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auranova26 · 1 year ago

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The Bigfoot Tribe

In the lore regarding the Sahrijinn, I made mention of the Bigfoot Tribe. Honestly, kinda stumbled into the idea, but I felt it would be a cool way to introduce not only how their race left Makai, but also just happened to be friends with this effective race of powerful magic users.

If you wish to read up about the Sahrijinn, check it out here:

With that said, let me take the time to talk a bit about the Bigfoot themselves. Like all non-humans, their origin was in Makai. Originally, their fur appearance was not like the type of creatures they would eventually come to be commonly known and seen as. While still stocky creatures, their fur was much shorter. Bigfoot beings were a simple race that had simple principles. They did believe in strength but were not inclined to be aggressive. If anything, they were a friendly bunch... so long as you do not give them a reason to go feral. If you were courteous to Bigfoot people, they would return the courtesy. Give them food and they will quickly become your friends as the exchange of food is considered a sign of goodwill and friendship in their culture. Even with all the general kindness and friendly nature of the Bigfoot, they still were natural born warriors. While not inclined to be aggressive in conquering, they would sometimes pass the time by sparring with one another. It served both as a way to not only bond with others but even was used in courtship among the members of the Bigfoot.

The Sahrijinn were the first to establish peace with the Bigfoot. Since then, the two have stayed together as close allies. Via cultural exchanges and interactions, the Bigfoot would become excellent sparring partners among the warrior Ifrit and great allies if conflicts were to occur. In exchange, the Sahrijinn provided protections to the Bigfoot Tribe and taught the Bigfoot the ways of magic. This would lead to the Bigfoot tribe to eventually discover the art of Cryomancy as they learned of Pyromancy first from the Ifrit. This alliance and mutual growth would come to help once the Exodus of the Sahrijinn would occur. While the Bigfoot could have easily annulled their alliance considering they would put their race at risk, they refused to abandon their Sahrijinn friends. Deserting a friend is the worst offense among Bigfoot culture. They aided the Sahrijinn, providing further muscle and numbers to the fleeing Sahrijinn. While some Bigfoot were killed in the initial fleeing, the fallen were never forgotten by their kin. The Sahrijinn would hail the Bigfoot warriors who gave their lives on the journey as the greatest of heroes and made sure their names were kept in record.

Once out of Makai and onto the realm that would eventually become known as Earth, the Bigfoot and Sahrijinn would initially travel around together for quite a while. The Sahrijinn wanted to help the Bigfoot Tribe find a new home upon this unknown frontier of a new world. It took time, but eventually the Bigfoot found a spot they liked as it had quite an abundant source of food and water. While the Sahrijinn would leave, they always kept in touch with the Bigfoot Tribe as the millennia went on.

As time went on and as the land changed, the Bigfoot would also slowly evolve from the species they were. As the climate of the territory they settled in changed, their fur would change overtime to become a much longer and thicker coat to acclimate to the colder climate. This came to be handy once the Ice Age eras of Earth occurred throughout their time in this realm. Once the last major Ice Age happened, the Bigfoot Tribe would eventually be split off as the area they came to settle were separated by a land bridge that was broken apart by the end of the last Ice Age. The lands the two tribes would settle around would eventually become present day Canada and Siberia. In time though, they would reestablish contact with their separated brethren. This was accomplished by basically domesticating a species of seal over the years. With some aid from the Sahrijinn, these seals were eventually trained to be able to deliver messages at great speeds over the vast ocean that separated the two tribes. Granted, while the Marid could have reunited the two tribes, the leader of the Bigfoot at the time felt it was best to establish their tribe across both lands. That way, there were more safe places that the Sahrijinn could visit along with their own race. Plus, the Bigfoot already put in effort with befriending their seal friends and making their villages.

