#faun princess

[poicyss]

faun princess

[newwavesylviaplath]

[hibbeln]

Magical Creatures LU part 2

as it was decided, we have a Hyrule Faun! and thanks to your suggestions I made the other boys too!

Here we have Blupee Wild, which is like a ghost capable of materializing and disappearing at will! Hyrule Faun, based on a deer, with his pan flute and ability with medicinal potions! And Twilight, a Satyr, half Goat, I didn't want to go on the more obvious werewolf side, but that would also be a good idea.

Kitsune Time, being the oldest, as always, over 100 years old, and a mischievous spirit. Wars Centaur, it simply suits him, he also ended up being the tallest, I tried to make him look like a strong stallion :)

And that's it, their design is already defined, now I can start making some random drawings of them interacting, I think I accidentally ended up making an AU... cool

[sapphicslaylist]

Mockingbird

The Princess has always been “dangerous” - this is an immutable truth. But when genuine peace is offered in the place of bloodshed, even harsher cruelties befall a particularly guarded vessel.

And this time, she’s had enough of his honeyed words and lacerating tongue. This time he’s made her into something worse.

One of my favorite AUs! Deer!Thorn is tired of Quiet’s shit. Fic by me; fanart by @justanumber

[pistachiozombie]

Some cute Satyr Glades AU stuff (Bofur x Leanna but im close to just making him an oc and calling him Boru) I love the Princess and the pauper sorta vibe

[cirqueduroyale]

Unicorn Princess Valeria: Dancer, planner for children's programs in her kingdom, magic healer by day and erotic fan fiction writer by night

[babyjewl]

[foldingfittedsheets]

So do all of your stories take place in one universe?

Yeah! I've said it a couple times but for sharp eyed readers I tried to confirm it with Charles from Leda and the Swan Princess

Popping up in Clove's shop here to buy spell components!

[cosmic-whorror]

Enjoy some cloud princess doodles ☁️

[cosmoglass]

Guillermo Del Toro was inspired by Ico and Shadow of the Colossus when he made El Laberinto del Fauno (Pan's Labyrinth).

It’s well known that Guillermo Del Toro is a huge fan of Ico and Shadow of the Colossus. The second game came out around the time filming of Pan’s Labyrinth was concluding, but I think it’s quite likely that del Toro would have watched trailers for it. His film is often described as a fairy tale for adults, and it occurred to me how well that describes Ico. Shadow of the Colossus is more like a Greek myth. The first shot of the movie shows Princess Moanna leaving her kingdom through ruins that are very reminiscent of the castle in Ico. Ofelia speaks to the faun in a place with a spiral staircase that's reminiscent of where Yorda is suspended in her cage. Both we and Ofelia are told that she is in fact Princess Moanna, Moanna's soul having returned in her body. When she finally escapes her fascist captor, she glows like Yorda and is reunited with her family as the princess in an afterlife kingdom.

I wrote a post here about Le Roi et l’Oiseau (The King and the Mockingbird) as a source of inspiration for Fumito Ueda. It's an adaptation of Hans Christian Andersen's The Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep, which features a faun/satyr, the same creature with the hind legs of a goat and horns (like Ico) that we see in Pan’s Labyrinth. The ending music, which is also the lullaby that Mercedes hums to Ofelia, sounds a bit like ‘La Bergere et le Ramoneur’ from The King and the Mockingbird which I have previously suggested could be an inspiration for 'Castle in the Mist'.

The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time - Ofelia is guided by fairies. Two fairies are effectively ‘used up’, saving her from being killed. The Great Deku tree. The monster sitting at the table looks like a ReDead and when he places his eyes into his hands, it reminded me of Bongo Bongo, the Shadow Temple boss.

Various movie influences - A girl rescuing her baby brother in a labyrinth is like Labyrinth. Doors created by drawing an outline with chalk is from Beetlejuice. Ofelia wears a pair of red shoes like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Alice in Wonderland.

Pan's Labyrinth feels very like a video game and as much like a Greek myth as like a fairy tale. It's something I feel I should have thought of before, how much the quests you go on in action-adventure and RPG games are like those in classical mythology. Think of how Ofelia has to complete three tasks, face three monsters and is rewarded with special items. Her first task, for example, is to get three stones into the mouth of a giant toad for which she is rewarded with a special key. It's amazing how Guillermo del Toro manages to thread this fantasy world together with a real world situation of Ofelia being held captive by a sadistic military officer in Franco's Spain.

[meli-writes]

Truth to be Dared - Ch. 05

(First) / (Previous)

/// CW: brief groping and non-consensual impact play in separate scenes. ///

Tin-tin-Tin-ting.

The Great Hall summons its petitions. It should be matters of regular import — if late due to her absence, as the Princess suffers as little of her Regent, his rule, on his wooden chair as she can — to whom peasant and lord should attend in one-to-three-fourths arrangement.

