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raccoonfallsharder · 5 months ago

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the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. part four. south dakota.

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angst, comfort, friendship, & fluff for @hibatasblog rocket & wanda | part 4/7 | word count: 1864.

rocket and wanda get in a fight.

During a watch party for Avengers: Endgame on Twitter, Markus revealed the idea to team Wanda with the Guardian of the Galaxy captain actually made it into several versions of the film's script. "We had whole drafts with Wanda on a road trip with Rocket," Markus wrote, "but after the Vision plot in Infinity War, nothing we came up with was anything but wheel spinning for her character." CBR

They don’t stop until Rapid City. Wanda looks like she might actually be ready for a nap — her firestorm-eyes somehow blunted by exhaustion — and Rocket himself could go for a few drinks, which is apparently not a thing you’re allowed to do if you’re in a moving vehicle in this corner of Terra.

Stupid, he’d scoffed at the witch. M’not even the one working the frickin’ pod.

Car, she’d corrected mildly, and she still hadn’t let him have a drink. He’d thought about swiping some booze at one of the so-called rest-stops, but then he’d felt all twisted-up inside about sneaking a drink when it was clearly something she didn’t want him to do. In some ways, she reminds him of Gamora — too serious, carrying way too much for her skinny baldbody shoulders — and the thought of fucking around with her rules when she’s got so few of ‘em just makes him feel small and low.

Sometimes he misses the days when screwing with someone brought him twisted shreds of meanspirited joy.

Time to be the captain, he thinks bitterly.

By the time they find a hotel with a vacancy that doesn’t look like a shithole — not that he minds shitholes, of course, they kinda feel like home to him; but Wanda’s muttering something about bedbugs and reminding him that Natasha’s paying — well, by then, he’s a little worried he’s not gonna get a drink after all. There doesn’t seem to be a bar within reasonable walking distance — not that he can see. But when they check in, he can see from the corner of his eye that there’s a bar attached right to the frickin’ lobby, and he thinks maybe Terra doesn’t completely suck after all.

The witch is so exhausted that it actually doesn’t take long for her to drift off this time — at least, not by his standards. He can hear her heartbeat suddenly thumping her awake every few minutes for the first half-hour or so — but eventually, her stifled breaths of wakefulness spread out and smooth over.

It’s not that he’s trying to sneak out. He hasn’t done that since — well, since Pete was around, and that was mostly just to fuck with an easily-annoyed Star-Lord. Really — and Rocket would never admit it if asked — he’s pretty sure that, like himself, the witch finds it easier to sleep when she’s not alone.

So he putters around, quietly working on a series of tiny linked infrasonic mines made from some scraps he’d squirreled out of Nat’s sound system and a pocketful of things called earbuds he’d swiped at one of the fancier rest-stops. Once he’s sure Wanda’s asleep, he scrawls a note for her — hoping he’s remembering the written Terran language Pete had insisted on trying to teach the Guardians before everything went to hell. Rocket had picked up a fair amount of it, even if he’d pretended disinterest.

He wishes he hadn’t been such a frickin’ dickhead about it.

witch - goin to lobby bar. see you in mornin. r

He snags one of the access cards out of the flimsy paper envelope that the front desk had issued them, and carefully eases the door shut behind him. Currently, the plan is to let the poor witch sleep, and to get so wasted while she does it. He’s been sober for cycles now, and he frickin’ deserves it.

Down the hall he goes, whistling a jaunty tune, tail swinging casually behind him. On the way past the ice machine, the door of another room opens. Some baldbody woman looks out, then drops her eyes to his. She blinks, goes white, and closes the door right back up again. He shrugs — weird — and hops in the elevator. He ain’t a fan of the little crack between the floor of the hotel and the little metal box, dropping down countless stories to the basement below. Don’t Terrans know how to make any safe tech? He tries not to think about being in a deathtrap while he hits the button labeled G, which Wanda had explained was for ground floor.

On four, the elevator pauses and a man nearly steps in before noticing Rocket. The interim captain of the Guardians of the Galaxy offers a friendly, nonthreatening mock salute.

“Hey, guy.”

The man goes white, and steps back out of the elevator, suddenly gripping his messenger bag in front of his belly. Rocket frowns as the doors slide shut.

Terrans are so frickin’ weird, he thinks again.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, and Rocket grins at the sight of the bar, with all its glass bottles reflecting molasses-brown shadows and amber light.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he murmurs, and strolls across the tiled floor and through the little entryway. The bar is nearly empty — perfect for penance-drinking. He leaps delicately onto a stool at the bar. “I’ll take the hardest thing you’ve got,” he tells the bartender — a slender humie with thick, darksilver hair. The man blinks at him, eyes growing wide and face turning to ash. “The whole bottle,” the captain clarifies, suddenly recalling that Terran humies tend to distill some of the weakest liquors in the galaxy.

“I — I don’t think I can do that,” the Terran says thinly. His eyes flicker over Rocket, ears to tailtip.

Rocket’s brow pleats. “Huh? Why not?”

“Uh,” the bartender says, eyes siding nervously to one side, “we don’t serve… pets at the bar…”

It takes a minute for Rocket to be sure he’s understood correctly. His lip peels back from his teeth and he catches himself at the start of a seething hiss when the man shrinks back.

Terrans are just morons, Rocket reminds himself. You’re s’posed to be the captain now. Of the Guardians of the frickin’ Galaxy. A good guy.

Hang onto your frickin’ temper.

“Dude,” he manages to grind out between sharp teeth. “I ain’t a frickin’ pet.”

“Wild animal, then,” the bartender mumbles, eyes nearly as big as Mantis’ had been, but much less kind. It sends a spear of leaden regret right through the fucked-up, half-shredded muscle of Rocket’s heart.

That chick with the antennae, he’d called her. Why’s he always gotta be such a dickhead?

For once, he tries not to turn that pain outward, even though it’s always so much easier. Still, he can’t help but feel his fists curl and his ears flick back, flattening against his skull. “How many wild animals do you know that talk?” he asks the humie behind the bar, trying to be reasonable. “I’m a frickin’ Guardian of the Galaxy. An honorary Avenger or whatever. I fought Thanos for you assholes.”

I lost my whole family for you.

The bartender begins backing away, palms raised in surrender. “Look, I don’t know anything about you being an Avenger, but if you’re not a service animal, I don’t think you can even be in the bar—“

Rocket feels his eyes go round and his spit go sour. The fur on his back and neck and arms splays wide, and his tail puffs to twice its normal size. “A. What?”

