that’s racist, I feel bad for even thinking it, but it… the Selkath have a distinct odor, there’s just no getting around it.) “There are still Selkath in the base, close by.” I pull out my second lightsaber. Carth readies his blaster. Juhani pulls her lightsaber from her belt. We move forward to the next door.

Selkath.

They don’t notice us at first. Three of them, all wandering aimlessly not interacting with each other. Not talking. I won’t strike first. Maybe they’ve recovered? One sees us and screams, and the other two look at us and rush us. Nope, not recovered! One fires a sonic blaster, the other two are unarmed. Striking with their claws. I duck just barely in time and strike with my saber. Meeting flesh. Through the torso, clean. Dead as the saber breaks through. Which feels terrible, he couldn’t even defend himself. I deactivate that lightsaber and the Selkath slumps onto the floor. The other clawed Selkath raises his arm to strike against me, and I slash again with the other lightsaber, cutting off the arm at the shoulder. Carth blasts him before he can strike again, and the force of the blaster bolt knocks him back. Juhani deflects a sonic bolt perfectly, and the third Selkath hits the ground.

I can’t recall fighting an unarmed opponent like this. Maybe with my swords, but this is different. A sword can’t do that kind of damage with such little effort. A sword can break. A sword can be defended against even by an unarmed opponent. Not a lightsaber. I feel sick. And the fish smell isn’t getting any better. I have to figure this out. No one deserves to die like this. “New goal,” I say, trying to catch my breath and at the same time not breathe in the smell, “Get to envirosuit storage without killing anyone else.” I can practically feel it as Carth and Juhani exchange a wary glance. I know, that’s usually out of our control. But there are ways to avoid it. I pull the sonic emitter back out. The report says it scares off wildlife. Maybe it’ll chase away Selkath.

I lay my hand on the next door. Only one Selkath. Makes it a good test. I open the door and immediately activate the sonic emitter. The Selkath stiffens, and when the emitter turns silent, he collapses. But I can still feel him through the Force. Still alive. “Wow,” Carth says, “That little thing packs quite a punch.”

“As long as that punch is non-lethal,” I say, turning it over in my hand. I open the door to the next room and hold out the emitter before I can even get a good look into the room. I hear two Selkath slump to the floor. None others. Double-check my map - just one more room. Envirosuit storage is through the next door. I open it. There are four Selkath, all huddled and clawing at a storage locker. I activate the emitter again, and they all faint. 

Carth and Juhani move past me into the storage room, both going to an envirosuit. Juhani lifts one, pushing her fingers through a massive tear. “This one is not usable,” she says, in awe of the massive tear. Understatement of the year.

“This one’s the same,” Carth says, grabbing another one, “And this one - it’s like they’ve destroyed all the suits.”

I look at the lockers. All in a line, from left to right, the lockers have been broken open, their contents torn apart and spilled onto the floor. All in a line, until you get to the one they were gathered around. After that point, the lockers are untouched. I open the largest locker. “This one’s intact,” I say. I kick the other lockers open - no suits in any of them. “Means there’s only one suit,” I say, “You guys will have to stay behind.” Carth opens his mouth to object. “There’s only the one sonic emitter anyway, it’ll probably work different underwater. You guys are safer here anyway.”

I hear a demented little laugh. Not from Carth. Definitely not from Juhani. Echoing in the locker all the Selkath were gathered around. I gently Force push them to the side and try to open the locker. It won’t budge. “Is somebody out there?” the locker says, “Fishy, fishy, fishy? Coming to eat me, too?” The demented cackle rings out again. “You can't get me, little fishy. Not in here. I'm safe behind my walls.”

“Are you… okay in there?” I say to the locker.

“Oh, yes, yes,” he cackles, “I've got a winning hand right here in this room! These walls and door are six centimeters - no… twelve centimeters! - of durasteel! I'm invulnerable behind my walls! Nobody's getting in here! No fishy, fishy for me!” He cackles again. Then his voice gets low. “When the Selkath went insane and started killing everybody, I locked myself in here! I'm safe in here. Nothing can hurt me in here! No fishy food for me!”

“What made the Selkath insane?” I ask.

“Don't know. Go ask them!” Cackles again. “When the demon screamed it shook every mind in the station. We fell to the ground, but survived. Fishy, fishies, though, they just got hungry!”

