#centaurine

[victusinveritas]

Ren Wicks - "Centaurine" - March/April 1964 Harolds Casino, Reno, NV Girls of Fantasy Calendar Illustration.

[theamericanpin-up]

Ren Wicks - "Centaurine" - March/April 1964 Harolds Casino, Reno, NV Girls of Fantasy Calendar Illustration - American Pin-up Calendar Collection - One of the most interesting calendars from the Girls of Fantasy series. Based on Greek Mythology - First encountered in Greek mythology as members of the tribe of the Centauroi, the Centaurides are only occasionally mentioned in written sources but appear frequently in Greek art and Roman mosaics.

[horsefigureoftheday]

what are your thoughts about horse furries with human hands. it makes sense for practical reasons but also looking at them unnerves me. would be thrilled to hear your expert opinion

I think they should all look like this hand I once drew for my oc Moussa

The accompanying text (an excerpt from the diary of my other oc, Quinn): "Seated by the evening fire, I could not stay my curiosity any longer and requested that Moussa demonstrate his transformational skills. He seemed amused by my curiosity, but transformed his hand into a strange mixture of horse and man, which I gratefully sketched. Having never encountered a shapeshifter quite like him, coupled with his apparent opinion that bodily transformation is mundane, I must conclude that his people’s apparent rarity is caused by isolation, rather than simple scarcity. He confirmed that this is his first time away from his homeland in his 25 years of life, though, when pressed, he staunchly refused to describe the location of said homeland."

If you liked that you might also like these excerpts... :3

5th of November, 1792 608th day in this world

I have encountered a most peculiar young man. At a glance, he is not dissimilar from the other races of this world; he could pass for a strange human, if not for his saucer-sized gem-color eyes and his leaf-shaped ears. He is of short stature and slight build, with chestnut hair and a similarly warm and deep skintone. I do not know how to describe the color of his eyes, for they seem to glow in every shade of azure, turquoise, and emerald at once. His face is rather long and narrow and, fittingly, "horse-like.”

His name is Moussa and he speaks this land’s common tongue, albeit thickly accented. He told me (in much different terms) that he is, in his society, of a rank akin to a prince or lord-apparent. He travels with a tall and rather mannish human woman named Zélie. His companion does not speak the common tongue, and they converse with each other in a shrill and vowel-heavy language that I have never heard before.

But what peculiarity could this man have that has captivated me so?

Moussa’s anthropoid appearance is only one half of his “true self.” In our first encounter, he had, from the waist down, the body of a horse, not unlike the centaurs of our ancient Greece and Rome. In a moment, his equine body disappeared before my eyes, replaced with two perfectly unassuming (and fully clad, might I add) human legs.

Astounded, I inquired about the nature of his transformation, and he explained that it is an ability all individuals of his race are born with. He referred to his race with a shrill and guttural sound that may best be transcribed as “hrihriwa” - the name puts one in mind of a horse’s whinnying.

Tomorrow I shall ask him to model for me in his preferred centaurine form.

--------------

6th of November, 1792 609th day in this world

Moussa graciously posed for me long enough to sketch his portrait. When I inquired about his braids, he explained that they are devotional in nature; that his society forbids haircuts and employ protective braids to minimize damage to the hair. I felt it impolite to ask about his cropped forelock.

--------------

9th of November, 1792 612th day in this world

Today’s travel was particularly strenuous as we were forced to traverse a rocky ridge. Moussa seemingly prefers to be fully equine for exercises of this nature, and I was delighted to see that his mane is identical in style and color to his human hair - perhaps this is a clue to his people’s pilar religiosity.

Halfway up the ridge, we held a quick rest. Moussa asked Zélie for a waterskin (for naturally he can talk in his equine shape!) and, rather than change to a more anthropoid form, he simply willed two arms to extend from his neck. I had to sketch it from memory, as my journal was tucked away at the time. Take note of the shirt sleeve seemingly growing out of his horsehide. I admit that scientific curiosity gave way to revulsion for a brief moment. I should very much like to vivisect him, but alas, I enjoy his company too much.

But oh, I am a fool! Let this be a lesson not to sketch life from memory: Moussa’s braids were tied by their fibulae rings at the time of the transformation. As of sketching this, they are untied - something he does every evening - and from there stems my error.

--------------

10th of November, 1792 613th day in this world

I asked Moussa to demonstrate to me the queerest form he could muster, and he produced the following shape, which I must admit I was too taken aback to sketch in the moment as, upon seeing it, I was overcome with a fit of nausea. Curiously, when one head spoke, the other joined in, and they produced two voices in perfect unison. This appeared to be an involuntary effect.

Perhaps with time I will get used to these unnatural therianthropic permutations and gain the fortitude to create live sketches.

[100percentnotanalien]

Sometimes I think about aliens seeing our mythical creatures n shit and going

“This is such an interesting creature, where could I meet one?”