The bartender looks like he’s going to cry. “I don’t know, man! For all I know, you could be rabid—“

“I ain’t rabid,” Rocket snarls, rising to his feet on his barstool. “I get my frickin’ shots—“

“—and we don’t serve raccoons!”

His jaw clicks shut. The sharp electric-shock of the word burns every nerve and short-circuits his brain, and all he can think is how much he’d give up for Pete to call him that shit-name again.

“What’d you call me?”

He launches himself over the bar and lands on the mirrored shelf behind it, spraying bottles across the narrow space while the Terran shrieks and cowers. Glass and booze explode against the tile while Rocket spins and hooks his hands into claws, ready to rend.

“I’m gonna frickin’—“

He’s springing through the amber and blue shadows when strands of light, as glowing-crimson as his own warning-beacon eyes, loop around his waist and tug him back, suspending him in midair. He tears at the gossamer-fine threads, but they slip through his fingers like mist.

“Rocket.”

He bares his teeth and glares upward.

The witch.

She strides across the lobby, smudged and tired, her red-star eyes spiraling and spilling molten fire. Her hair’s all tangled from whatever brief sleep she’d gotten, and her face looks white and pinched and pained. She must’ve woken, some part of him notices — smothered under the heat of his fury, his lashing tail and kicking legs. She must’ve woken, and noticed he was gone, and seen his note.

She looks concerned.

The front desk staff flinches away from where they’d been watching the scene unfold in the bar.

“Rocket,” she says gently. “Stop.”

“I will, sweetheart,” Rocket promises earnestly, still twisting and tearing at her threads of power. “Swear I will. Just lemme take care of this one jackass first—“

“No,” she says, stepping up next to wear he’s suspended, her face just a few inches from his. Her magic pulls him gently over the bar, closer to herself. “He’s not worth it.” She looks around the lobby, and some distant part of Rocket wonders how such a volcanic stare can suddenly look so utterly cold and remote. Is his own eyeshine is picking up the reflection of her light and throwing it back at her? He can picture it: four firestorm-eyes lighting up the entire hotel lobby.

“Nothing in this place is,” she adds icily, and the ends of her hair begin to flicker and float in a wind he can’t feel. His instincts suddenly shudder and go still: the freeze element of a classic flight-or-fight reaction. Something deep under his fur acknowledges the pure threat of her. The witch’s voice is dark, and crackling with raw red lightning. Something at the base of his spine recognizes it as the most dangerous sound he’s ever heard, and his ears flatten in alarm, puffed tail suddenly tucking in against his inner calf. The silk strands of magic lower Rocket gently until his feet rest on the surface of the bar, but they don’t release him — not yet. Never mind that he’s not fighting anymore.

“You are a fool,” she tells the bartender, turning her molten eyes toward the baldbody still cowering behind the bar. She lifts a hand to point at Rocket. “This person is more than just an Avenger. He has saved the entire galaxy — a number of times. In all likelihood, he has saved you. Personally.” Her eyes skim the weeping bartender disdainfully, then flick dismissively over the front desk staff and the two other patrons Rocket hadn’t even noticed, hiding near a potted tree that reminds him too much of a young Groot.

“He’s no animal,” she tells them in that terrifying, midnight-voice. Honestly, Rocket wouldn’t blame any of them if they’d wet themselves. His own bladder suddenly wants to let go and it’s only his superior frickin’ aversion to embarrassment that keeps his body under control.

“He deserves your deepest respect, and your deepest gratitude,” she tells them. Her eyes, still haloed in red radiance, hold onto the bartender.

“Now pour him a drink.”

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ikibli · 3 months ago

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Speedster Biology 101: Senses

Vision

Speedsters don’t have backwards retinas, and thus don’t have a blind spot where the ocular nerve is.

They also have better perception of motion and better peripheral vision, as well as the ability to change the focus of their attention without moving their eyes. As a result, they tend to either turn their entire head to look at something with their central vision or not move their eyes at all and simply shift their attention to something in their peripheral vision.

Otherwise, their vision is human standard.

They have nictitating membranes(which are under voluntary control), and their involuntary blinking is less frequent and uses the nictitating membranes instead of the upper and lower eyelids.

Their upper and lower eyelids can be closed and opened voluntarily, and fall shut automatically when asleep or unconscious.

The nictitating membrane closes reflexively when startled or something moves quickly near their eyes, much like a human’s blink reflex. It also closes when running, or when otherwise excited. (The Speed Force crossed a few wires- speedsters instinctively close their nictitating membranes and (when extremely emotional) start holding their breath when excited, scared, aroused or happy.)

Hearing and Speedsense

Speedsters’ hearing has been mashed into their speedsense- they interpret some motion as sound, and some sound as motion. It’s more acute and discriminatory than a human’s, but it’s only slightly above peak human. They can also hear ultrasonic and infrasonic sounds- much of speedtalk and their involuntary vocalizations is ultrasonic.

Their speedsense allows them to feel vibrations and (vaguely) air currents near them, as well as motion as a discrete concept without any carrier.

This allows them to judge speed and trajectory finely enough to dodge attacks they can’t see or identify people based on their gaits, and is closely linked enough with their proprioception that they can adjust their gait and stance both consciously(such as to mimic someone else) and unconsciously(such as to balance on a ledge or walk on a slippery surface).

The ear canals of speedsters have skin flaps that seal them shut when running, swimming or their hearing is overstimulated. Unlike the nictitating membranes, they only close involuntarily.

Smell and Taste

Speedsters do have a sense of taste, but they don’t have a sense of smell, since their nasal passages were redesigned to accommodate constant, simultaneous inhales and exhales(see Respiration) and the Speed Force saw no point in figuring out how to add it back since they can eat almost anything organic safely and are immune to 99% of toxins.

Their sense of taste is also a lot less sensitive than a human’s. They basically just taste the rough composition- most things with similar nutritional contents taste identical, and they can’t taste seasonings or spices. They have a lot more types of taste receptors since they don’t have a sense of smell but still need to be able to tell what’s in food.

This means that they taste the nutritional content, not anything subjective. Dark chocolate doesn't taste like "somewhat bitter, quite sweet, quite chocolatey", it tastes like "large quantities of sucrose, saturated fat, monounsaturated fat, moderate quantities of complete protein, carbohydrates, low quantities of caffeine, theobromine, calcium, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium, lutein/zeaxanthin, vitamin A".