Alas, her faun at her side, there are none but fools here today — besides herself.

Tin-ting. Ting-tin-Ting.

Ten-dozen knights — unbattled, to whom this is the most fearsome sight — criss-cross the hall with pavise in hand, as to wind her noisome, noble circus-seekers towards her as a soft-bellied snake, poised to pounce, with prattle that never ceases to bore.

Not that Florentina expected otherwise. It is true — that she promised her faun some peace. But sometimes a circus is willed, and she will hush them and be heard:

You have no right to me—

Tin-ting. Tin.

Ah— Yes. Those. It’s a wondrous sound, is it not? The bells. An entire hour to affix them, with Esme’s assistance; a half-dozen per horn, red ribbons with miniature, brass chimes.

That sort one mounts upon a cat you wish not to mouse, here now to be pleasant as her faun writhes and finds it not so; perhaps it will teach it to be still. Till then, a delight to fill one’s hours amidst another unclever remark, and another, and another, that implies the Bishop’s words — her Uncle’s, come now — might still bear fruit.

The word seed comes to purplish, wine-stained lips too often. Then soon its prickish cousin, seeding: an unpleasant conjugation, one that had never seemed to suit her. More sooner, as more the man she thinks, should the Princess bed her suitors instead.

Tin-tin-tin-Tinnn. Ting-tin.

So she gestures to a pair of cages: the one between its legs, and the one it’s in — wrought for a songbird, though sized for a cockatrice stuffed on a thousand of them. Her faun itself, wrist-bound-in-ribbon to its peak, made to perch on its hooves, after it had dared butt its horns upon the bars and lurch its claws at Esme.

Strange it was, that her handmaiden had still looked upon it with a wordless sorrow.

Tin-tin.

No matter the now, as each petitioner requests the same; and sups their hands on thigh and breast, pulls at its horns and sees how close their fingers can be afore it bites.

If it does, it will be their Gods-damned fault for reaching in so far.

But it never does. Its wrists chafe on silk and it looks smaller for each courtier that thrusts at it; each one that looks to it and then droops as iron in the forge, slaves themselves to it like a flower to the sun; a moment that starts to madden her, for its bewildering recurrence.

Yet afore she can ever act, it stops.

Some sneer at it then, others whimper; one cousin-of-another fumbles an attempt to slap it and Florentina has to half-rise from her throne to make them scatter. Some former suitors dare show themselves, though do not as others do offer gifts in exchange for it.

“Dowries?” she mentions, to see those ones choke on the ash of their obvious, shared scheme; that she would do what, trade her kingdom for a faun?

Ting-tin-ting. Tin. Tin-tin-Ting.

She has both.

Though none see the latter as much beautiful, nor even as the prize it is. Too proud to see what’s in front of their own nose. For amidst the pupil-pinched wickedness in its goatish glare — and its still-vexing insistence on spurious disobedience — it is otherwise so soft, and cannot hide it now: so begging to be tamed.

The sun, ever drawn to the horizon, slips across the hall till hours-past it rests on her stone seat, and she feels herself an egg fried atop the stove. She pilfers her mind for what courtesies, less and less pleasantries also, will hurry the next one on, and rubs her bloomed impatience into the signet ring — symbol of the dynasty that is, for now, still hers.

That none of them, she thinks more and more, will ever bow to again.

Tin-tin. Ting-tin-ting.

Who would ever come to bow to a circus? Lady Relbert arrives near to the tail, as Florentina expects; to question the Princess who last saw her lord-husband; to inspect the foul beast that slew him. Florentina restrains herself in the hot, overmade chair — though cannot help but wonder her gaze across the Lady Relbert, who dresses not quite so proper as one should in mourning, and watches — to see what she sees.

It recurs in half; the Lady deigns not approach it more than she would the Princess and she does not droop, but creases like worn velvet, “Afore perhaps I could, but now I cannot fathom such a creature could kill my husband, why she—” and stills, as dress-folds rustle.

“My Lady?” Florentina inquires, and the Lady stumbles.

“Goodness. Yes,” she responds, startled. “I was just thinking of how dearly I’ll miss him.”

Her faun chortles at that, and Florentina tenses till she realises the Lady has taken either no offence… or no notice, and excuses herself — and leaves the Princess to her bells.

---

It is a—

Ting-tin-ting.

It’s a—

Tin-tin-ting. Ting.

It— is— a— dreadful sound.

Tin-ting. Tin-tin.

And has been so for days.

Ting-tin-Tin.

It is leashed now, near to the hearth, where an iron anchor-loop has been sunk low into the wall. The delicate chain that leads from it trims a pool of loose furs and spare pillows which one might have mistaken for a sleepover — were Florentina still small enough, and ever been allowed the friends for it.