Demon? What does that mean? Whatever. “I have this sonic emitter - you can come out and we’ll protect you from the Selkath.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” he whimpers, “That's what the others said. Mercenaries like you. But they're dead. The Selkath ate them! Lunchie-munchie!” Cackles again. “Only the ones left in the south part of the base might still be alive, where the kolto is. Few fishies there! But many, many fishy in between in the water!”

“We’re two Jedi and a Republic soldier. I’d say we can do a fair sight better than mercenaries,” I say.

Cackles again. “Jedi? You're just like the others - fodder for the Selkath. Walking fish snacks. Chomp, chomp, chomp - if you can run you might be fast food!”

Carth lays a hand on my shoulder before I can say anything else. “You’re not going to get through to him,” he says, “The Republic will help him once we restore safe access to the base. We need to move on.”

“Bye-bye!” the locker agrees, “Go look for fishy people. They'll chomp and bite and chomp and bite. Food for fishy - that's you.”

The isolation and trauma have clearly gotten to him, and I’d rather not leave him like this. But Carth is right. We need to move on. We move through the next two rooms, Carth carrying the good envirosuit while I take the lead with the sonic emitter.

At the airlock door, Carth helps me put on the environmental suit and affixes the sonic emitter to my hand so all I have to do is clench my gloved hand to activate it. “Juhani and I will stay here,” he says, “We can defend this area well enough.” I can’t be heard through the helmet, so I just nod my now-massive head. He secures all the seals. Then says, so only I can hear, “Come back to me, okay?” I nod again, because that’s the only way I can communicate, but I wish I could touch his hand more tenderly than the suit would allow. 

He twists open the airlock door. I step in, and look back to him as long as I can as he closes the door behind me. The room begins to fill with water.

[raising-harmony]

Going back on top, got any stories for us from your youthful days? You're certainly not in them anymore so

Yes, insult me unprovoked. That will make me more inclined to answer you.

Whatever. Fine, you may have a story.

Truth be told, I spent most of my early years being quite rowdy and getting nothing done. My parents weren't often around, so I frequently took to the woods for entertainment. Growing up in Opelucid, they weren't but a short walk away.

I tended to linger at the outskirts, knowing there were wild pokémon within and having no means of defending myself, but as time went on, I became bolder with how far I was willing to go. It wasn't as if I really did anything in there; For the most part, I would just admire the scenery, collect leaves and rocks I liked, and chase around the more docile wildlife. Such menial things.. Yet one day, I wound up much further within the forest than I had ever been. It was getting late. I must have been 10 or 11... I'm not quite sure. But if you let your guard down in such a place, it will see fit to twist you around and have you wandering aimlessly forever. All the trees and shrubs start to look the same. The pokémon are watching you warily. It's disorienting.

I walked until my legs burned, and still, I couldn't find my way home.

I sat down on a rotten log for what was only a minute, at which point I heard a girl my age calling out for a companion. I'm certain you would all understand that hearing such a thing at that hour so far into the woods would be confusing; It unsettled me enough that I picked up a large stick for defense, just in case, and began to look for the source.

The greenery only seemed to get denser as I went. I could hear her voice practically next to my ear, and I know she had heard my skulking at this point, as she began to sound rather anxious. I don't remember my reasoning for not just making myself known sooner.

It wasn't until I rounded a large tree that I stumbled upon Cordelia, and she whipped around just as I did, screaming and trying to whack me with a stick. I used my own stick to block it just barely in time, like some sort of silly little duel. Ideals, she scared me. My defense at least gave her pause. She asked who I was and what I was doing out here. I made up a name and told her I was foraging for my mother.

She must have known I was lying, because she stared me down hard enough to root me in place. I wasn't yet very adept at telling lies. Then she replied with something rather strange, perhaps even a little funny, which stood out to me for a long time.

"You blocked me well. You would make a good knight. Are you from another castle?"

What an odd thing to say. I thought she was playing pretend.

We spoke for some time- it was mostly questions, just back and forth, since neither of us could make sense of the other. I don't know how long we went on for, but at some point we began walking in search of her companion.

Eventually, we ran into the pokémon in question, standing next to her father. He had come out to find her. From the look on his face, I thought he may strike me dead, but instead, he directed Cordelia home and walked me to the edge of the forest. He didn't say a word to me. I was able to make it back to my house from there.

[tgrailwar-zero]

98.4% agreed to search for the Trigger Key! RIDER seems pleased!

"I'm glad you decided to agree. Let's go."

RIDER began walking down the waterside, approaching the lush wild jungle that signified the borders of the first Lair Servant.