They don’t really care about the taste of things, only the texture, and even that not so much. Their cooking tends to be absolutely terrible by non-speedster standards, even when they’re following a recipe, since they tend to burn or undercook it out of impatience and completely ignore the existence of seasoning.

The nasal passages and throat have skin flaps that seal while running, swimming or holding their breath. Much like the ear flaps, they only close involuntarily.

Pain

Speedsters have a ridiculous pain tolerance thanks to a higher threshold to feel it at all- otherwise, running would be quite painful since their healing factor is constantly repairing small muscle tears and microfractures.

As a result, they tend to ignore wounds after they’ve been initially inflicted. The fact that their healing also suppresses further pain after it starts makes this tendency worse.

#speedster biology 101 #speedster headcanons #flash #dcu #dc headcanon #speedster biology #headcanon #not a reblog

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princetonuniversitypress · 2 years ago

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Listening to the tree of life

By Karen Bakker

Listening to nature is an ancient art. But for most of human history, our ability to listen to other species was constrained. Humans are unable to hear many of the myriad sounds made by other species. Bats are some of the most talkative creatures in the animal kingdom, but their ultrasonic cries are largely above human hearing range. Elephants and whales are some of the loudest creatures on Earth, but their low frequency infrasonic calls are inaudible to the naked human ear.

Discoveries of non-human sound in the 20th century were controversial. The scientists who discovered bat, elephant, and honeybee vocalizations were by turns laughed at, sworn at, shaken by the lapels at conferences, and deprived of funding. Many of their colleagues held to the view that most creatures neither made nor heard sound. As it turns out, however, Western scientists were the ones that were hard of hearing.

Using digital devices no larger than a smartphone, scientists are now eavesdropping on Earth, from the Arctic to the Amazon. Digital listening networks are being installed, some the size of a small pond, others stretching across entire oceans. These recording devices listen discreetly and continuously, even at night, across the full range of sonic frequencies and in places that are difficult for humans to reach. The recordings confirm that the natural world is alive with sounds made by animals, insects, and even plants.

By using artificial intelligence to analyze the tsunami of bioacoustics data now being generated, scientists are learning some remarkable things. Entirely new species have been discovered; in the depths of the Indian Ocean, a new population of blue whales previously unknown to science was revealed by its unique songs. Species previously thought to have gone extinct have been heard, giving hope to conservationists; a camera can only spot animals walking down the path, but a digital recorder hears them hiding in the bushes.

Scientists have also begun to use digital technologies to decode non-human vocal communication. Deciphering individual bat sounds from the cacophony of a cave is impossible for a human listener but relatively easy for a trained artificial intelligence algorithm. Using digital bioacoustics, researchers have found an expanding list of species that refer to one another with individual names (dolphins, belugas, and bats). Some species also use specific referential signals, just like humans use words. Elephants have specific vocal signals for “honeybee” and “human”, and their vocalizations are so nuanced that specific signals are used to differentiate between threatening hunters and non-threatening passersby. Turtles utter unique vocal signals at the moment before they hatch, which scientists believe are used to coordinate the mass births for which they are famous. These findings lend weight to long-debated, controversial claims about the existence of language in non-human species.

Even more astonishing, scientists have demonstrated that species without any apparent means of hearing are also responsive to sound. Coral and fish larvae navigate across miles of open ocean to healthy reefs and show a preference for their home reefs. Although scientists do not yet know how, these tiny creatures imprint on the sonic signature of their natal reef at the moment of their birth, like a marine lullaby.

Other experiments demonstrate that some plants make infrasonic sounds at frequencies audible to insects and bats. In one fascinating experiment, flowers increased their production of nectar when exposed to the sound of buzzing bees, flooding themselves with sweetness as if in anticipation. In another experiment, plant seedlings grew their roots towards the sound of running water, even though no moisture gradient was present.

Non-humans communicate complex information through sound. Does this mean that, one day, humans may perhaps converse with other species? Digital technologies may provide an answer to the question. Scientists are now using artificial intelligence to attempt to break the barrier of interspecies communication. One team is building a dictionary in East African Elephant. Two other teams are working on Sperm Whalish. Google Translate does not feature Western Australian Dolphin yet, but perhaps one day it will.

Like many digital innovations, this research is generating controversy. While digital bioacousticians often work with citizen scientists via crowdsourcing apps, Big Tech companies are also involved in acoustic data harvesting. Large audio datasets of non-humans are useful for testing natural language processing algorithms, but this often occurs without the usual ethics protocols applied to human data. A related issue is data ownership. Who owns the data, particularly on Indigenous traditional territories on which environmental data is often gathered without consent? Indigenous data sovereignty is now being asserted around the world, shifting our understanding of environmental data rights, privacy, and ownership.

Applications of bioacoustics are also of concern. Conservationists laud the innovative use of bioacoustics to measure ecosystem health, monitor endangered species, and even protect national parks by detecting and fending off poachers. But others warn of the dangers of eco-surveillance capitalism, which poses a risk of human bycatch; as scientists build global listening networks for environmental purposes, will they also eavesdrop on human conversations? And some innovators are attempting to use our newfound knowledge to command and even domesticate previously wild species. Will bioacoustics create a new frontier for the accumulation of nature, mediated by digital technologies?

As humanity is awakening to the resonant mysteries of non-human sound, we are simultaneously becoming aware of an unsuspected threat. The catastrophic impacts of noise pollution on living organisms—particularly in aquatic environments—has been demonstrated by a spate of studies in recent years. Whales and dolphins, birds and bats suffer from mechanical and industrial noise, which reduces their ability to feed and navigate, communicate and mate. Even species like shrimp and seagrass are affected. This should be unsurprising, given the well-recognized impacts of noise on human health: increased stress, cardiovascular risks, even dementia. The growing cacophony of noise pollution is emerging as our era’s greatest unrecognized menace to human and environmental health. The silver lining is that it is easy to reduce noise pollution, and the impacts are positive, significant, and immediate.

What will digital bioacoustics teach us? Its implications are both practical and philosophical. We can use digital bioacoustics to protect non-human species from harm, but we can also connect with non-humans in new ways. As we begin listening anew across the Tree of Life, we are realizing that our fellow non-humans have more to say to us than we have previously suspected. This challenges deep-rooted assumptions about complex communication in non-humans, our definition of language, and the relationship between humans and our fellow Earthlings.

Karen Bakker is a professor at the University of British Columbia, and earned her PhD from the University of Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar. She is the recipient of numerous awards, including an Annenberg Fellowship (Stanford University), a Guggenheim Fellowship, and a Radcliffe Fellowship (Harvard University). An avid gardener and the mother of two daughters, she lives in Vancouver.