Things went well generally for the Bigfoot tribe. While they did have run ins with some aggressive creatures and even the ancestors of humans, they generally were in good numbers and health across the two artic territories. However, the one thing that the Sahrijinn feared would happen finally came to happen. The Gate opened up in the lands of the Eurasian continent. While it has been eons since the Sahrijinn and Bigfoot had escaped Makai and established civilization on Earth, the Sahrijinn were still fearful that their pursuers were possibly after them. This fear led them to believe they would not be safe in this realm and eventually devised a plan. In time, the Sahrijinn created the realm of Jannah for themselves. They would inform the Bigfoot tribe of the arrival of beings from their old homeland. While this was a surprise, they would not budge. While they appreciated the offer of being given a new home in Jannah, the two leaders of the Bigfoot Tribes both agreed they would stay on Earth. It was their new home, and they already had many friends across the land. They would not abandon their new friends. They urged their Sahrijinn friends to go on without them, which they did. However, the Sahrijinn did at least promise to keep in touch and always welcome the Bigfoot to visit should they ever want to. This was done by allowing the Tribe leaders knowledge of the location of the portal to Jannah, which was in what was Central Asia.

The Bigfoot Tribes of Canada and Siberia would have their fair share of run-ins with 'Darkstalkers' of the old homeland. However, while some were aggressors, some were passive and surprised about the presence of these strange creatures. Not only cause the Bigfoot were the only other species that could talk, besides humans, but because the language the Bigfoot spoke was basically Old Makaiin tongue. While the Bigfoot would still play cautious, they would eventually come to befriend the Darkstalkers that were respectful and provided food. However, they would never make mention or speak of anything regarding the existence of the Sahrijinn as the two tribes would not betray their oldest friends.

Beyond the new Darkstalkers that came to live on Earth, the Bigfoot have long had contact with many human civilizations over the years that would brave the artic lands that the Bigfoot called home. While many of the first nation people of Canada and Siberia would generally be on great, mutual terms with the Bigfoot, many of the humans that came from more 'civilized' lands were of a greater mixed bag. Some with aggressive intentions while others of curiosity. In general, the Bigfoot would keep hold of their lands, protecting them with vigor, even aiding their friends of the first nation and Darkstalkers variety. In the simplest sense, the Bigfoot Tribes were bros to all they considered friends.

That should hopefully give some good insight into the Bigfoot Tribe as a race. I hope you do enjoy and as always, I am happy to answer questions regarding lore of Cryas Darkstalkers. Till next time! 😄✌️☃️

#cryas darkstalkers #darkstalkers #lore #auranova26 #bigfoot #sahrijinn #worldbuilding

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copias-thrall · 4 years ago

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I see this all the time, but I wanna see your take on it if that’s alright? Vampire! Copia with a submissive!female (human) s/o in bed?

Hi nonny—I know you were looking for a little smut, but I threw in some gothic tropes, no charge.

*blood sucking; D/s; consensual mind control; orgasm delay*

Copia may be a younger vampire, but he’s still pretty old in terms of human lifetimes (think hundreds of years instead of millennia). He’s not a celibate blood drinker, but he is pretty choosey about his lovers—he takes one for a lifetime and then spends another lifetime in mourning after they grow old and die. So he’s always always a decade behind in current courtship procedures.

He’s been able to roll with the times: selling his gothic castle for a brooding manor house—Charlotte Brontë instead of Bram Stoker—with his thralls as his clavigers and main … er … sustenance. Sure, the neighbors who are acres away think the old, eccentric man with his pantheon of pale servants is a little … dare they say—creepy? But mostly he’s left in peace to read his ancient tomes and spend nights out with the wind beneath his bat wings as he searches for a fresh meal—and maybe a little hanky-panky, yes?

You came to him quite by accident; Copia had been (reluctantly) throwing a soirée for his sire and blood siblings, and—with his usual thralls busy with setting up and running errands—he had need of a cleaning service. When you’d shown up in your starched, white uniform and cleaning cart—all stuttering and mumbles when faced with his mismatched gaze—he’d known he was lost for this lifetime.