The wilds were beautiful. Rows and rows of lush trees and wildlife. However, other sensations overwhelmed the pseudo-natural ones around you.

There was a newfound sense of awareness. The burn of your Command Spells tying you to RIDER, as he brandished his sword. This was a point of no return, as RIDER looked around, pushing past dangling branches.

The wilds were quiet, before the faint sound of buzzing filled the air. Three, serpentine entities appeared from the brush, hovering erratically. RIDER nodded.

"And now we're here. It seems as if there's the Lair Servant's welcome party"

He pointed his blade at the hovering Enemy Programs.

"Let's go! These are relatively weak programs, so this is suitable for me to see just what kind of Masters you are!"

Perhaps a more in-depth explanation of combat is in order. A Servant has six statistics. Strength, Endurance, Agility, Magic, Luck, and a final one corresponding to their Noble Phantasm capability.

When an option presents Endurance or 'END', it implies that the Servant will be defending. A Spectacular Success reduces incoming damage completely, a Great Success reduces incoming damage by -2, a Fair Success by -1, and a Rough Success fails to mitigate damage. If an option doesn't present 'END' or 'AGL', then damage will be taken unless there's a Spectacular Success, in which damage will be fully avoided.

Agility or 'AGL' represents the Servant's ability to dodge. With a C-Ranked Agility stat, Constantine can reduce damage by -2 on a Spectacular success, reduce damage by -1 on a Great Success, and he fully takes damage on a Fair or Rough success.

As Constantine has C-Ranked Strength, his average attack will do 2 points of damage on a Great success. It will be fully boosted to 3 points of damage on a Spectacular success, reduced to 1 point of damage on a Fair Success, and do no damage on a Rough Success.

With Constantine's D-Ranked Magic, his average mana-based attack will do 1 point of damage on a Great success, be increased to 2 points of damage on a Spectacular success, and do no damage on a Fair or Rough success. Additionally, he burns 2 points of mana when using a magical ability.

A Servants statistics also come into play regarding actions such as fleeing from a fight, using the environment, or simply hoping to get lucky- where they come into comparison with the statistics of the Servant's opponent. Passive skills, such as Riding or Magic Resistance, may also come into play.

As you find yourself in more encounters, you'll become more aware of what your Servant is and isn't capable of doing on the battlefield. These programs each have one 'health', and exist as a swarm- meaning that three points of damage will get them all! Good luck!

- Servant: Constantine XI

Current Health: 11/11 Current Mana: 5/5

Items: code cast: mp_heal(16); - Recover a small amount of mana.

[veryfancyrat]

So, if you follow theme park news, you may have heard that Disney is going to be ripping out the classic ride Dinosaur from their Animal Kingdom park, and replacing it with an Indiana Jones ride, likely similar to those in Anaheim and Tokyo.

Sorry, Aladar, you're getting evicted.

It seems that most theme park fans would like to see a new Indy ride, but some are upset about losing the dinosaurs.

The thing is... I think you can have both! There are plenty of pulpy adventure stories about a lost world of dinosaurs. In fact, I figured out one way they could do it efficiently... it's what I would do if I were in charge of Imagineering, anyway. You'll recognize most of these effects from other rides (and even some which are just left in place from Dinosaur.) I give you...

Indiana Jones and the Hollow Earth!

The experience begins just like Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Forbidden Eye (the ride out in California): We wind our way through the elaborately-themed queue as it passes through a jungle and into the shade of ancient ruins.

On the cool stone walls, we see Peruvian carvings depicting an enormous cave, where giant humanoid figures offer gifts to much smaller supplicants. But as we go deeper into the ruins, the carvings also begin to depict fearsome reptilian monsters. We come across artifacts which seem to be much too large to be made by regular humans: five-foot-long sandals, for instance, or a cracked soup bowl big enough to sit in. (These could make for good photo ops!)

Eventually, we end up in the safety briefing room, where Sallah informs us (via pre-recorded video) that while Indiana Jones was exploring this temple, he found an entrance to a vast system of subterranean caverns, full of larger-than-life plants and animals, seemingly forgotten by time itself! They go so deep that the researchers have begun joking that the planet must actually be hollow inside. Last week, Indy went in deeper than anyone has gone before, seeking evidence of the Staff of Giants: An artifact that, according to local legend, was forged by the mythically large people who once lived in the caverns, and holds the power to tame the mightiest beast. Unfortunately, Indy never returned from his expedition. Sallah is sure he's fine... wherever he is! But if we should happen to see Indy on our *very safe* private jeep tour of the pre-explored parts of the "Hollow Earth," we'll help him out, won't we?