#nature #@nature

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gallifreyinstituteforlearning · 4 months ago

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Can Gallifreyans or Time Lords understand what an Earth cat is saying? I would love to get a translator for my kitty

Can Gallifreyans or Time Lords understand what an Earth cat is saying?

🧠 Advanced Hearing Abilities

Gallifreyans, with their superhuman hearing range from around 12Hz to 30kHz-ish, can perceive sounds that are inaudible to humans. This includes both infrasonic sounds, like avalanches and earthquakes, and ultrasonic sounds, like the whirring of electronics. So, if your cat’s meows include any high-frequency components, a Gallifreyan would definitely pick up on them.

🐱 Feline Communication

Now, let’s talk cats. While cats primarily communicate through body language and scent, they also use a variety of vocalisations to convey different messages. Here’s how a Gallifreyan might handle it:

Meows: Cats use meows to communicate with humans, each varying in pitch and duration to indicate different needs or emotions. Gallifreyans would pick up on the subtle nuances in these meows much better than humans, who need lots of scientists to work that out.

Purring: Cats purr for various reasons, including being content, self-soothing, or even when they're in distress. Gallifreyans could likely differentiate these contexts by the sound’s frequency and intensity.

Hisses and Growls: These sounds indicate fear, aggression, or discomfort. A Gallifreyan’s acute hearing would easily detect these warning signals.

Ultrasonic Communication: Cats, particularly kittens, can produce ultrasonic vocalisations that are beyond the range of human hearing but well within a Gallifreyan's capabilities. These sounds are often used to communicate with their mothers or to express distress.

😸 Doctor Wholittle

Because Gallifreyans can hear higher frequencies, they can also understand some forms of animal communication without artificial support. For example, they can comprehend dolphin calls by recognising how certain sounds relate to specific moods and messages.

A Gallifreyan’s superior control over their larynx means they have excellent imitation abilities. So, if they spent enough time practising, they might be able to mimic the sounds of a cat, potentially allowing for a rudimentary form of 'conversation'.

🏫 So...

While Gallifreyans might not understand every nuance of a cat’s speech (let’s be honest, even cats don’t always know what they want), their advanced hearing and vocal abilities would allow them to get a sense of a cat's conversation and respond.

Can Gallifreyans purr?: If Gallifreyans can purr, and the social implications of purring.

What could be some biological traits of Gin-Seng cats?: Looking at who the Gin-Seng cats are, their biology, and their place on Gallifrey and in society.

Factoid: Do Gallifreyans share any biology with cats?

Hope that helped! 😃

Any purple text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →😆Jokes |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

#doctor who #gil #gallifrey institute for learning #dr who #dw eu #gallifrey #dw meta #gallifreyans #ask answered #whoniverse #gil biology #gallifreyan biology

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transingthoseformers · 5 months ago

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What about mech mating calls? An infrasonic sound or a ping through special network made while a mech is in heat or just seeking a partner for a casual frag. For someone it's a quick and easy way to find a mech to mess around with and for others, not so popular and attractive, it's just voicing their desperation so maybe someone will take pity on them.

Hmm, interesting!!

#valveplug #tf worldbuilding?#I'm especially feeling the ping suggestion #as it makes me want to think more about that special network #is it purely mech made or is it inherent to Cybertronians?#I'm reminded of the Signature series where all mecha were on the same connected network with pinging and firewalls and all that #i still love that fic series #i need to read the newest chapters

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captainswaglord500 · 7 months ago

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Pushantan/Rotlen

Kingdom: Animalia

Phylum: Chordata

Subphylum: Vertebrata

Infraphylum: Gnathostomata

Clade: Placodermi

Clade: Antiarchi

Clade: Euantiarcha

Clade: Xenodontimorpha

Class: Xenodontida

Order: Prenocaudata

Family: Phrynorhynchidae

Genus: Phrynorhynchus

Speices: P. apintajara (“toad beak of Apintajara" [/apiⁿtəd͡ʒarə/, a shapeshifting demon in the local folklore])

Ancestral species: possibly Bothriolepis ornata

Temporal range: late Miocene to recent (6.5 mya - present)

Information:

Though this creature may look cute and innocent on the exterior, do not let that fool you, as P. apintajara is actually a highly-aggressive predator. A monstrous, terrestrial antiarch-derived placoderm competing with the likes of theropods and pseudosuchians for the niche of apex predator, this creature is exceptionally territorial and does not readily tolerate other large predators, readily attacking on sight and regularly destroying the eggs and nests of other large predators if it comes across them. Lightweight in build, this creature is limber, flexible, and quick on its toes, able to run down prey which would tire out similarly-sized theropods with ease. The second-largest largest member of its clade, the xenodonts or xenodontians (class Xenodontida, “strange teeth” in reference to the sharpened bony plates in its mouth) and the only obligate carnivore within it, this creature’s bony mouth plates can shred through bone like a cleaver and pierce the armor of even some of the most well-defended herbivores. Primarily a sound-based predator, this creature’s eyesight is actually relatively poor, instead using its peculiarly-shaped gill-like pinna to help locate the point of origin for sounds in its environment and pinpoint prey in the dense thicket. In fact, this species’ hearing is superb, able to hear infrasonic frequencies across long distance.

To aid in blending in with its surroundings, the pushantan has two distinct color morphs, one found in the far northern jungles and lush alpine forests it prefers and the other in the northern dry forest regions it sparsely inhabits. The former tends to have a green and gray body with black bands and stripes on its legs and a lime green throat pouch with black highlights while the latter tends to have orange backs with yellow flanks and a red throat pouch but still the same black bands and stripes. Though it prefers inland forest ecosystems, coastal populations are a notable phenomenon, in part due to the lack of competition from other large littoral zone terrestrial predators. Specializing in hunting land-dwelling prey, its long legs also make it adept as an intertidal predator, wading in the shallows for large fish and other creatures to swim by before striking. Typically occupying an area of a couple hundred square miles, it has been known to migrate long distances in search of food, sometimes up to 50 miles in a day. Diurnal in nature, it prefers to hunt during the day, when its eyesight is less heavily impaired and when some larger theropods are asleep. At night, it sleeps under large trees, typically standing up, something which allows arboreal primates to climb onto the creature’s back and pick off insects and other parasites which might otherwise bother it. In times of ecological stress, this species appears to be able to enter a torpor-like state, significantly slowing down its metabolism to reduce its energy expenditure.