He’d known he’d had to have you.

At the time, you hadn’t known why the hair on the back of your neck had risen when you thought you were alone in a room, or why there always seemed to be somebody just behind you until you turned around. But now you know it was him watching, admiring—the stretch of your limbs, the concentration on your face, the sinuous way you maneuvered the vacuum cleaner. Oh how he’d longed to unclasp the clip from your hair so he could smell the sweet fragrance of your shampoo wafting across the room—the thought of brushing it away from the vein in your neck making his fangs distend and drip with his sweet poison!

But you were no meal, no! You were a deer to tame—and he was willing to sit motionless in the clover, hand outstretched, as long as it took for you to come to him. Copia knew you weren’t to be won over by flowers and chocolates delivered to your door—he’d known enough about this contemporary era to know that was no longer considered couth.

No, it had started with a simple summons to his study—a cliche of a room filled with mahogany furniture and a globe—where he’d given you a soft Thank you for a job well done and a generous tip (which you tried to refuse, stammering), his fingertips lightly brushing yours as he handed over the envelope. Still dubious about the man, you’d eventually relented when he hadn’t pressed you for more.

When you’d been sent to him especially the next week, you thought: Ah, there it is.

But it had been the same as before—though with less of the pomp bustle about the imposing household. The week before, you’d watched his servants efficiently—if dully—perform their party duties. That week … not a soul seemed to be around—though you still had felt that prickle of unease crawl up the nape of your neck as you cleaned.

Again, Copia had drawn you into his study to render a sizable tip—but nothing more.

The weeks had gone on like this, and you’d soon gotten used to the weight of being watched (boiling it down to the presence that all old houses seemed to have) and of Copia’s unsaid admiration—for it was there: in the steadiness of his gaze on yours; the subtle inhalation when you reached for the envelope; and the way you sometimes caught his eyes sweeping up your form.

The first time you’d found him in one of the rooms (having become fairly accustomed to encountering none of the household) reading a book in the darkest corner, you’d been surprised—but not scared. Soon, however, it became a game to you to guess in which room you’d find him.

You had a bingo card at home.

Those encounters had led to brief questions on the book in his hand, which had then led to longer discussions, with those in turn leading to lengthier debates that had spilled into the study—where light nibbles started appearing.

By the time you’d found the creamy cardstock in your tips envelope, you were more than happy to accept this odd, but charming man’s formal request to court you. It meant you’d have to stop cleaning the house for him—but you were more than happy for the trade off.

Somehow you’d expected him to wow you Pretty Woman style—with jewels and trips to the opera—but instead he wooed you with candlelit dinners at holes in the walls, moonlit walks down the beach, and quiet nights in by his library fireside.

At first, you’d dreaded the end of each date, wondering if this was the one where his hands would end up under your clothes, but—other than some gentles kisses—he remained a perfect gentleman. Your initial relief eventually turned into consternation, which morphed into frustration.

When you’d finally confronted him, all uncharacteristic fire and affront, he’d merely looked at you with mirth dancing in those mismatched eyes.

“Ah, but mia cerva—I was waiting on you. This is meaning you are ready to come to me, si?”

That was the first night the two of you had made love in his four poster bed, and—though he was gentle—you could tell he was holding back. When you’d finally grown bold enough to question him about it, he’d waved you off. Though you still cared for him, the honeymoon period was over and you began to grow suspicious: the eerie, ghostly servants? the inexplicable and unexplained absences in the middle of the night? the locked rooms? how he only seemed to push around his food? how you could never explain why you suddenly dropped each query?

You’d set about exploring all the nooks and crannies of his estate during those nightly disappearances—which was often stymied by the sudden appearance of his silent servants, who (though anemic-looking) still had firmly escorted you away from private rooms and locked doors.

And he must have known—he had to have—but never once did he bring up your midnight wanderings. In fact, he studiously avoided that topic with the air of one unconcerned—which was the hubris that ultimately led to his unveiling.