And then having to explain that this creature isn’t real on Earth

Or imagine a Naga looking alien seeing our depictions of what essentially looks like it’s race and going

“Why do you humans have such depictions of us even though you’ve never seen our race before?”

An Arachne alien existing is wilddd to me. You know centarine? They’re like fish centaur, human upper half, front horse legs, fish tail

Imagine encountering a real life centaurine

What if dragons existed on a different planet?? Or jackalopes? I don’t think jackalopes are real on Earth but what if they were on a whole ass other planet

The fucking possibilities with this

[hapalopus]

Excerpts from the journal of Quinn Langston Whitmore (aka "1700s scientist gets isekaied into tf kink anime world and meets this guy:

----------------------------

5th of November, 1792 (Year 436 Post-Tower)

608th day in this world

I have encountered a most peculiar young man. At a glance, he is not dissimilar from the other races of this world; he could pass for a strange human, if not for his saucer-sized gem-color eyes and his leaf-shaped ears. He is of short stature and slight build, with chestnut hair and a similarly warm and deep skintone. I do not know how to describe the color of his eyes, for they seem to glow in every shade of azure, turquoise, and emerald at once. His face is rather long and narrow and, fittingly, "horse-like."

His name is Moussa and he speaks this land's common tongue, albeit thickly accented. He told me (in much different terms) that he is, in his society, of a rank akin to a prince or lord-apparent. He travels with a tall and rather mannish human woman named Zélie. His companion does not speak the common tongue, and they converse with each other in a shrill and vowel-heavy language that I have never heard before.

But what peculiarity could this man have that has captivated me so?

Moussa's anthropoid appearance is only one half of his "true self." In our first encounter, he had, from the waist down, the body of a horse, not unlike the centaurs of our ancient Greece and Rome. In a moment, his equine body disappeared before my eyes, replaced with two perfectly unassuming (and fully clad, might I add) human legs.

Astounded, I inquired about the nature of his transformation, and he explained that it is an ability all individuals of his race are born with. He referred to his race with a shrill and guttural sound that may best be transcribed as "hrihriwa" - the name puts one in mind of a horse's whinnying.

Tomorrow I shall ask him to model for me in his preferred centaurine form.

----------------------------

6th of November, 1792 (Year 436 Post-Tower)

609th day in this world

Moussa graciously posed for me long enough to sketch his portrait. When I inquired about his braids, he explained that they are a devotional in nature; that his society forbids haircuts and employ protective braids to minimize damage to the hair. I felt it impolite to ask about his cropped forelock.

Moussa and Zélie appear pious. At sunset and sunrise I could not help but observe them engaged in an hour-long ritual, though I averted my gaze to grant them privacy as best I could.

Both travelers are friendly, but incurious. So far, they have only asked me my name, where I come from, and my destination. I explained to the best of my ability, but their expressions told me that they take me for a lunatic, like every other person in this world. I know I am not mad. Everyone's ignorance of the mechanism of my arrival to this world will not convince me that I am mad, nor will I give up my quest to return to England.

Seated by the evening fire, I could not stay my curiosity any longer and requested that Moussa demonstrate his transformational skills. He seemed amused by my curiosity, but transformed his hand into a strange mixture of horse and man, which I gratefully sketched. Having never met another shapeshifter like him, and his apparent opinion that bodily transformation is mundane, I must assume that his people's rarity is caused by isolation, rather than simple scarcity. He confirmed that this is his first time away from his homeland in his 25 years of life, though, when pressed, he staunchly refused to explain the location of said homeland.

----------------------------

9th of November, 1792 (Year 436 Post-Tower)

612th day in this world

Today's travel was particularly strenuous as we were forced to cross over a rocky ridge. Moussa seemingly prefers to be fully equine for exercises of this nature, and I was delighted to see that his mane is identical in style and color to his human hair - perhaps this is a clue to his people's religiosity.

Halfway up the ridge, we held a quick rest. Moussa asked Zélie for a waterskin (for of course he can talk in his equine shape) and, rather than change to a more anthropoid form, he simply willed two arms to extend from his neck. I had to sketch it from memory, as my journal was tucked away at the time. Take note of the shirt sleeve seemingly growing out of his horsehide. I admit that scientific curiosity gave way to revulsion for a brief moment. I should very much like to vivisect him, but alas, I enjoy his company too much.

But oh, I am a fool! Let this be a lesson not to sketch life from memory: Moussa's braids were tied by their fibulae rings at the time of the transformation. However, as of sketching this, they are untied - something he does every evening.

Another evening habit of his is to exchange his human legs for horse legs and meticulously clean the hooves. Whether this is a part of his ritual, or simple practicality, I do not know.

----------------------------

10th of November, 1792 (Year 436 Post-Tower)

613th day in this world

I asked Moussa to show me the queerest form he could muster, and he produced the following shape, which I must admit I was too taken aback to sketch in the moment. It was nauseating. Curiously, when one head spoke, the other joined in, and they produced two voices in perfect unison. This appeared to be an involuntary effect.