While it is far from the largest land predator in its ecosystem, being only around 20 feet long, 10 feet at the shoulder, and weighing around 1.5-2 tons, this animal makes up for this setback through its highly indiscriminate feeding patterns, something which is rare amongst the region’s large carnivores, who typically experience a high degree of niche partitioning. Willing to consume just about anything it can outrun and overpower, its diet includes a wide variety of terrestrial vertebrates. In the mountains, it primarily hunts camelids, deer, notoungulates, horses, and giraffids, and even large mammalian carnivores like amphicyonids, bears, hyaenodonts, and big cats. The most daring may even go after young proboscideans. At lower elevations, non-avian dinosaurs and other megafaunal up to the size of hadrosaurs may be taken as prey. This habit of indiscriminate opportunistic feeding has led some to dub it a ��land shark” of sorts.

Though more vocal than its theropod compatriots, its repertoire of sounds is more limited. A loud, booming sound variously compared to a “croak”, a “roar”, or a “bellow” is used as a broadcast call to notify other large carnivores of its presence as well as to establish its territory. Hissing appears to communicate aggression and a deep-pitched “warbling”/“bugling” bellow or roar has been described as being used as part of a threat display to intimidate trespassers on its territory. A sound known as “wooning” has been observed as a form of communication with juvenile specimens.

Unusually for their clade, the pushantan is a sequential hermaphrodite, with most individuals being born female before switching their sex and becoming male as they begin to reach sexual maturity. The mechanisms behind this aren’t entirely known, though it’s believed that certain environmental pressures force this change. Mating occurs year-round and courtship rituals are relatively simple: flashing his bright throat pouch, the male bobs his head up and down while strutting alongside the female. If she accepts his courtship, she will begin to mirror his behavior whereas if she refuses, she will simply walk off. Coitus occurs under a tree, wherein the male, using an organ referred to as “claspers” (modified back fins from its aquatic ancestors), stands side-by-side, angling himself so he’s able to penetrate her and deposit his sperm. As pushantans mate for life, both parents will raise the offspring. In a few weeks time, the female will lay her amphibious eggs, formed in clutches of around 5-8, in a stagnant body of water near the shallows, making sure not to the leave the water’s edge while the male hunts for the both of them. In about 2 weeks, the eggs will hatch, giving birth to a larval tadpole-like form known as woggins, which have fins in place of arms and a prominent tail fin. Over the course of nearly 2 months, the woggins will grow to 16 times their birth size, begin to lose their fins, develop feet, and begin to lose functional gills, the gills instead becoming part of their ear. At this point, they can leave the water but most occasionally return to the water to keep their skin moist, as their skin has not yet developed the airtight scales of their adult forms and is thus susceptible to dehydration. By around 4 months, they will no longer need to return to the water, having begun to develop the spiny horns and scutes of its adult form, at which point, the mother will start to take them hunting. By around 9 months, they will be large enough to fend for themselves, and at around 2 years old, they will have reached adult size, followed by reaching sexual maturity in another 1-2 years. From there, the young pushantan can expect to live well into old age, a good 20-25 years in the wild and an even longer 30-38 years in captivity.

Regularly attacking livestock and humans alike, one of this creature’s names in Xenogaean, sykansykantuẋôtôtna (/sɪkansɪkantuʃɔtɔtnə/), literally translates to “(the) great scourge of (the) heavens”, as this species appears to be one of the few large terrestrial predators in Xenogaea which doesn’t naturally fear humans. This has led the creature to be killed on-sight by most farmers and hunted to near-extinction several times throughout its history, with the current population rebounding from a particularly deadly wave of exterminations in the last 19th century. However, with only around 14,000 mature individuals across its entire range, the species is still at imminent risk of extinction. Other names it goes by include the most commonly-used name, pushantan (/puʂaⁿtan/, a word of unknown etymology but likely a loanword from a pre-Xenogaean substrate language), rotlen (/ro̞t͡ɬɛn/, “thorn back”), or, in English, the thornback. Featured prominently in local artwork, particularly in murals and textiles, it is also considered an underdog in the minds of some locals, seen as a creature which prevails in an environment with much larger and more dangerous predators and in an environment in which humans has attempted to all but exterminate them. Peculiarly, it appears to be one of the few creatures in Xenogaea which shows adaptations specifically for hunting other carnivores, suggesting it may have originally evolved to hunt other predators before adapting into a generalized predator. Though this creature shows the ancestral trend towards 8-toed feet like its ancestors, this appears to be a derived trait rather than a true atavism. Within its class, it appears to be a rather derived branch with few close living relatives, with its closest living relative being the land pufferfish, with which it shares part of its range. Out of all the xenodont placoderms, this species’ evolution is the most well-understood, with fossil relatives known all the way back in the Eocene illustrating the slow upsizing of this species over several tens of millions of years in response to environmental pressures, having evolved from humble origins along the shorelines of an inland sea which would later become the Arava Desert before the drying-up of this region forced them to adapt to hunting larger, more land-based prey. The pushantan appears to be the apex of its clades’ current evolution, having emerged in the late Miocene as the largest of its family to ever live. Popular in online circles for its peculiar appearance, some Western internet users have dubbed it an “axolotl-chicken-porcupine”, its likeness being used in reaction images. In higher elevations near the base of the Isanunti Mountains, it has been known to stalk areas around volcanically active geyser vents and mud pools, ambushing animals which become trapped in the mud or injured by the scolding waters. Due to its peculiar appearance, it is in high demand amongst Western private collectors and is one of the most trafficked megafaunal animals in Xenogaea, further endangering its long-term survival as a species. It is one of the first placoderms to have had its entire genome sequenced.

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jayrockin · 3 months ago

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Are centaurs capable of laughing? And if so, how?

Humans and centaurs have amusement responses that are fairly similar, in that it's derived from an exaggerated playfighting "pant." Laughing humans vocalize loudly while they rapidly pant, and don't have any built in muscle response besides the diaphragm contracting; centaurs will release a short loud pant from their excurrent nostrils and reflexively flick their head upwards. If something is especially funny they might do it several times, usually spaced apart by 2-3 seconds. It's not audibly voiced to humans and would sound just like a whoosh of air. In infrasonic it's a quick bark. They also do this in response to tickling. As for the other sophonts... avians might bob their head and flick their ears forwards in amusement, but do not have a vocal reaction. They seem to have more culturally influenced amusement responses than something resembling centaur and human reflexive laughter. They have no positive tickle response, just discomfort and reflexive fear of being attacked (like a milder version of your response to something approaching your eye).