You had woken again to find him gone from his bed, so—armed with a tiny flashlight—you’d once again set out on your exploration. Maybe some part of him wanted you to find him; maybe an unsuccessful hunt affected his reasoning; maybe it happened so frequently he thought himself safe from your investigations—whatever the cause, you had found him in his sterile, stainless steel kitchen.

The kitchen was only supposed to be a shortcut, but when you’d slowly opened the door—the moonlight from one of the windows casting a pale square into the relative pitch of the room—you’d found him bent over, the neck of one of his thralls (who was limp and clasped to him, eyes rolled back in ecstasy) pressed to his mouth.

You must have made a noise, because he had looked up violently—his eyes a deep red and his lips now claret. And there had been fear—a skip of your heart and a draining of blood from your face—but there had also been a deep welling of hurt that had brought the blood back up. Your lover! With another in his close embrace!

Eyes burning, you’d thrown your flashlight at him before hurrying away from the scene—

But then he was right there beside you—eyes and lips now their normal hues—grasping your elbow and begging you to listen. You hadn’t wanted to—but he’d fallen to his knees, hands clasped in your nightshirt, and had begged you not to cast him aside.

It had been a fraught night full of revelations and hard truths: he’d been afraid that you’d reject him and then he would have to compel you to forget him for his own safety; that while he subsisted on human blood, he never took a vital amount; and that he granted his clavigers a sort of extended life in return for their services.

You’d subsequently needed a considerable amount of time away from him to think … but after weeks of misery, you’d been able to go through all the stages into acceptance. By the time you’d come back to him, you’d found him in a deplorable state—frail, emaciated, and sulking. Alarmed, you’d taken him into your arms, holding your wrist under his nose. His fangs had slid over his bottom lip—the tips just beginning to poke into your flesh—when he’d suddenly recoiled.

“No! Not from you—not like that!” he’d cried in horror, and you’d been forced to do a panicked search of the manor in order to find a thrall—make that two—that looked sturdy enough to donate.

They’d followed you placidly (“He does this every couple of decades”) and once they were within his range, Copia grabbed one to him—his teeth sinking into the neck of one as he slurped and grunted, his sharp nails also piercing skin. The other had to step in when the first one drooped, offering up their fresh neck as a replacement.

You’d watched, eyes wide, a little frightened—but also entranced. And it was ultimately up to you to stop Copia from taking too much from his second thrall. He’d turned his red eyes on you, mouth opening to a row of bloody teeth that he bared at you with a feral growl. It made you step back, hand out in defense—but just as quickly, he’d closed his eyes, taken a deep breath, and seemed to count to ten.

When he’d opened his eyes again, they were back to normal—and his fangs had retracted. His eyes had eagerly taken you in, but his steps toward you were slow and halting. He’d held out his arms, and—when you stepped toward him—he’d enfolded you in his embrace, calling you amate and asking wetly if you’d come back to him.

That night, Copia had let you peek behind the curtain, holding you down with his unnatural strength and scraping his fangs lightly enough along your skin not to draw blood, but enough to leave red marks and a slight numbness. You’d easily let him take control, allowing him dominate you in a way previously unseen.

(He’d also shown you that his refractory period had been a lie—“I can control all blood flow in my body, pet”—until you had to call uncle.)

It wasn’t lost on Copia on how willingly and prettily you’d submitted to him, and it wasn’t too long before he’d asked you to submit to him fully—something you’d eagerly agreed to, happy to give him control over your body.

Tonight, however, is a turning point—after weeks of play with just his physical advantages, you finally feel comfortable allowing Copia to compel you in bed … and to perhaps have a little taste.Copia has instructed you to wear a white shift—the idea of drops of your blood stark against it gets him going—but when you meet him in the bedroom, you find him still encased in his tight, black suit.