She has retired her faun, as promised. Yet still—

Tin-ting. Ting-tin-Ting.

Still — it will not stop. She has tried to remove the bastardly-twee chimes, but it will not let her close. Instead, it snorts at her flame-licked shadow and bucks even a cautious touch.

It had allowed Esme to sit aside; she had asked it, politer than she ever was to Florentina, if she could untie the ribbons. Her faun had been silent — as if it would not be — and Esme turned, “Can you give her some space, Florrie?”

A step-then-another back did not suffice.

“Give us space,” Esme had instructed, and Florentina creaked.

It stared as she retreated, pupils square as the time-buckled dais that props up her chair; what whispers she might’ve stolen crushed aneath the uncertain squeal of her routed boots.

Esme followed into the bedchamber soon after — been turned on after a twinkled bell did not come loose. “She’ll come round on the morrow.”

To let it, as if it would.

Because that’s how you treat a girl.

Ting-tin-ting-Tin-tin.

As if it isn’t mocking her — a revenge it culls somehow from barren soil, to make for her one sleepless night after the next.

Never to its own folly, of course not. Each dawn that breaks does so on bare brick and its flocculent bosom, that trembles as a leveed brook swoll with sallow-hearted dreams; never to wake afore she must leave — to her circus, that will not cease in its absence.

How could it have? To bow to a circus.

And her its Court Fool — as she refuses the countless latesome requests of distant courtiers travelled to see it, whose dispelled, now perfunctious tributes will beget weak tithes when harvest comes; as she denies her Uncle’s renewed proposals, this time to loose her faun in the gardens and host a do-over — and let all her past suitors shoot at it.

The Spectre-Saint of Jesters-Past could not have played her better. If the prophecy isn’t false, it must be Hers. To one Lord she dismisses it, and he thinks it gives him a chance; to another she embraces it — and the Bishop’s words are taken even less true.

To whomst Cock hath seed even been blessed!?

Her faun didn’t catch itself, now did it? She did. Though her recollection of it now seems wan and waxen, and muddles her to recall it. She recounts it to herself, as if its details might slip from her, as another of her misfortunes steps before her seat.

Tin-Ting-tin-Tin. Tin-tin.

Her words as hollow to them as those wretched chimes, deeds as held in her hands as the wind that rustles them. There will be a thirteenth suitor — and she cannot accept him, no matter how dire it would be not to. No amount of chances she’s been permitted by her ancestors' laws would ever have been enough; no suitor will ever suit her.

How can they not see her fate will never be theirs?

Her body.

Her throne.

Tin-tin-Tin. Ting-tin. Tin.

Perhaps then, when the ancient rules simply run out — she can kill them all instead; turn on them her retreat, that she has fought since her line ended without her, as each step back has never sufficed, up against a march that her faun could not falter — even for a day.

Tin-ting-Ting-tin.

She feels the wall at her back. No, she could never have done—

Ting-tin-ting. Tin. Tin-tin-Ting.

“Enough!” she bellows, and is across chambers to the hearth in so few strides she could be ahorse a destrier; her shift cackling in moon-and-hearthlight, in indecisive hue. “I could have forgiven the disobeisance, but for me to have saved you, protected you, despite how useless you turn out to have been!?"

Tin-Ting-tin. Tin—

Her hands charge, to where her faun’s own tousle at a chime, to take horn-in-hand and force it face-down into the pillows, where its startled bleat is smothered.

Tih-tih-tihh.

Its curls — those have melted, in the hearthfire, drawn down to shapeless fluff. Her hands run through, from nape-to-a-scut that flickers as a wind-bitten candle. Her claws grasp at its softness in ill-restrained frets, and she rakes its short tail like a second leash, till its whole rear-self hobbles onto the tiles — till it’s presented to her, to drink in as uncorked wine.

She raises her hand.

Tihh-tih.

“You’ll learn first to be still!”

Tih.

And it falls, on her faun— Smack!

It bells without chimes, that weep dull in their cushioned grave. It scrabbles on the stone, no purchase in the Princess’ horn-hold — can but lurch out its throat, an apple bowed low on its branch, and she is a teeth-bare hound on a thread-bare leash, “Oh. I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

Smack! Smack! Tih. Tih.

“That’s much too bad,” she unsoothes, and presses into the shamed flesh; nails carving like a fork into plumpened, roasted fowl. To part the fur, to see its skin.

Smack! Tihh.

It needs to be red.

“Because you’ll need then learn to nod and to-do when I ask.

As a pleasant—”

Smack!

“And guileless—”

Smack!

“Girl—”

Smack!

“Should!”

Smack!

Tih. Tih. Tih. Tihh!

“Because this is how you’ll be treated,” she cries, and its skin glows as it sinks into pillows like hot iron; and she feels all its smith. “For nothing you can do will ever suffice.”