Bug ferrets emit a high pitched squeal and will drum with their hands when amused, or tickled. Bug ferrets playfighting will squeal and drum on each other. Instead of being derived from a pant, it appears their amusement response is derived from a distress scream and defensive swatting. Actual distress screams tend to sharply climb upwards in pitch, while amusement screams start high and then fall down into a grunt before starting again.

Scuds will express amusement via a facial expression and excited behavior but do not appear to have any specific vocal or reflexive responses comparable to laughter. Hopping is a common response to release the excited energy but cultural context is important to understand their responses.

#runaway to the stars #jaytext #laughter

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girldragongizzard · 16 days ago

Text

Chapter 18: Third Megnitude

Sensation probably comes back to me faster than it feels like it does.

If it took longer than a moment or two, I imagine I’d be crushed.

The surface beneath me is hard, slick like varnished wood, curved, and tilted, and my ass is notably higher than my head.

The instant I have control over my muscles, I scramble to my feet, claws scuffing and sliding across what is actually varnished wood. And I blink my eyes and look around.

I appear to be on the starting ramp of a now barely functional roller derby rink, in a darkened arena lit only by the waning sunlight coming in through the high windows and skylights. And the ambient light coming in through the ragged hole in the wall I apparently just came through.

And through that hole, I see glimpses of Säure’s moving body as he lifts himself up from the ruins of his stadium.

And as he lowers his head to turn his eye toward my hole and look at me, I hear and see movement in the corners of the gym around me.

I dart my gaze here and there to take it all in.

Oh, shit. The derby team is here, in the arena with me!

Oh, fuck.

Oh, crap.

“Go,” I say, incapable of giving my voice any urgency, but making it as loud as I can. “Now.”

And then I cough up a little aerosolized flame to emphasize the urgency, and turn and run from the new entrance I made to the building myself.

I slam against the doors on the west side of the room, just before anybody else reaches them, banging them open and damaging the frame in the process.

I do my best to keep my rapidly moving tail away from any calves or thighs as I bolt through the door and scamper down the hallway past the lobby of the hockey rink on my right, and the concessions stalls to my left.

There’s a big set of three glass double doors at the other end, and I can hear skates and sneakers squeaking and rolling across the laminate flooring behind me.

The ground shakes with a muffled whump. And then again.

Then, just as I’m crashing through the front doors of the complex, the whole world shutters with a quick succession of four impacts.

And I stumble into the parking lot just in time to be struck with Säure’s cry of fury.

It’s like someone took the T-Rex roar from the first Jurassic Park movie and stretched out the waves into the infrasonic and ultrasonic ranges even for me, and then turned the volume up so high that people struck by the sound don’t so much hear it as they are pushed through a portion of spacetime forcefully by it.

My mind refuses to register the experience as anything intelligible as it’s happening, and it’s only afterward that I start to make sense of it.

I don’t have to turn my head far to look over the building at him and catch him snapping at something in the air to the left of his head. Something I can’t see.

“Go,” I say, my voice severely muffled to my own ears. “Go. Go. Go.”

It hardly need be uttered. The team is dispersing and scrambling for their cars. I hope the time it takes to get into them and get them started isn’t too long for their safety. Especially with me in their midst.

But Säure does look distracted.

He snaps at the air a few more times, blindly, unintelligibly.

So, I take the moment to turn and face him and stretch all my muscles.

The soot and ashes from Laserbreath’s attack over there have mostly been blown off my scales, but I’m still dusty and dirty looking. Smudged.

I am, incredibly, miraculously, unwounded. At least, nothing like the gash on my shoulder that’s mostly healed now. But I’ve been seriously banged up, and my whole body hurts in places and ways that worry me.

The more I work it, though, the more ready I feel to do something else.

Then I remember something I can do that I haven’t really played around with much, except on my own when I’m bored. I have no idea what good it will do here, but if Säure’s so harried and confused, maybe I can add to that.

I do a fair imitation of Joel’s yawp.

Then I bolt to my right, circling the building and headed in the direction of the nearby elementary school. There are probably kids in there, I know, but I’m not going to draw him there, this is just a quick feint.

Wait. Are there children in there? It’s Saturday.

Still. There might be.

Round the corner and mostly out of sight, I let loose with the loudest series of poinks I can manage.

Then, I turn and run along as close to the side of the building as I can, past the front doors again, and over to the North of it.

And there, I let out the most anguished dying man’s scream I can remember.

And I keep going.

We’re actually in Tannis’ territory, and she’s confused by the sudden close presence of three of her neighbors, so she shrieks like a singing banshee. Perfect.

And then I’m crashing through the wooded wetlands to the north of the Sportsplex, between it and the soccer and softball fields, and I’m whistling like Wentin as I go. That’s a really easy one to mimic, honestly. A spooky sin wave of a voice.

Briefly, I think I can hear Wentin croon in my ear, “Adorable.”

But it’s not there. To get that close, it would have to enter the full vision of that eye, nevermind the peripheral. And there’s no such movement or presence when it happens.

This is a large wooded area that we didn’t draw Säure too, and I wonder briefly if the Poet is hiding in here. It’s her favorite kind of haunt, I’m told. But I don’t see her.

I hope that if Säure follows me to the northern fields, he doesn’t do too much damage on his way.

And then there are more poinks far behind me, faster and more poignant, strident, than I managed to make them, as Astraia joins in on the taunting.

And that triggers a series of call backs from the surrounding territories. A whole cacophony of dragons. And it sounds like they are closing in!

Holy shit, are they all fools like me?

Then, the weirdest thing happens.

I hear my own cry come from downtown, across the freeway and over building tops, from my own roof. Distant and taunting.

I did not coordinate with anybody to do that. I don’t particularly want that to happen. But I also don’t even know how it happens. Who is imitating me from my own roof?

I can only think of Chapman. I wouldn’t put it past hir to be able to craft a noise maker of any sort by scrawling a pattern all over the tar black roof in trans pride chalk.

Why, though?

More confusion?

We don’t want to draw Säure into the populated areas of the city, I don’t think. Not that we aren’t already surrounded by inhabited buildings and homes right now. But not downtown!

It feels like when things started to derail, everyone lost cohesion, and they’re all now flailing about. Just like me. Communicating badly with dragon calls at best.

I really just wanted Säure confused enough to stall him from going after me and the Flounder Pounders. I am so hoping the derby team made it out of there.

I feel a few more thumps as Säure repositions himself on the ground and maybe starts pursuing what he thinks of as me.