Perhaps with time I will get used to these unnatural therianthropic permutations and gain the fortitude to create live sketches.

[izzy-art-879]

Monster Kids Next Door: More Monsters!

Rachel T. Rex/Numbuh 362 - Daughter of the Recreated Tyrannosaurus rex

Fanny Wails/Numbuh 86 - Daughter of the Banshee

Patton Frostbite/Numbuh 60 - Son of the Yeti

Sonia Squall/Numbuh 83 - Daughter of the Squonk (a cryptid that is always crying)

Lee Wolfgang/Numbuh 84 - Son of the Werewolves

Lainey Von Drake/Numbuh 10 (Nigel's maternal cousin) - Daughter of a Mermaid and a Dragon

Maurice Pharaoh/Numbuh 9 - Son of the Mummies

Chad Trottington/Numbuh 274 - Son of the Centaurs

Bonus: The legendary missing Sector Z!

Bruce White-Winged/Numbuh 0.1 - Son of the White Vampire Bats

David Calamari/Numbuh 0.2 - Son of the Kraken

Alessandra Ichthyo/Numbuh 0.3 - Daughter of the Icthyocentaurs (Greek Centaurine sea beings)

Lenny Lepidoptera/Numbuh 0.4 - Son of the Mothman

Constance Griff/Numbuh 0.5 - Daughter of the Griffins

[orions-hole]

No. You would not have guessed he's the son of Poseidon right away. The only thing the bathroom scene did was restrict the "who?" to either liquid gods or water gods.

The following were taken from a Wikipedia article (here, January 1rst 2024, Part: Europe - Greek/Greece)

Achelus, greek river god

Aegaeon, god of violent sea storms and ally of the Titans.

Alpheus, river god in Arcadia

Anapus, river god of eastern Sicily

Asopus, river god in Greece

Asterion, river-god of Argos

Enipeus, a river god

Glaucus, the fisherman's sea god

The Graeae, three ancient sea spirits who personified the white foam of the sea; they shared one eye and one tooth between them.

The Ichthyocentaurs, a pair of centaurine sea-gods with the upper bodies of men, the lower fore-parts of horses, ending in the serpentine tails of fish.

Oceanus, Titan god of the Earth-encircling river Okeanos, the font of all the Earth's fresh water.

Palaemon, a young sea god who aided sailors in distress.

Pontus, primeval god of the sea, father of the fish and other sea creatures

[jimmerzz0905]

~~ummmmmmmmmmmmm~~

i made this comic and decided to make a fic based off of it lol

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Yawstrich and Strombonin Take Sporerow In As Their Child After Cataliszt Acts like an Ass to Them~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“WHAT?!”

cried Strombonin and their partner Yawstrich. They had been together for quiiiiite a long time, but they weren’t ready to take care of some random green, plantlike bird Monster just yet.

“I mean, Yawstrich, were you not the one who dreamed Sporerow here up?” replied the smug Cataliszt. For the seer of dreams and someone who could literally bring your dreams to life, they were a bit of an ass sometimes.

Yawstrich ruffled its feathers. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean that Strombonin and I are going to, you know, raise them as our CHILD!”

“We are not ready. Sure, we’ve been together for… a couple of months, but we are NOT ready for some… feral lost child to come into our lives,” the stoic centaurine Monster retorted, crossing his arms and glaring at the smug cat. omg smug cat????? raymond animal crossing???????

Yawstrich grinned at their boyfriend. “B-besides, uh, aren’t there literally ShLep and G’joob?? T-they’ve taken Cherubble in as their son, you know!”

“Well, you should know that Sporerow finds ShLep pretty… *repulsive*, to say the least,” Cataliszt said. “Plus, they’ve imprinted on Yawstrich and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

Yawstrich, despite being a bird Monster, started sweating. “I-I, but- I— IMPRINTED?!?”

“You heard me right. IMPRINTED.”

Oh.

OH.

SPOREROW SAW YAWSTRICH AS A PARENT. A *PARENT.*

“THEY SEE ME AS A PARENT?!?! B-BUT WHAT ABOUT STROMBONIN?!” the panicked, pink-feathered Monster cried out.

“More of some figure to pester who so happened to date their parent,” Cataliszt shrugged. Strombonin facepalmed. The Strombone’s random loud outbursts were already enough, but at least he KNEW them. Sporerow? He didn’t even know Sporerow at all!

“I-”

“Good luck, you two. I’ll just go back to seeing dreams now,” Cataliszt said, butt-scooching away and leaving the couple behind with Sporerow. Strombonin glared at Cataliszt. They couldn’t just go “Hey, this is your kid now!” and then FUCKING SCOOCH AWAY TO LOOK AT DREAMS.

“YOU GREY, MACARONI-SHAPED SON OF A-”

“Ashushushushushushushushush!”

The very nervous Yawstrich looked at their partner, then back at Sporerow. He gulped and stretched out a wing.