His hand reaches out, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear, then tilting your head up for a kiss.

“Are you ready to play, mia cerva?”

“Yes, sir,” you say, and he licks his lips.

“Then up you go on the bed. Up, up, up!”

You scramble up onto the bed, then lay prone on your back.

“Very good, pet. Stretch out for me, per favore.”

You slowly relax into the bed, take a deep breath, then extend your arms and legs. Copia, his bulge clearly visible now, practically alights onto the bed, crawling over you like a great predatory beast. Shaking, he touches his forehead to yours so that you have to look directly into his colorless eye.

“Look at me, pet. Sí, that’s it.”

Both of your eyes focus on it, and it seems to get bigger as your world gets smaller; you’re spinning around and the blown pupil is at the center of it, locking you in place. It’s getting closer—or you’re getting smaller—and it suddenly feels like you’re caught, a fly in amber, unable to move or hold onto a

…

“Bene, bene. Now: no moving your hands or feet. They are too heavy. Sí?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Only my command or your safeword will set you free. Comprendere?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sits up, resting on his haunches astride you. You blink rapidly, suddenly snapping back to attention—your world coming back into focus and stilling; you move your head back and forth to reassure yourself of where you are. Copia leans forward to run a gloved finger down the side of your cheek.

“Yes, you are here, pet. Now. Try the moving?”

It’s not an order, but you comply, testing the constraints of his enthrallment; you can move your head and most of your body … but it’s as if your wrists and ankles are held down by great, immovable weights.

“Bene,” he purrs as his finger trails down your neck—lingering on your pulse point—and then down to one of your breasts. Through your shift, he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You moan and arch a little, the feeling stoking a throb between your legs. He moves his attentions to your other nipple, which only increases the pulse in your cunt.

Copia is content with the nipple play, his gaze intent on your flushed and slack face, despite the patch of wetness forming near his crotch.

“I would like to see you cum, just like this.”

You groan—the lack of direct touch to your clit is a frustration, and the way your legs are sprawled, you can’t squeeze our thighs together.

Copia—aware of your squirming—makes a tsk noise.

“Be a good little pet, and maybe I’ll be touching you for round 2.”

You settle back into the bed with a huff. Copia continues to squeeze your nipples, allowing the sinuous wriggling of your hips that are in time to his pinches. There’s nothing to press against, but that doesn’t stop you from rocking your hips as the pooling between your legs begins to throb to your heartbeat.

Copia seems unaffected, but you see that his fangs have distended and are dripping. Still, he slowly and steadily manipulates you, switching between both breasts every few minutes. You try contracting your muscles—anything that will build you up further to release from this slow simmer.

The minutes have been ticking by and racking up. Your head is beginning to loll back and forth—your eyes rolling—and you catch Copia running his tongue over his fangs; he deliberately lifts enough to ruck your shift up over your breasts. Before leaning down, he sucks his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, then rolls one of your nipples between them while he uses his tongue to lave at your other one.

You let out a whine of pleasure … or frustration (you’re not sure which), and it only encourages Copia; his tongue speeds up to an inhuman pace, as does the swipe of his thumb. It’s sending sparks that’re causing your clit to throb, while the pooling blood is making your lips feel full and heavy.

You’re twitching and jerking as he again switches sides. The press of his erection into your hip—giving minute throbs—and the thought of how his finger feels on your clit when he speeds is what finally finally pushes you over the edge. Your back bows—your breath catching for a second—and then you’re moaning wantonly, hips bucking in time to each spasm of your orgasm.

When you melt back into the bed, sighing, Copia straightens up and gently pulls your shift back down to your stomach before slithering down our body. You have an idea of what’s coming, but still twitch when his thumb circles your sensitive clit. He just rumbles and points his tongue to thrust in and out of your hole. You gasp at the dual sensation, straining again against your invisible bonds.