We board the jeeps, which pass into a carved stone hallway, the walls lit by unnaturally large fluorescent fungi. Freshly-painted signs point out the tour route.

Suddenly, the vehicle shakes violently, and and the floor seems to crumble under us! The lights blink out as we lurch downward--and then out into a large natural cavern, where Indy stands spotlighted on a rock. He tells us that the floor caved in, and now we're all trapped in the Hollow Earth. We need to find a way out, and fast... the wildlife is BIG down here!

We roll from cavern to cavern, menaced by various threats. Enormous glowing bugs jump on rocks, and drop down on us from the branches of ancient trees. A carnotaurus lunges from behind a bush, defending its kill. A huge snake--perhaps a Titanoboa--threatens to strike at the jeep. A giant human skeleton lies sprawled in a clearing, its boney fingers still clutching an ornate silver staff. Its tip seems to crackle with electricity. "It's the Staff of Giants!" we hear Indy yell.

But beasts are not the only threat. Through the trees, in a quiet moment, we see the glimmering of a vast ocean, overshadowed by roiling clouds. Before we can wonder at the impossibility of a storm underground, the clouds begin to flash with lightning. Suddenly, a lightning bolt strikes the cliff next to the jeep, and boulders above us teeter menacingly.

We careen deeper and deeper into the caverns, until finally we come face to face with the carnotaurus again. Indy is there too, waving the staff we saw earlier, trying desperately to scare the carnotaurus away from the jeep. Suddenly, just as all seems lost, a bolt of electricity arcs from the staff and strikes the carnotaurus right on the nose. It rears back and roars in pain as we barrel past it to freedom.

Triumphant music plays as we enter the final cavern, only to see... a whole tribe of giants, accompanied by their pet dinosaurs! Indy is handing the staff to one of them, who gratefully receives the lost weapon. Happy giant children offer up crates of silver jewelry and dinosaur eggs in reward. One last giant strikes the cavern wall with his own staff, and mystical energy swirls, causing a door to open and release you back into the loading area, safe at last. Over the jeep radio, Indy says, "The folks back home will NEVER believe this one!"

Then you exit into the gift shop, where you can buy plushies of the "baby dinosaurs" you received from the giants.

No stealing the merch!

So... what do YOU think is going to be the plot of the new Indiana Jones adventure? I want to see who can come the closest to what we actually get!

[starlessskies94]

Consequence (Joel Miller x OC)

Summary: What if Joel survived his injuries from the Abby and Fireflies attack but ends up with really bad amnesia. He can’t remember his wife, Ellie, or the Outbreak; only before. How will his family bring back the man they once knew?

Pairing: JoelMiller x OC

Note: We're back with Ada and Tommy for this chapter and I've got to say; I like the way they work together and their sibling bond as bro and sis in laws. I have a headcanon that Tommy always wanted a sister when he was little; so now you got one my guy! Hope you enjoy!!

Chapter Twenty Four

Though it took a while to find their way in. Eventually Ada and Tommy found themselves stuck in the darkness with only their flashlights to light the way. It seemed the plan to wait until nightfall had worked. The horde had eventually moved on in search of easier prey. Chasing off after wildlife that had also come out at night to hunt for its next meal. 

To say the abandoned quarantine zone was rather unsettling at night was an understatement. With no streetlights along the roads or storefronts lit up with their open signs hung in the windows, it was like walking through a ghost town. Though with all the bodies of both the long deceased and put down infected littering the floor; it appeared to be an accurate likeness. The shadows seemed to move of their own accord, against the moonlight that hung clearly in the sky. The roads no longer looked like roads anymore, overgrown with an abundance of trees and vines twisting themselves around every building and sprouting from the cracks of the tarmac to the point; the surrounding area looked more jungle than town. Rain water and burst water pipes had run through streets working its way through the decaying structures; leaving nature to craft her own ponds and rivers, bringing with it a long dead old world that was now evolving into something new. The sound of the rushing water did nothing to calm the nerves, and Ada and Tommy were very much still on edge. 

They kept close, both very aware of the fact that neither had any bullets left to defend themselves with; instead taking with them more blunt objects of wood and a lead pipe found in a scramble as they’d made their way inside. It was better than nothing in their opinion.