“Hi, little one! Uh, my name’s Yawstrich! You know, the Monster who… uh… you see as a parent..?”

The shorter green bird-like Monster just stared.

“The Shroomites want to talk,” Sporerow replied in an unnerving voice.

“The… the what-now?” Yawstrich inquired. What was a Shroomite?? Suddenly, tiny mushrooms with orange caps and blue eyes popped up from around Sporerow’s head and arms. Yawstrich grimaced.

“Hopefully those only latch onto them like barnacles on aged Strombones, and are not… eugh,” Strombonin whispered to their partner, also grimacing. Sporerow’s head turned to them.

“Huh?”

“Oh.” Strombonin cleared his throat. “Um, hello. You may call me Strombonin, your other parent… apparently.”

“You’re my other parent?”

“Yes. You know, those, er, Shroomies-“

“Shroomites.”

“Yes, Shroomites, around you, they kind of remind me of the Strombone.”

“…What’s a Strombone?”

Strombonin tensed up, but Yawstrich exchanged a look with them that caused him to loosen. “A friend I have. They are this pink snail, and they can be rather loud. You may have seen me make music with them whenever I join into Mythical Island’s song.”

Sporerow simply blinked.

“Can I eat them?”

This alarmed Strombonin. Eat the Strombone?! Who would DO such a thing?!? The Strombone was his best friend—and FIRST friend—and he was NOT going to let that happen.

“Sporerow—”

“NO,” Strombonin said angrily. “You may NOT eat the Strombone. They are *NOT* to be *EATEN*,” they said, starting to raise their voice. This alarmed both Sporerow and Yawstrich.

“Relax, Strombie!” Yawstrich exclaimed. “There’s no need to get so mad, come here.”

“Please do not call me that name in public…” Strombonin muttered, although not as angry as earlier because of the warmth of Yawstrich’s pink feathers. It was oddly soft, too…

The flustered blue Monster laid his head down on Yawstrich’s, unsure of what to do. They eventually made eye contact, with Yawstrich smiling at Strombonin and vice versa. He eventually took his head off of theirs as they looked into each other’s eyes, seemingly lost. As the two Monsters cuddled, Sporerow and the Shroomites just… stared and frowned as Yawstrich and Strombonin’s faces got closer.

“What are you two doing?” they asked, interrupting the tender moment.

Oh. Wait, why were their faces so close to each other?! Strombonin quickly pushed away from Yawstrich, clearing his throat awkwardly. Yawstrich just sheepishly grinned at Sporerow.

“That is none of your business,” Strombonin replied, shaking off whatever feeling Yawstrich gave them. That was… awkward.

“W-we were just, uh… hugging! Nothing more than that,” Yawstrich replied, awkwardly chuckling. It exchanged a glance with their blue-and-purple-scaled partner. “Strombonin and I, we, uh, just love each other very much, that’s all!”

“Yawstrich, you are making it sound like we just-”

“ASHUSHUSHUSHUSHUSH. NO. Please. I don’t— uh, um.”

“What?”

“Um.”

This… was awkward. I mean, of course Sporerow was disgusted—they just watched their new-found parents nearly start passionately kissing in front of their own eyes—but it was still VERY awkward.

“Yeah, um… it was nothing, really!” Yawstrich stammered. “We were just… talking about how we wanted to take you to our home Islands so you could, uh, know how to get around!”

“Yawstrich, that is not what we-”

“Strombie, please! It’s a good way to try and bond with them.”

“Yawstrich, I thought neither of us knew how to raise a child??”

“Uh, no. We—we don’t.”

Strombonin and Yawstrich exchanged looks with each other. They looked at Sporerow, then one another.

“Home Islands?” Sporerow asked, cocking their head.

“Yeah, um, we don’t-”

“We do not actually live here,” Strombonin said. “I live on Cold Island, and Yawstrich here lives up on Air.”

“Can we go to Cold first?” Sporerow asked. “The Shroomites don’t like dry places.”

“…”

Strombonin was… not so sure about that. Sure, Cold Island was his home, but what would everyone think of him coming home with their partner and some child—who was technically HIS?! He’d built an “emotionally unavailable strong guy” reputation around Cold Island, and that would ruin it for sure. He was sure that a LOT of Monsters would just teasingly call him “Papa” or something like that, which he did NOT want. He would rather DIE OF FROSTBITE than be called “Papa” by a bunch of Monsters. He tensed up.

Yawstrich noticed its boyfriend tense up, and got the feeling something was wrong. “Hey,” they said, snapping Strombonin out of their thoughts. “I’ll come with you and try to prevent you from getting embarrassed!”

“…”

Strombonin loosened. That could have embarrassed him even more, but at least he could be himself around Yawstrich without getting judged. It was always there for him.

“…We should go, then. Yawstrich, there are a bunch of warm clothes in the Castle if you and Sporerow need them. I’ll go get them for you,” he said, heading towards the castle.