A glance over my shoulder shows me his tail swinging high over the Sportsplex, as he’s turned around, and I stop to watch. I don’t exactly feel safe, but I’m clearly not being threatened at the moment.

I observe as he makes an attempt to jump and lift himself in the air, but his wings cannot find purchase and he slams back into the ground like a building falling to its hands and knees.

And then he rears up on his hind legs and roars again with that space folding auditory assault of his.

And I think clearly, for the first time today, this all might have been a huge mistake.

By provoking Säure, I’ve seriously endangered the city. And if we can’t subdue him before the National Guard is deployed, or something like that, it could be even more of a disaster than it already is.

I wonder why anybody went along with this plan of mine.

What am I doing?

Welp.

I’m going to do everything I can to bring him to me in an open field, then.

What we can do there, I have no idea.

I’d love to talk to him, but I only have a limited array of vocabulary for that. It’s grown over the past week, in preparation for this. But I also know my ability to talk under pressure is unreliable, too.

But, If I can get him over these wetlands to those fields, I at least know that we won’t be fighting too near any houses. And that feels critical to me.

On the other side of those fields is a light industrial area with businesses that should be closing up shop now, if they haven’t already done that three to four hours ago.

I can’t believe how long this fight has taken. But we’ve been flying all over the city before this, I guess.

Meh.

Time for me to see if I can figure out how to fight an offensively picturesque, spiky, mobile, infuriated hill.

I turn back and start bounding through the thin trees and brush toward the northern fields again.

As I near them, I catch glimpses of people standing near their cars, watching Säure’s antics behind me, over the treetops.

I start repeating my signature cry. Loud and insistant and over and over.

And the enormous monster must be reacting to me because, as I burst from the treeline, I see everyone in sight buckle at their knees and turn to run, looking over their shoulders up at the sky.

Yes, you fools, get the fuck out of here!

These look like the stragglers of a few games that must have been going on in these fields before this all started.

Boom!

Boom, boom, boom!

Säure is now actually following me.

Thump, bump, boom!

I can see his towering head looming higher and higher as he nears my location, while I’m galloping out to the middle of the fields.

When I get to my chosen spot, I hop and turn to face him, crouching on springy legs ready to lunge or bolt to either side, and call with my entire diaphragm, “Stop.”

It’s not a yell or a shout. There’s no emotion to it. But, like my morning song, it’s loud enough to be faintly heard two neighborhoods over.

I know he can’t not hear it.

And he does stop. He pulls back his head, tilting it down at me, and opening his mouth menacingly.

“Talk,” I call out.

He tilts his head to the side, mouth still cracked open. It looks way less quizzical that way. Though, still questioning. As if asking me if I’d like to step inside his maw.

“Fuck. Chapman,” I say at the same volume. “Fuck. Ptarmigan. Fuck. Artists. You. Me. Talk. Peace.”

That would probably go over badly with everyone who overheard, if key people didn’t know that this was actually part of my original plan.

Why not desperately stick to it, actually?

I’m losing.

He can actually get me if he chases me all day.

But, I’m seeing that he’s still hesitating to go full out. He doesn’t want to hurt his hoard, the city, more than he has to. The stadium must have been a calculated sacrifice, or a moment of pure passion. But he pulled himself up short of the Sportsplex, even if he was being distracted by something else.

And while he’s been walking after me, now, he was mincing, picking his foot placement carefully.

So, while I could dodge into the rest of the city to avoid him, and leave him the choice of following me and possibly killing people, or letting me get away – and I’ve shown I’m willing and capable of doing that, actually, as much as I don’t want to – the fact that I’m stopping and offering him a chance to negotiate might actually be enticing.

I wonder if he can talk in full dracoform.

I’m not sure why he wouldn’t be able to.

“Meghan,” he says, voice thundering across the county.

Yeah. This actually feels embarrassing and tense. I’m putting myself on the very public spot by doing this.

“Truce,” I reply. Another new word of mine, just for this use.

“No. You. Give. Up.”

“No. Truce,” I insist.

“You. No. Bargain,” he responds, loud enough for the Sheriff to hear, it seems like.

“No,” I tell him. “I. Threat. I. Go. You. Fight. Fairport.”

He jerks his chin up, mouth open and says, “Ridiculous!”

In response, keeping my eyes on his head, I feint to the side, toward downtown. Then I bark, “Okay.”

I keep my body tense and leaning that direction, to make it clear what I intend to do if he pushes the matter.

“Stop,” he says.

“No,” I reply. “You. Truce.”

This is the point at which the cartoon villain would call my bluff and pounce on me, forcing me to dash into the city and risk him following me to the injury and deaths of hundreds to thousands of people.

All the other dragons have fallen silent to our conversation. At least that part of the plan is working now. But it’s kind of creepy. As if we’re the only two dragons in town, now.

I can watch him considering the situation I’ve pulled him into, weighing all the risks to himself. And he’s been presented with a few that neither he nor I fully understand.

I still haven’t felt Ptarmigan do anything, but Chapman and the Poet have been laying enchantments on Säure that were not fully explained to me, out of a need for expedient secrecy. Similar to why I’ve been lying in my blog. And something is also keeping him from flying, it seems.

I still don’t think he’s quite grasped that he’s the villain in this story, though. But, then, that is a bit subjective to who the audience is, I guess.

This is scary.

Everything is telling me he’s going to pounce, or attack in some way.

He’s so powerful, there’s no particular reason for him not to. Not in the short run, at least. And while the long run is the crux of it, the longer he pauses to consider, the more time my Artist friends have to craft another snare for him, or pull the snares tight that already surround him. And he’s got to be thinking about that.

But, you know? All the cartoon villains in the world were written by humans, with human sensibilities and motives.

This is a dragon.

And though I’m less than a rival, I’m vermin to him, I’m right in the middle of both his hoard and his food supply. And I’m apparently really annoying to him. I’ve got his attention.

I don't know. I have been projecting a lot of thoughts into his head that might not be there. Maybe he's just visualizing all the ways he can swallow me, or he knows things I don't.

I wait, poised to gallop and fly away at an instant twitch on his part. And as much as I really don’t want to see anybody die or lose their house today, I am damn well prepared to run into the city. Now that I’m against this wall, I want to survive.

“Okay,” he says. Then, after a meaningful pause, he says, “Talk.”

I. Do. Not. Relax.

I’m trying to think of a word I know that I can remember that has enough meaning for a negotiation. And I feel like my mind is slowly going blank as I try to search it.

This is the worst time for losing what little speech I have! But it’s happening.