They moved on, never uttering a word to the other until they came to an abandoned check-in point. Finding bodies of burned infected scattered by the front an old rusted gate. The bodies had long gone cold but as the two shared a look, they both knew it had to be the work of Ellie and Dina. 

They’ve been here. The thought crossed both their minds as they continued on further into the town. It brought with it a sense of relief for Ada. That heaviness in her stomach dissipating even just a little bit, knowing that the girls had made it past the horde and hopefully somewhere safe for the night. She fell back into a steady pace beside Tommy as they walked, hands gripped on both their weapons ready at an instant to strike at any moment. Boots scrapped against the hardened ground, kicking the gravel of loose concrete and crunching dry grass that poked through, in its struggle hide the ugliness of old forgotten roads. 

Breaths echoed in the air that seemed to thicken with tension. Waiting for a screech, a cry or a gut wrenching roar of the infected… But it never came. Silence was all that greeted them. Endless and foreboding. Ada moved to follow her brother in law as he darted down an alleyway, both instinctively keeping their backs against the wall as they moved. And then they heard it. 

A cough. A single cough. 

It stopped them both dead. The anticipation of the silence being shattered had caught them cold. They glanced at one another, Tommy raising his finger to his lips and Ada nodding in understanding as he gestured forward. They made their move, squatting slightly and keeping low as they rushed forward towards the sound. 

The man, around forty years of age, heavy set build and balding slightly, stood with his back to them smoking a cigarette. The two crept up behind, and before Ada could stop herself, stumbled against a shard of glass, smashed from an old car window. The man swiftly turned on his heel at the sound, eyes wide at seeing the two. 

“Oh fuck!” He hissed with hatred in his glare. His hands fumbling for the shotgun strapped to his back, as he moved to aim it at Ada, but Tommy was quicker. Swinging the lead pipe down upon the man's skull with a sickening crack as he fell to the ground. With failing strength the man pulled a blade from his belt; slashing it at Tommy’s middle, the younger Miller quickly sidestepped the attempt as he swung the pipe down over his head over and over. His breath heavy and ragged as he grunted and hissed with every ounce of strength he had in him. The man’s head beaten and crushed, until all that remained was a bloody mess, the splatter marking Tommy’s face as the adrenaline drained from his body in an instant. Letting the bloodied pipe slip from his fingers as he took a step back, he gasped a breath as his chest heaved and burned. 

Ada stood a little shaken for a moment though it quickly passed, as she looked at Tommy. 

“You okay?” She breathed. He nodded weakly. “Yeah. I’m good.” He sighed deeply, leaning over to retrieve his fallen weapon. “Better than him anyway.” He joked darkly with a snicker. Ada couldn't help the breathy laugh that quirked at her lips and exhaled through her nose. She turned to make her way back towards the alley when the sound of his voice called her back. 

“Hey Ada… Check this out.” Tommy hollered after strapping his weapon back onto his backpack, he’d leaned down to check over the dead man’s pockets. But it was the patch worn on his bulletproof vest that had caught his eye. He’d pulled it off the man’s shoulder and threw it to her. She caught it effortlessly, her green eyes narrowing in confusion as she read the letters and stared at the etching of a wolf. 

“WLF? The hell does that stand for??” She wondered. Tommy shrugged.  “No idea, but this bastard must of been pretty fuckin’ important to be this heavily armed.” He said, as he checked over the man’s holsters on his belt. Four pistols, two on each side. A shotgun and sniper rifle strapped to his back too. Wherever the man had come from, he’d obviously been planning to run into a fight. Tommy didn’t waste any time in checking the pistols were loaded before handing two to Ada and taking the other two for himself. 

“Military maybe?” Tommy shrugged again, rising to his feet. Holstering one gun and tucking the other down the waist of his jeans. “If he is; he’s not like any Military person I've ever seen before.” 

“What if he’s ex-Fedra?”

“Whaddya mean??” 

“I mean, every other zone seems to have ended the same as this one… with the residents fighting back against Fedra. What if some of them managed to get away and regrouped to form their own militia?” 

The man pondered it over for a moment; his brows creasing in thought before shrugging once again. “I mean it makes sense. Taking back the town they used to control with the government. I imagine when most of the QZ’s fell, the government high tailed outta the place without a second thought.” Ada nodded in agreement. “Which means there’s more of these bastards around and we need to be careful.” She said, “I just hope the girls haven’t run into em’ yet.” 