“Oh! Strombonin, that’s really nice of you, but I think I can make it on Cold Island without any of that,” Yawstrich replied, blushing. Sure, he had temperature issues, but she didn’t want their partner to worry so much about them.

Strombonin looked back at Yawstrich. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Y-yes, I’m sure.”

“…I’ll just go get some in case,” they replied, heading inside the castle to get some warm clothes for their partner and apparent child. This was surely going to take some time, so Yawstrich figured she’d strike up a conversation with Sporerow.

“So, you like plants, right?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Oh, cool! Not a lot of them grow up on Air Island, but there IS a nice garden inside the Castle if you want to go check it out with Strombonin later.”

“Okay. Does Strombonin like plants?”

“That, I don’t really know. He’s a little iffy when it comes to them, heh.”

Sooner enough, Strombonin emerged with a heap of scarves, hats, jackets, and mittens on their back.

“O-oh. Oh, uh Strombie, you didn’t have to-”

“You have not been anywhere other than Air or Mythical, Yawstrich!” Strombonin called out. “I can’t just let you freeze in the cold.”

“Well, it’s nice that you care, but how are you going to carry all of that—plus your Strombone—before we arrive at Cold??”

“I will just carry all of this on my back,” the blue centaurine Monster replied.

“Well, can’t we help you with all of it?”

“No. I can handle this by myself.”

“Alright, understandable.”

++a few hours later, on Cold Island++

The snow crunched as Strombonin, Yawstrich and Sporerow moved through. Relatively small gusts of snow flurried throughout the Island, partially covering the 3 Monsters in it.

“Why’s this cold stuff everywhere?” Sporerow asked, a snowflake landing on their beak and melting.

“It is called snow,” Strombonin replied. “Since Cold Island is, well, cold, this always comes down instead of rain.”

“Okay.”

“Do you like the snow?” Yawstrich asked. “I-it’s fun to play in, apparently!”

“No.”

“O-oh. Okay… brrrrrrr.” Yawstrich shivered. Even with multiple scarves, a leg-warmer, and a hat, they were still somehow really cold.

“A-CHOO!”

This alarmed Strombonin. “Yawstrich, are you okay?!” he frantically asked, panicking. “Oh no, oh nononononONONONONO. PLEASE don’t tell me you’re getting frostbite, PLEASE—”

“Strombie, d-dear, y-you don’t have to worry about me..! I-I’m fine, just… brrrrrrr.”

“Are you okay?”

“WHICH ONE OF US?!” Strombonin cried.

“Strombonin, c-c-calm down!”

“I was talking about Yawstrich,” Sporerow said. “Is Yawstrich okay?”

“Well-”

“WELL, HOPEFULLY.”

“Oh.”

“WE’VE GOT TO GET YOU SOMEWHERE WARM!” Strombonin screamed, waking up a sleeping Tweedle perched on a tree branch above them. The Tweedle wiped her eyes and yawned.

“Huh? What??” she asked, alarming Strombonin.

Oh, crud. Tweedles were very talkative talkative monsters, so she could go whispering to others about Strombonin screaming at the top of their lungs because his partner was shivering and sneezing! Surely an “emotionally unavailable tough guy” wouldn’t throw a hissy fit because his partner was in potential danger. Wait, would he?

Strombonin straightened up and faced the Tweedle. “You did not see ANYTHING,” he growled.

“S-Strombonin…”

“Nonono, I wasn’t going to tell anyone!” she replied, as if she was reading their mind. “Actually, I know a really fast route to the Castle, if you want to go head there.”

“There’s a Castle here?”

The Tweedle turned her head to look at the green, mushroom-covered, plantlike bird Monster. She looked pretty disgusted, flinching at the sight of Sporerow, who just stared back at her.

“…What is that.”

“Oh, them?” Strombonin replied. “That is Sporerow. They are here with me and Yawstrich because of… convoluted reasons involving someone we know.”

“Alright. I won’t tell anyone.”

“…Thank you.”

“Brrrr…”

Strombonin turned his head towards his shivering partner, then looked back at Tweedle.

“PLEASE tell us the nearest route to the Castle.”

“Oh, uh,” Tweedle said, “so if you go straight, then turn to that rock covered in ice, then go through that forest full of really tall trees, you’ll get to the Castle.”

Strombonin breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he muttered.

“Anyti-”

“A-CHOO!”

“OH. ERM, YAWSTRICH, GET ONTO MY BACK.”

“D-dear, it’s really not that ba-AGH!”

Before Yawstrich could finish their sentence, Strombonin hoisted it onto his back, grabbed one of Sporerow’s arms, and dashed straight ahead as fast as he possibly fucking could.

++a few hours later, in the forest++

Strombonin was exhausted. He felt like they had been wandering in circles, and even worse: he and the birds were stuck in the middle of a dark forest filled with snow. It was late, and it was getting colder and colder by the minute; which did NOT help at all. At this point, Yawstrich couldn’t even feel their own wings. Their boyfriend felt like it was too late.

“Yawstrich, I… I am sorry.”