Her hand rises.

“So you’ll learn at last, to bow.”

Tih-tih.

And falls, and—

Ting! Tin-tin-tin.

Her wrist falls into its hand; its tail slips from her, candle-in-wind.

And the faun stills.

The Princess' chest billows its own ashen smoke to choke herself upon; she cannot look past her own nose as it twists on itself to face her — wrought cold-as-stone, buckled under her — but she sees the tears.

It sobs, far less than it should, for how sodden it all seems — pillows and fur.

And the Princess knows what it should sound like. She had hunted with her father, before his end; pleaded that until she had a brother that he simply must tutor her in the bloodied matter, lest he grow dull — and it was moreso then the length of her argument, than its merits, that won.

The felling of a doe was never a sound that left her. It is what she expects, but the faun—

It cries like a girl.

And then it’s all she can hear, and she does not understand how it could’ve been so silent.

Tin-tin. Tin.

Then she can hear the bells; fumbles at a dresser, till she seeks a stout blade and shows it.

Faded light dulls its edge, as she kneels aside and waits on it to nod, lets it bow its head — as it did when she collared it, amidst the leaves wet. Does not demand she hand it over, as she did when it collared itself — amidst its blood.

Red.

She cuts.

Tin-Tink! Tin-Tink! Tin-Tink!

Each bell tumbles to the floor, till she can cast herself and faun aside; where the crimson ribbon falls in gushes upon its hooves, and she sits across, head tipped back to the wall. There isn’t a scratch on it, but she thumbs at the blade till she’s bitten.

Trapped in this place. Fate sold to other hands, taken up in them.

You have more right to your hate, than I do mine-own throne.

Yet still, when she can at last bear to see, it looks back as only a doll can: a gaze it returns only because you have wandered into its own. Till, at merciful last, one lost bell slips from a pillow, to which it breaks — to steal and place it tentatively with the other discarded lot.

Tin.

She rises, and it lets her close.

Its horns feel petite in her hands, which slip off its seed-oiled surface. The collar sits loose around its neck, rested on upright shoulders, and sunken into so much clouded fluff she thinks it must be half the size its appears to be.

Its eyes flicker, in indecisive form.

Those pinched-square pupils, that bedecked it in ill intent, round into a pale iridescence that turns back on her the cold moonlight. Then pinch, then round; pinch-then-round; tears stall and flow; pinch-and-round, of-goat-then-girl; till it’s a blur in her skull that the Princess wants to rip out.

Her hand tumbles; doesn't realise it has fallen into the faun's own, until she squeezes on reflex and is holding the other. There are no more bells. The night stills.

Florentina closes her eyes, and they are still full of hers.

Lost, and pled to be understood. She bucks on the thought she might; retreats her hand into herself, herself — into the other chamber.

She does not sleep.

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

originally written on cohost 22/08/2024, in respone to Making-up-Monsters' prompt:

Monster who won't do what you tell it

[rhmis-user-2020]

request: princess celestia as Flora cadance as Fauna and luna as Merryweather please.

[thelamentknight]

(Lazy)

The middle triplet

[wastelandwild]

The Quarrel of Oberon and Titania by Sir Joseph Noel Paton

[birdmitosis]

Need ship names for paranoid and cold please help 🙏🙏

Ohohoho, I am here for this~

NEGL I just keep tagging all my posts for them #paracold, because deep down I am a sucker for a good smushname and both Paranoid and Cold are pretty good for those.

That said, @phospolipid-bilayer once suggested Goosebumps, and I am more and more in love with that for them. Kinda want to go back and tag all my #paracold posts with #stp goosebumps as well.

(That was back before I went "wait, yeah, I can put stp before ship names to give them their own unique tags," my bran can be a bit slow sometimes LOL)

[pistachiozombie]

[Satyr Glades] You'll find Princess Leanna of Amoura wandering in what is later called the Forest of Tears after her loss ~ that is, if you CAN find her. Backstory below (death tw):

Satyr Glades was once a large land populated by anthro and satyr like creatures separated by three 'biomes' relevant to their type. These creatures are a product of over 500 years of mutation after a meteor carrying toxic spores hit their world. Eventually, this already damaged world was destroyed even further, when an ill-intended civilian created a mutated strain of the spores to what is called the Corruption, causing anything that inhales it to become a feral, unrecognizable bloodthirsty beast. It spread much quicker than intended. Survivors of this outbreak were forced to evacuate to the center biome, which had always been a collective plan for the satyrs. During this event, the King and Queen of Amoura were killed, along with Leanna's first husband and child, leaving Princess Leanna and Prince Lynwood. While the kingdom organizes order ruling, Leanna is MIA for a long while, rumored to have passed during the Corruption event.