With that the two checked themselves over before moving on further down the road. Relieving the dead man of the rest of his weapons, Tommy taking the sniper while Ada had the shotgun. They strode down the street with purpose in their stride before Tommy faltered slightly as he paused in his tracks. 

“Hold on…” He paused. 

“What?”

“If we’re right and there are more of them; then that means they’ll have a base somewhere right? And a base means supplies…” he started, staring at his sister in law with a pointed look. 

“And supplies means…” he trailed off expectantly waiting for her to catch on.  

“Guns. Ammo... I’m with you. But how do we find it?” She finished, crossing her arms over her chest, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. They were both on the same page now. He took a second to survey the area turning on his heel to face her again. His head tilted upwards as she followed his line of sight along the extension of his arm pointing to a building in the distance. 

“We get to higher ground. Get a good lay of the land and we should be able to scope it out with any luck. At least now we’re armed again, we're not running around blind.  But these won’t last long. Especially if we run into any more infected.”  

“Right so… apartment building?”

“Apartment building.” He curtly nodded in agreement as they took off together. 

When they reached the building, dawn was fast approaching. The morning light bursting through the softly painted clouds with warm rays of a red and yellow shade. And though the dawn could be mistaken as perfectly picturesque; both were on full alert. There were fresh footprints along the dusty floor tiles. They made their way through the floors of the apartments cautiously; reaching the top level to find it empty. Though with air clearly disturbed and the couch noticeably slept on. There were empty cans left upon the coffee table and discarded packets of old beef jerky left on the floor. It was evident that someone had been staying in this apartment, though whoever it was had undoubtedly moved on now. 

Ada silently followed Tommy as they made their way to the fire escape that led out onto the roof. Once at the top they took in the view before them. The town was bigger than they’d anticipated. Much bigger. The unmistakable walls of the quarantine were bordering most of it. Holding the crumbling and decaying buildings like caged animals. Though in the distance it was easy to make out a hole in the structure. Most likely blown apart by explosives during the uprising against Fedra. Ada took in the view, her tired eyes scanning every road and alleyway. Every building window and doorway she could make out, knowing Ellie and Dina were out there; below them. Somewhere. Her stomach twisted at the thought, the more it ran through her mind. 

Please be okay. Please be okay.  It repeated on a loop through her head like her very own mantra in a poor attempt to focus on the task at hand. It didn’t work. 

“There.” Tommy announced pulling her from the cacophony of her brain. She looked to where he was pointing. Noticing a banner hanging from a balcony; the same initials and etching marking the sign. 

WLF, the wolf. 

“Hospital. Pretty on the nose don’t you think?” she said sarcastically. Her brother in law chuckled lowly at her words. “Well you know as well as I do Ada, supplies are hard to come by. And where is likely to have the most supplies? A hospital. Shall we?” 

“By all means, age before beauty.” She smirked. The blonde rolled his eyes dramatically as he picked up a plank of wood and laid it across towards the roof on the other side. “Cute…but I’m pretty sure we’re the same age.” he pointed out with a childish huff. 

She scoffed at his sulking. “I stand by what I said, get moving Miller.” 

Tommy paused, his brows rising slightly as he grinned at her words. “Again…you’re also a Miller because you marrie- you know what, never mind.” He dismissed in jest as he took a tentative step forward onto the wood. Ada watched with bated breath as he made his way across, the wood strained and creaked against Tommy’s weight. Dipping lowly in the middle as he shuffled himself over. His heart raced as he heard the wood crack and splinter under his feet. 

“Tommy!” Ada cried. It happened all too fast for him to register. His feet moved of their own accord, twisting and running as the plank snapped and crumbled beneath him. He propelled himself forward, as he felt his body hit solid ground with a heavy and painful thud. He’d grazed his forearms as he held him out instinctively to catch himself. His knees burned from the impact as well as he groaned in pain. Pulling himself to sit up, he twisted to see the damage he’d left in his wake. The plank of wood was gone. He, on one side of the large gap between the buildings and Ada on the other. 

“Shit! Fuck!” he hissed as he dragged himself to his feet. He looked at the gap between them, then down at the ground below. It was a long way down. “Can you jump it?” He asked, already knowing the answer as Ada’s nostrils flared at the absurdity of the question. 

“Of course I can’t fucking jump it, Tommy! Don’t be ridiculous!” He sighed in defeat, cradling the worse of his injured forearms against his chest, turning on his heel and looking out to formulate a plan. “Okay…Alright…You see that radio tower, a few miles east of the hospital. Meet me there, from the looks of it; you should be able to get to it by crossing that river down there. I’ll make my way back down when I can and meet you there before we head out for the hospital.” 