Copia’s thumb circles and presses and taps at your ever-hardening clit as his tongue plunges and licks and explores. You’re rocking and bucking again as he brings you swiftly close to orgasm—

—and then he stops.

You whine in unsated distress.

Delay is his favorite game. His fingers don’t cramp. His neck doesn’t get a crink. It’s just you, him, and a passage of time that means nothing to him. What’s an hour here and there compared against the span of hundreds of years?

You’re panting, sweating, and taught as a bow string—your shoulders now trembling at the strain of you arching on and off the bed—ready to cum if the air so much as shifts over your clit. And that’s when Copia brings back his inhuman speed to swipe his thumb over your engorged nub. You scream out—hardly sensible to how your body is twisting, and it feels almost like you climax sharply twice in quick succession—then you briefly feel two sharp pricks on your inner thigh before your whole shatters in a swirling wheel of sharded pleasure.

Who knows how long you float along in a fog of ecstasy—but when you anchor back into your body, you’re aware that some of that sweetness is due to the wiggly tongue that’s lapping up and down through your slit from your clit to your hole.

Copia doesn’t eat, but you’re his favorite meal.

“Please,” you rasp, hardly knowing if you’re pleading for him to stop or keep going.

He goes for option 2, and you’re soon back to jerking and twisting as his clever tongue licks you to just near completion—your pussy giving soft pulses—before he’s backing off … always waiting for your whining to stop and your muscles to relax before he starts up again.

You can’t clamp your thighs around his head, but you can push yourself into his waiting tongue. In the end it doesn’t really matter—he controls when you climax anyway—but it makes you feel as if you have some modicum of control over your own pleasure.

You’re pleading and begging, your shift is soaked through, and your hair sticking to you, before Copia finally allows you to cum for the third time. You cry tears of relief all the way through each wave of orgasm and clench of muscles.

After you come down, you lie there in a haze before you realize that Copia is hovering over you, naked, his hips pumping in between your slick- and sweat-soaked thighs. Not having to breathe, he doesn’t really pant or wheeze unless you remind him to—so right now he’s just gazing at you intently with lust-dark eyes as he plunges his cock in and out of your hole. He has to actively create body heat, so he loves how hot you feel around him, loves shoving in deep and holding there as his dick gives great throbs.

His fangs start dripping again, so you know you’re in trouble a second before he really starts jackhammering into you—his hips angled to pound into your G-spot. Copia can get tired … but he always seems to have enough energy and stamina to keep himself hard until he’s satisfied with what he gets from your body, so you’re never exactly sure how many times he can climax—the only signs usually being a subtle shiver or minute twitch of his hips. But tonight you know immediately because he leans down—one second he’s above you, the next he’s at your neck—and you feel the telltale prick of his fangs again.

You’re able to register his deep groan before the stained glass of your world cracks and fractures again into deep fissures of pleasure that seem to run down your body and then back up again in an ever decreasing feedback loop. When your consciousness solidifies again, you’re sluggishly aware of Copia’s rough tongue lapping at your neck even as he’s still fucking into you.

He doesn’t bite you again—which is good because you definitely feel a little lightheaded—but his mouth finds yours for the duration of his quest to use you for multiple orgasms as long as you can take it. Your endorphin high does eventually wear off, and you’re suddenly aware of the stiffness of your limbs, the burgeoning soreness between your legs, and a desperate need for water. Sensing your unease, Copia speeds up impossibly before suddenly slamming into you before his hips give a few more twitches as he climaxes inside you for the last time.

He has to hold you by the jaw to keep your head still while he breaks the enthrallment.

“My amore, you are no longer so laden down. Your body is now your own.”

And just like that, it’s as if a rubber band snaps, and you’re able to pull your arms into you as you curl up into yourself. Copia’s hands are all over you, running up and down your sides and caressing your skin as he murmurs endearments at you in both English and Italian. Then he’s raising you up—his rock solid arm supporting you as you flop about—and a drink is being pressed to your lips; you shakily grab it and gulp it down greedily. Despite your onset sleepiness, Copia helps you to nibble down a protein bar and to take care of yourself in the bathroom.