“S-sorry f-for what..?”

“I’m sorry. It… it might as well be DAYS before we get to the Castle…”

“No, it won’t! I-I’m sure of that,” Yawstrich replied, trying to smile at Strombonin. “Do you remember the d-directions Tweedle told you?”

Ah.

Strombonin had forgot about the directions. From what he remembered, they were supposed to go through this forest, but despite having lived on Cold Island all his life, he didn’t know how to get through this forest, nor had he ever gone there. He sat down and lowered his head begrudgingly.

“…No.”

Wiping his eyes, he raised his head and noticed Sporerow talking… to a tree.

“Uh… Sporerow? Wh-what are you talking about with that tree?” Yawstrich asked, straining their neck to try and look.

“It’s telling me the directions,” the green Monster replied.

“…Sporerow, trees cannot talk.”

Sporerow ruffled their feathers. “Yes, they can! It said that we should go that way,” they said, raising an arm and pointing to a gap between two trees. “That goes to a path that leads to the Castle, apparently.”

“…And how are trees supposed to know that?”

Sporerow shrugged. “Trees know a lotta things.”

Strombonin sighed, put Yawstrich back on his back, and decided to follow Sporerow as they talked to various trees that lead their way to the Castle. Sooner enough, the three monsters had made it out of the forest, and were facing structures like Hotels, Mines, Bakeries, Storage Sheds, and a few Wishing Torches along a road that lead to the Cold Island Castle. They got a few weird looks from some Monsters along their fast-paced journey to the Castle, but Strombonin could never have cared less. The only thing they cared about at the moment was getting Yawstrich, who was now fast asleep, into the Castle, where it was warmer.

Finally, the Monsters had made it to the Castle door. The Strombone was fast asleep inside the Castle, but Strombonin did not want to scream out for help. He didn’t want to wake his partner, but he had to get inside somehow…

Then he remembered how Sporerow played their part in Mythical Island’s song, more like a particular part of how they did so: slamming their arms against the ground to make a BOOM noise. Luckily, it wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone up, but it was loud enough to get someone’s attention.

“Er, Sporerow, is it?” Strombonin asked, alerting the younger Monster.

“Yes.”

“…Can you try to perform a part of your song for me?” he asked. “It is to get the attention of the Monsters inside the Castle.”

Sporerow looked at Strombonin. “What do I do?”

“The… thing with your arms, where you slam them against the ground and it makes a ‘boom’ noise.”

Sporerow looked at their arm, and then back at Strombonin. They picked their arm up, then slammed it back on the ground, making a boom sound that was loud enough to get someone’s attention, but not loud enough to wake someone up. “So like this?”

“Yes, like that,” Strombonin replied, nodding. “Now go up there near the moat, and do what I told you.”

Sporerow moved themselves onto the Castle’s moat, raised their arms, then slammed them. However, no Monster came down and noticed, so Sporerow did it again and again, until they noticed a small, dark grey Monster with four bat wings, two horns, and two arms enveloped in a black mist come out from inside the Castle. It had a nightcap on, and wiped its eyes, frowning.

“Ugh, what is it?! If it’s Tweedle again, then I’m not— oh.”

It stared at the strange green, birdlike Monster on the moat, and behind them was Strombonin, with Yawstrich sleeping on his back.

“Strombonin? Who’s this weird green thing?”

Strombonin straightened up and looked down at the Grumpyre. “That ‘weird green thing’ is Sporerow. My… apparent child.”

The Grumpyre narrowed its eyes. “YOUR kid? How is that YOUR kid? They look nothing like you. Plus, who’s the other parent??”

Strombonin glared at the Grumpyre, then gestured to Yawstrich, who was lying down sleeping on his back. “Yawstrich, the pink one, is the other parent. Someone we knew gave us the responsibility to take Sporerow in as our child, and now here we are.”

“…And why are you here at the Castle, of all places? Y’know, there’s a Humble Hotel down the road…”

Strombonin glared HARDER at the Grumpyre. “We are here because we are bringing Yawstrich to the INFIRMARY. They have been freezing ever since we came here, and I am trying to warm her up.”

“You have to let us in or the Shroomites won’t like you,” Sporerow added.

“The what?”

The Shroomites popped up from around Sporerow’s head and arms and glared, making the Grumpyre grimace.

“Alright, fine,” the Grumpyre retorted, crossing its arms. “You can come in.”

Strombonin turned towards Sporerow and nodded. Sporerow smiled back at their parent as they headed to the Castle’s infirmary.

++a few hours later, in the infirmary++

Yawstrich blinked their eyes open and found himself lying on a bed in what appeared to be the Castle infirmary. There was a warm bowl of soup on the nightstand to their right, and to their left was Strombonin and Sporerow.

“Oh, thank GLAISHUR you’re awake,” Strombonin exclaimed. “Sporerow and I, we were… we were worried.”