He turned back as the wind picked up, whipping around him. Swaying his tired frame against the heavy gales. Fluttering through his tied hair and pulling at his jacket. Ada took a moment to think through Tommy’s plan as she stared out to the path below. 

“That okay with you?” He prompted when she still didn't answer. She shrugged nonchalantly. “I guess it’ll have to be.” She called back. “If neither of us makes it by tomorrow morning, then we both assume something is wrong?” He nodded, turning back to take one last look at the hospital in the distance. “I’ll see you soon then. Be safe.” He said. Ada sent back a firm nod as she began making her way to the fire escape to climb back down. 

“You too.” 

And with that, the two parted ways. 

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from the LA Times:

The California Fish and Game Commission has formally recognized the Mojave desert tortoise as endangered.

The designation, granted Thursday, is the latest in a long series of steps to try to protect the dwindling population of the desert creature, which biologists say is heading toward extinction.

The tortoise was designated as threatened under the California Endangered Species Act in 1989 and as threatened under the Endangered Species Act in 1990. In 2020, Defenders of Wildlife, Desert Tortoise Council and Desert Tortoise Preserve petitioned to change the tortoise’s status to endangered, which would give it higher priority and funding for conservation measures such as habitat protection and recovery efforts.

The commission then granted temporary endangered species to the desert tortoise while it considered adding it permanently to the list.

A recovery plan was created in 1994, and then revised in 2011 after there were issues implementing the recovery strategies.

Between 2001 and 2020, population densities in tortoise conservation areas went down by an average of 1% per year in the Colorado Desert and Eastern Mojave Recovery units, according to a February 2024 California Department of Fish and Wildlife report.

The minimum density for the tortoises to remain viable is 3.9 adults per square kilometer, according to the report. Only 2 out of the 10 designated tortoise conservation areas currently meet that threshold.

Sadly, California’s state reptile — formally Gopherus agassizii — is hurtling toward extinction. Vehicle strikes, urban encroachment, hungry ravens, military maneuvers, disease, drought, extreme heat, wildfires, illegal marijuana grows and development of massive solar farms are all pushing the species to the brink.

The tortoises live in the rocky foothills north and west of the Colorado River in California, Arizona, Utah and Nevada. They feed on grasses, cacti, herbs and wildflowers.

They hibernate for up to nine months each year and are most active from March to June and September to October. The sleep pays a longevity dividend — the tortoises can live for 50 to 80 years.

[comicsart3]

Jann of the Jungle is without doubt my favourite of the postwar “jungle woman” titles of the 1940s and 1950s. For me, Jann is similar to Lorna the Jungle Queen, who has featured several times in this blog, in that she is less savage that Sheena, Rhula or Judy; more conventional than Tiger Girl or Cave Girl, but not a fully paid up member of the establishment like Nyoka. Inevitably a white woman, Jann started out as an American trapeze artist and animal trainer called Jane Hastings. Relocating to the the Congo, in search of a jungle heroine ancestor called “Jann”, Jane literally “goes native” adopting her grandmother’s name and takes to the jungle life, respecting and befriending the local African tribes as well as developing an uncanny rapport with the jungle wildlife. Like Lorna, Jann also becomes a proto-environmentalist, militantly defending the jungle way of life from assorted American and European poachers, diamond smugglers, renegades and occasional communist spies. Unlike Lorna however, Jann’s love interest is the rather hapless photographer and film maker, Pat Mahoney, who more often that not is the guy in distress who has to be rescued by his dominant girlfriend: quite unlike the sexist lunkhead Greg Knight poor Lorna is saddled with.

What I like about Jann is her strength, her feminism and her compassion. She always strikes me as an authentically female character, although written by a man. She never requires validation from, or rescue by, a male character and is a constant source of order in the jungle, whether that is through thwarting evil schemes by men who wish to exploit or distort nature, by utilising her peace-making skills to prevent inter-tribal conflict, or calming the animal kingdom when disturbed by human mischief or natural disasters. Jann, with her flowing black hair and sometimes terrifying primal stare, was often superbly illustrated too. The page featured here is from a story that is an example of many of the jungle woman’s traits mentioned above. I will probably post the whole story in the future and Jann will definitely make many more appearances in this blog.