He wants to lounge with you in a bubble bath, but you whine at him until he carries you—bridal style—back to bed. There, you’re content to curl into his surprisingly soft body, letting him pet you as you drift off to sleep.

Later, Copia will be worried that he pushed you too hard, but you’ll silence him with a kiss and an assertion that you can’t wait to try out what other tricks he has up his sleeve.

#asks #dracopia #pre-popia #gothic tropes

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xtruss · 5 years ago

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A Culex mosquito steals up the face of an 'I'iwi, a Hawaiian Honeycreeper. The invasive insect poses significant danger to the native bird because it's a vector for avian malaria—a disease that, combined with climate change, is killing off the brilliant red 'I'iwi.

Science

6 Horrifying Bird Plagues—and How to Stop Them

These tiny scourges can cause mass casualties among avians.

Birds get sick. Just like us, they are prone to diseases and parasites, from pathogens that lurk in their blood to insects that feed on it. In some cases, these organisms and their hosts exist in relative harmony, particularly those that co-evolved over millennia. But when birds are hit with an entirely new-to-them bug—often a nonnative species, or the result of one—their immune systems aren’t always prepared for the attack.

New illnesses are especially dangerous for birds already fighting for survival, such as endangered species or populations facing the potentially negative effects of climate change. From there it’s a race against time for birds to adapt, perhaps by evolving a new immune response that helps ward off the illness or by adopting a behavior that helps them avoid infection to begin with. In the meantime, conservationists can help by coming up with ways to keep birds bug-free.

Here are six avian plagues and what they could mean for birds in the future:

A Nightmare on Oahu

Avian Malaria, or Plasmodium Relictum, an Infectious Protozoan.

Malady: Avian Malaria

Alien arrival: The mosquito Culex quinquefasciatus may have first arrived in the Hawaiian Islands in 1826, aboard European and American ships. Unfortunately for native birds, the skeeters harbored another stowaway: avian malaria, or Plasmodium relictum, an infectious protozoan.

Mode of attack: Avian malaria needs both the mosquito and its avian host to complete its lifecycle; in birds, it reproduces in the red blood cells, causing anemia, an enlarged spleen and liver, and eventually death.

Status: Today avian malaria is found on all of Hawaii’s major islands, where it has helped decimate honeycreepers like the vulnerable Iiwi. Birds that dwell on mountaintops at 4,900 feet or higher fare better, as both the mosquito and the parasite struggle at cooler, higher altitudes. Still, as climate change pushes temperatures up those mountains, the birds could have nowhere to hide.

Remedy: One approach is to curb invasive feral pig numbers, says Dennis LaPointe, a research ecologist with the U.S. Geological Survey’s Pacific Island Ecosystems Research Center. Mosquito larvae grow in fresh water, including muddy pig wallows and the holes swine leave behind after uprooting and scarfing down Hawaiian tree ferns. But perhaps most promising is the potential to boost birds’ immunity. Some species, including another honeycreeper, the Amakihi, are proving resistant to malaria, says Robert Fleischer, a conservation geneticist at the Smithsonian Institution. His group is working to identify the genes that provide protection, which would allow captive-breeding programs to introduce that resistance into species susceptible to avian malaria.

Flesh-Eating Babies

Philornis Downsi, a Parasitic Fly.

Malady: Parasitic Fly

Alien arrival: When the fly Philornis downsi first landed in Galápagos finch nests in the 1990s, to the birds it was as if the insect had “arrived from the planet Mars,” says Dale Clayton, a University of Utah parasitologist. The fly may have hitched a ride in produce shipments.

Mode of attack: Adult flies, which eat rotting vegetation, lay eggs in bird nests. The larvae hatch and emerge only at night to chew through birds’ skin to devour blood and other fluids.