“Ah ha, that’s okay!” Yawstrich cheerfully replied to their boyfriend, smiling at him. “At least I’m safe and warm now, right?”

Strombonin found themselves lost in Yawstrich’s eyes, then quickly pulled himself back together. “…Yes. At least you are safe and warm.”

Yawstrich grinned. “So, what happened when I was asleep?”

“Well…”

“Dad let me make music so I could get someone’s attention and let us in, and now you’re here,” Sporerow said quickly.

Wait, DAD?!

“Excuse me,” Strombonin added, “‘dad’??”

Sporerow smiled and nodded. “I mean, you’re the other Monster I look up to!” They then turned to face Yawstrich. “Right, Momdad?”

“Uh, ‘momdad’?”

“Dad told me that other Monsters called you a boy and a girl and also something else.”

A confused Yawstrich blinked, then smiled. “Okay!”

Strombonin stood up. “So… we are an actual family now.”

“Yeah,” Yawstrich added, “we are!”

“Do we hug now?” Sporerow asked. “Because I don’t know if I’ve ever been hugged before, and it looks like fun.”

Strombonin and Yawstrich exchanged looks with one another, then smiled at Sporerow. “Of course! Bring it in.”

The three Monsters eventually got close together in a big hug, tired from all of the walking and running from earlier. They’d gone through… stuff while on their way to Cold Island, but it was all worth it.

++epilogue, on Mythical Island++

Cataliszt noticed Strombonin, Yawstrich, and Sporerow all sitting together at the Bakery, laughing and eating a Big Salad. They butt-scooched over to the family.

“So, how was the family trip?”

The family then turned to look at Cataliszt. Yawstrich and Strombonin glanced at each other.

“Well,” Yawstrich said, “it’s a long story…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

this was supposed to be short why did it take me from late at night to like 4 pm 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

ANYWAYS uhhhhh. i love featherscales and I love the found family trope so yeah have this lol

tagging my fellow featherscales enjoyers: @dreamythism @paidexp @sc9ut @sc9utmain @i-put-the-milk-before-the-cereal hiiiiii

[kulshedra97]

centaurin' around

just adding my own vision of them to the pot. okapi-taurs!

[artapir]

Moorish crabs according to Midjourney.

[vizuart]

Max Frey - Centaurin (1928)

[psikonauti]

Max Frey (German ,1874-1944)

Centaurin, 1928

Oil on canvas

[random-brushstrokes]

Max Frey - Centaurin (ca. 1928)

[justineportraits]

Max Frey    Centaurin    c1928

[naladvnalam]

Holdfényexpressz

Az utolsó mérföld üres

Utazok az Alfa Centaurin

Mégis karamboloztam a tükörrel

Körülvesz füstköd, koffein, taurin.

Keress ott, ahol senki se jár

A Hold túloldalán sétálva megfagyok

A Balenciaga meg a galaxis szavak közt

Szabadkézzel rajzolt egyensúly én vagyok

Levitáló angyali fátylak közt

Magamban kerestem a hibát,

Elment egy vonat, most jönne több is

De erre már Szárszón szállok át...

2020.10.09

[lamergelee]

“La vie conne et fine de Gustave F.” [épisode 14]