“Talk,” I manage to repeat, feeling really lame about it.

He jerks his head. With his mouth open, I’m sure it looks like a silent mirthful laugh to a human, but to me it’s pure threat. And my muscles twitch.

“Talk,” I say again.

“Yes,” he replies. “Talk. You. Talk.”

Damn him. He’s gotta see I don’t have my purse. My tablet is gone. He’s mocking me. He’s putting me on the back foot by insisting I do something I can’t do very well at all.

Though, I was the one who insisted on talking instead of fighting.

I wonder if I can speak as much with body language as anything. If we could both take human disguise and get to the library somehow, we could use the computers there to actually talk to each other.

I still don’t know exactly what I want to talk to him about, but having him concede to do that with me would be far better than dancing through Fairport trying to fight each other.

Especially if we can do it in human disguise, because then he’ll be stuck for a while, and then we can actually do something about it.

I’m thinking, maybe, since he was the one who just destroyed several wetlands and the city stadium, we let the police arrest him. As much as I hate to lean on that corrupt institution, it would be a wonderful irony.

He’ll probably just get a slap on the wrist, but it’ll be a start.

I jerk my head sideways toward downtown, and manage to say, “Go. Talk.”

Let’s see if he can figure that out.

He looks the direction I indicated.

Then he closes his mouth and tilts his head to look at me with his right eye, and says, “Top of Tower.”

Ah, his restaurant of choice. His turf.

If he can provide phones, or tablets, or something to talk with, I’ll take it.

“You’re paying,” he says.

That’s a whole phrase he taught himself.

I cannot afford that restaurant. But, this does give me the opportunity to stiff him in return for him stiffing me, if I play my cards right. So, I’m going to agree to it.

The trick now is trying to figure out how we’re going to get there from here.

Maybe I just have to agree and then wait to see what he does.

Can I remember the word I need? I can.

“Okay,” I say.

“I. Drive,” he says. And then he lifts his head and makes a weird warbling noise with his syrinx. It’s kind of like a klaxon but also some kind of bird song. There's a whistling to it, with a rhythm of ultrabass infrasonic rumbling. It might be just a little too complex for me to imitate, but I definitely can't match the volume.

It echos off the surrounding landscape like a fog horn.

And then, when he’s done he looks at me again, and says, “Wait.”

“Truce,” I repeat, hammering down on my key concern.

“Truce,” he says.

And then I remember one of the phrases I'd worked on the last few nights, and it’s perfect.

“Shake on it,” I say. And then, I awkwardly stand on my hind legs and hold out my right claw, expectantly.

There's no way he can shake my claw while he's that big. Even if he did some silly gesture like present me with a single tree sized talon, he'd too easily crush me with a twitch. And there’s no way I'll stay where I am to let him do that.

He studies me carefully.

I wish I could guess what he’s thinking.

I suppose I need to show him a gesture of trust. Not that that's at all a reasonable expectation in this situation. But I don’t think reason or fairness factor into anything Säure does.

OK.

I want to sell this to him. He's gotta be feeling uncertain and vulnerable with all the weird bullshit we've been trying to pull on him. And he has some kind of curse the Poet just put on him.

But if he called for a ride and we are going to the Top of the Tower, he’s going to commit to taking human form.

He blinks and changes the angle of his head, still studying me.

There must be a reason he’s not insisting we fly to his home in our dracoforms.

Maybe he guesses I'll never agree to it. So a semineutral human establishment is in order. A place I'd agree to go to.

He must really want to work with me.

Or, to turn the trap I've laid back on me, and to attack me when I've let my guard down.

I know how quickly I can change my shape.

It's not quite fast enough to dodge a UV laser, if I'm in human disguise. He could burn me then. But, my human skin doesn't feel like it's my insides or anything vulnerable like that. When I'm in that shape, I can still feel my scales covering me.

It's really an unknown risk. But at least I'll see him opening his jaws first.

But, if he pounces instead, I'm sure I can revert and dodge in time. When it comes to that kind of interaction, I have yet to find a dragon besides Anurak that can touch me. Not even Wentin can.

I decide to do it.

I sigh with a big breath, and fold myself up into my faerie princess outfit, then give him a closed lip smile and hold out my right hand again.

Säure rears back in a movement that looks like my doom, closing his eyes.

But then he opens them again and takes four tree crushing steps through the woods between us and dives down into his businessman disguise only a few yards ahead of me.

Straightening his tie and then stretching his arms as he looks down at them, he begins to walk forward toward me.

His face is so good at portraying smugness with hardly a muscle twitch. His straight backed walk makes him look like he's buoyed physically by his own confidence.

“Shake on it,” he says in a human volume, reaching out with his own right hand just as I hear a helicopter approaching in the distance.

I can't believe how much the sound of that kind of contraption puts me on edge.

It's a very silly idea to ride a helicopter from here to downtown, where there’s no-where to land it. Unless maybe this one is going to deliver a car. It could actually airlift a car here, if it's a big enough chopper.

Well, I think that’s what he did with his song, call that chopper.

Maybe it's the trap.

And I feel the back of my neck tensing as our hands near each other under the increasing sound of air being smacked by rotor blades.

Then movement catches my eye, as it does.

It's right behind Säure’s head from my point of view, so he doesn't seem to see the shift in my gaze. Or, maybe neither of us can really react in time.

Because time itself seems to dilate.

As our hands go from six inches away from each other, to within an inch, between thumps of the distant helicopter blades, I watch as Wentin blooms from the darkness between trees in the twilight, and lopes as if in slow motion across the field to rear up above and behind Säure.

And just as Säure reacts to the look on my face, wide pupils almost in perfect circles, mouth opening, Wentins jaws snap shut over his top half.

Limbs jerking, failing to transform, Säure is lifted up into the air, and swallowed like a seagull with a freshly broken neck.

It takes Wentin only three jerks of its head to imbibe Säure.

And then the billionaire is gone.

—

I don't really know how long I've been staring at Wentin as the helicopter continues to close the distance. But the vehicle is probably very nearly here.

And in that time, the nightmare doesn't explode with a suddenly expanding kaiju bursting from its stomach.

I'm not just bewildered, I'm in shock.

Wentin winks.

And I'm still in my princess disguise.

“My dear Queen Meghan,” Wentin eventually says, just barely audible over the helicopter. “It has been my honor to serve you, but really, next time, you will have to finish your meal yourself.”

And then it turns and leaves.

#original fiction #serial fiction #transformation #transgender #writeblr #dragons

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