Jann’s adventures appeared in all ten issues of Jungle Tales from 1954 to 1957, commencing with Jungle Tales #1 (September 1954) and were reprinted in her own title published by Atlas Comics. The stories were written and illustrated usually by Don Rico and Jay Scott Pike. The page featured here is from the story Killers of the Swamps! which appeared in Jann of the Jungle Vol 1, #17 (1957)

[laranjaninja]

Hi! A disclaimer: I'm not a biologist. I'm a pharmacist in a center for poison control. I have no formal education when it comes to wildlife, all the information relating to snake behavior I've learnt solely pertains to what is relevant to discuss with a doctor or nurse when a patient comes in after the biting already happened. Most of my knowledge comes from the epidemiology of snakebites, wound patterns and what the patients themselves tell me about the moment the accident happens. So, I'm bound to get things wrong, since it's outside my field of expertise. Not a good enough excuse to talk shit on the internet, I know, but still.

I tend to use "territorial" when explaining their behavior solely because when interacting with the public, most of them outside this field of study, a lot of people have this notion of snakes being "evil" or attacking for no reason. I find this word works well enough to precede a lengthier explanation: when you're in their space, they'll feel the need to defend themselves, etc etc. It may not be the most appropriate, but our biologist never corrected me, so I never felt the need to reformulate my wording. As long as the snake isn't being villified or killed needlessly, I'm good.

Also, I frequently have to compare their behavior with Micrurus sp., a fellow venomous snake in the region, whenever I have to act as a science educator. Micrurus are way tinier and more shy than Bothrops, and we find that they're way more likely to flee the scene rather than assume a striking pose - at least way more likely than Bothrops snakes. It's just to drive the point home: Bothrops are more likely to bite in self-defense than Micrurus are, and this plays a role into why >90% of snakebites are due to Bothrops (besides the whole talk about habitat, appearance, etc etc) in our region. While my explanation is not 100% correct, the people I give this talk to are either little kids, teenagers or random people that have little to no knowledge about venomous animals. As soon as they ask anything that isn't surface level, I call the biologist over to properly explain what I couldn't/correct me on what I say, so I'm pretty sure they aren't going home with a scandalously wrong idea about snakes. This is also a personal blog, not a science-related one, so I don't think very much about what I type and post if it isn't pharmacology-related.

Regarding the dry bites: Again, I'm not a biologist, all information I've gathered comes from treating patients after the bite already happened, so I wasn't there to observe what actually happened, but what I tend to see with Bothrops sp. is that dry bites don't happen often. Most of the time we have a history of a single bite being felt and only two teeth marks, with venom already taking action: Around ~80% of the time there's signs of proteolytic action, sometimes there's discreet hemorrhagic action, and even if there are no local symptoms their blood exams show something wrong. That's not something we see happening so often with Micrurus sp., so I assume this doesn't happen with every venomous snake.

So, my educated guess is that with most Bothrops sp. accidents, venom innoculation already happens on the first bite. Again, I don't have literary references to back it up, only clinical experience.

I don't have anything to say about the methodology except that the species used, Bothrops jararaca, isn't arboreal as far as I know and I've never encountered an accident with them that didn't happen on the floor, so I don't think there's an issue with placing them on the floor to test it out. Pretty cool to find out the issues with conducting an experiment this way, though!

Also, english is not my first language, so if it anything sounds confusing or weird then that's probably why.

Submitter comment: I'd like to submit this '[s]tudy of defensive behavior of a venomous snake as a new approach to understand snakebite' not for it's topic (worth studying!) but for it's insane methodology, which... well, I'll just let the researcher speak for himself:

[Q: Why did you decide to do this experiment?

A: Snake behavior has been generally neglected as a field of research, especially in Brazil. And most studies don’t examine what factors make them want to bite. If you study malaria, you can research the parasite that causes the disease—but if you don’t study the mosquito that carries it, you will never solve the problem. Up until now, the popular wisdom was that the jararaca would only attack if you touched it or stepped on it. But that was not what we found.

Q: Why did you need to be the victim?

A: The best way to do this research is to put snakes and a human together. In this case, the human was me. We put the snakes inside a ring on the floor of our lab until they got used to it, then I stepped in wearing special protective boots. I stepped close to the snake and also lightly on top of it. I didn’t put my whole weight on my foot, so I did not hurt the snakes. I tested 116 animals and stepped 30 times on every animal, totaling 40,480 steps.]

From the recent (aptly named) interview: Researcher steps on deadly vipers 40,000 times to better predict snakebites