[Lire les épisodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4 bis, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13] Le jour 14, Gustave voulut encore sortir dehors. Ce jour-là, tard, sur les coups de midi, midi un quart, Gustave se réveilla entouré d’un vol de hérons stylisés qui migraient vers les brumes sur la soie chiffonnée de son kimono. Un beau soleil oblique filtrait d’entre les rideaux jusqu’au canapé, sa joue grise près de l’accoudoir chauffait, le sang battait douloureusement contre ses tempes, il avait assez soif, la bouche pâteuse, l’haleine effrayante. Il ouvrit un œil d’oiseau pour distinguer l’heure à la façade de la box sous la TV, il ne remua pas d’abord, réfléchissant s’il fallait se réjouir ou au contraire se désoler d’avoir bouffé déjà la moitié de la journée, mais réfléchir le meurtrissait de trop. Il avisa autour de lui l’environnement plus immédiat, la table basse à hauteur de son nez où traînaient de la veille le DVD de Ghostdog, celui de Kagemusha, les restes d’une boîte de makis Picard, un wakizachi planté dans la planche à saucisson (arme que son père avait soi-disant fait venir de chez un maître de l’acier de Kyoto pour un de ses anniversaires, mais dont il avait trouvé par hasard l’équivalent exact chez Pier Import), les cadavres de bouteilles d’Asahi et le Yamazaki 18 ans d’âge qu’il avait torpillés, et il se dit que tout ce Japon d’hier l’avait salement démoralisé. La Saudâji, sans doute, comme disaient les anciens Nippons convertis par les Portugais. Il finit par mobiliser ses forces pour se mettre debout, et se mouvoir sur du coton jusqu’au miroir à pharmacie en quête d’un Doliprane à faire passer dans un fond d’eau. À la réflexion, il coupa le cachet en deux, car le rationnement ne parlait plus de finir. Retour au salon, il écarta d’un gros doigt le rideau pour jeter dehors un de ses tout petits yeux. La lumière l’écorcha. Il aperçut ses verres correcteurs sur la table qu’il enfourcha, renonça à rebrancher son smartphone et l’allumer de crainte des appels en absence, principalement ceux de son père, qui à cet instant précis lui était odieux. Il se dit qu’il n’était pas juste, la gueule de bois le rendait toujours un petit peu amer, il fallait être plus gentil, le pauvre vieux en avait bavé dans son existence, enfant il avait enduré tout de même la guerre mondiale, et perdu plusieurs proches. Au moment de l’épuration surtout. Il se convainquit qu’aujourd’hui il faudrait sortir prendre en l’air, pourquoi pas faire un brin de sport. Il mit à ébouillanter une casserole de café et entreprit d’enluminer à la main son attestation de sortie. Un gros quatre quarts d’heure plus tard il était prêt. Masque de ski sur la bobine toujours, mais cette fois comme le motif coché sur le papier tenait à l’« activité physique individuelle des personnes et aux besoins des animaux de compagnie », il décida de se transporter plus léger en bas de l’immeuble que la fois d’avant pour les courses : il avait enfilé un t-shirt et un short. Il n’avait pas retrouvé de chaussettes en cotonnade blanche élastique, seulement de la laine Burlington. Ça le serrait un peu dans les sandales de plastique pour la mer, mais on ferait avec. « Bonne promenade ! se cria-t-il à lui-même en repoussant la porte palière. De la prudence, surtout ! de la prudence ! » Et il agita sa banane contenant ses papiers en se regardant s’éloigner. Dans la rue, pas un chat, tant mieux parce que maintenant qu’il était en public il ne se sentait pas tellement à son aise avec ses cannes poilues qui frisaient à l’air libre et son ventre gainé par le maillot qui avait dû rétrécir au lavage ou alors c’était le vin. Bref, il commença ses exercices par une petite série de pas chassés – mollo quand même, pas la peine non plus de se faire un claquage, et éviter surtout de dépasser le fameux kilomètre au-delà du pâté de maison. Tout d’un coup, comme il allait partir sur quelques mètres en foulée talons-fesses, il resta en arrêt devant un spectacle qui l’estomaqua. Il releva un peu son masque Decathlon pour mieux voir. Au loin, sur la chaussée qui miroitait comme l’eau, venait au pas une forme floue dans le soleil, une forme de canasson montée par un être mystérieux, en uniforme, casqué et aussi masqué. Un fantôme de la cavalerie nordiste dans un Anthony Mann ou quelque guerrier médiéval échappé de la matière de Bretagne. Il était en arrêt, en extase serait mieux dire, écoutant dans le grand silence viral le pas merveilleusement lointain du cheval. Clic clop, clic clop, clic clop. Était-ce le vieux Verlaine qui lui gémissait au même instant à l’oreille ?

Bon chevalier masqué qui chevauche en silence, Le Malheur a percé mon vieux cœur de sa lance Gustave restait là, ses gestes suspendus, la mâchoire entrouverte, les yeux élargis d’un ravissement sans raison, presque pris de frissons que ne justifiait pas la brise légère qui se levait. Le sang de mon vieux cœur n’a fait qu’un jet vermeil, Puis s’est évaporé sur les fleurs, au soleil. L’ombre éteignit mes yeux, un cri vint à ma bouche Et mon vieux cœur est mort dans un frisson farouche. La grande créature centaurine continuait d’approcher lentement, un crépitement d’ondes radio sourdait à intervalles du bleu kevlar de l’uniforme, plus bas un tonfa noir battait tel une Durandal le flanc mafflu de l’animal, et Verlaine ou une autre voix suave continuait : Alors le chevalier Malheur s’est rapproché, Il a mis pied à terre et sa main m’a touché. Son doigt ganté de fer entra dans ma blessure Tandis qu'il attestait sa loi d’une voix dure. La voix ne croyait pas si bien dire. Le bourrin étant arrivé à son niveau, Gustave entendit que de la selle de la bête on l’abordait : « Papiers, s’il vous plaît. » Il tendit sans barguigner son attestation et son passeport. L’être un peu irréel sur le cheval examina les documents. C’était un homme moustachu, d’une trentaine d’années tout au plus, les épaules larges dans son pare-balles bleu et sa polaire fine, le port altier sous la bombe noire. Les flancs du cheval luisaient au soleil. Gustave aurait voulu se renseigner sur les conditions de recrutement, se promit de se renseigner dès qu’il serait chez lui. « Hum, du sport, hein ? » Gustave dit oui, rentra l’estomac et rezippa sa banane, il aurait voulu prolonger l’échange, s’enquérir, s’intéresser plus, susciter vraiment le dialogue mais déjà l’agent de police et sa monture trottaient plus loin, vers le contrôle d’un nouvel athlète au bout de la rue. (A suivre).