Status: The fly is on 11 of the 13 major islands. It targets brooding mothers and nestlings, but the young are especially vulnerable, facing mortality rates up to 95 percent in some places. The Mangrove Finch's fate is particularly dire—only 80 birds remain. And Clayton’s group's new model found that a worst-case climate scenario could drive local finch extinctions in the next 50 years.

Remedy: Pheromone traps, introducing tiny wasps that parasitize the flies (but leave native bugs alone), and other measures are in the works, says Birgit Fessl of the Charles Darwin Foundation. And in 2014 Sarah Knutie, then at the University of Utah, figured out how to get finches to self-fumigate: Put out cotton balls soaked with a mild insecticide, and birds will collect the fluff for nests, killing off the flies.

Hitchhiker Massacre

West Nile Virus.

Malady: West Nile Virus

Alien arrival: West Nile virus first landed in New York in 1999 and swept across the country, reaching the Pacific Coast by 2002. Along the way, it may have infected more than 225 bird species, including the Greater Sage-Grouse in the interior West.

Mode of attack: The virus is spread by Culex mosquitoes and circulates mainly in birds. Transmission depends strongly on temperature: The hotter it is, the faster the virus spreads.

Status: West Nile killed local sage-grouse populations at a rate of between 2.5 percent and 29 percent between 2003 and 2005. The majority of sage-grouse, however, weren’t exposed to the virus, leaving those birds susceptible during the next outbreak, researchers concluded. Many populations are currently protected by cool climates at high altitudes, but these birds may face more infection as climate change expands the virus’s range, says Sarah Konrad, a spatial analysis expert at the University of Wyoming. How quickly that might happen is uncertain, she says, but “we can say hard and fast that temperatures are warming globally, which is going to cause an increase in the transmissivity of mosquito-spread viruses.”

Remedy: To stop the spread, researchers suggest treating water where the mosquitoes breed—such as artificial waterways and ponds, particularly those related to energy infrastructure in the West—with pesticides, or draining them entirely. Scientists at Ontario’s University of Waterloo are experimenting with another option: seeding the water sources with fathead minnows, which eat the mosquito larvae.

Starved to Death

Malady: Avian Trichomonas

Alien arrival: When European settlers first came to North America, the predominant theory goes, they brought pigeons and doves. Those birds in turn brought Trichomonas gallinae, an infectious single-celled protozoan. Eventually, the parasite made its way to California and infected the Band-tailed Pigeon—the state’s only native pigeon.

Mode of attack: The parasite passes between birds at feeders or watering holes, when they touch beaks during courtship, or when parents feed offspring. Birds infected with the most virulent strain form cheese-like sores in their mouths and throats that make it difficult to swallow, eventually causing starvation.

Status: In 2014, after Band-tailed Pigeons had experienced decades of decline for a variety of reasons, as many as 30,000 individuals died from trichomonas. The reason for the mass mortality is uncertain, but “drought conditions may be reducing the number of areas of water that are available to birds,” says Yvette Girard, an infectious disease epidemiologist. More birds at fewer water sources may have made it easier for the parasite to spread.

Remedy: Bird lovers can help by washing feeders and platforms with a 10 percent bleach solution. And it's crucial for wildlife managers to monitor the slow-reproducing Band-tailed Pigeon, says Krysta Rogers, a California Department of Fish and Wildlife scientist. That way, if numbers dip, officials can reduce bag limits for the pigeon, an important game bird.

Viral Vortex

Avian Flu Virus.

Malady: Avian Flu

Alien arrival: Avian flu made headlines in recent years as virus strains jumped from birds, often domestic chickens, to humans. But the virus is ancient, having circulated in wild birds for an estimated 8,000 years. It has traveled the world ever since, constantly changing form.

Mode of attack: Benign versions are common in wild birds and don’t usually cause illness, says Hon Ip, the director of the Diagnostic Virology Laboratory in the USGS National Wildlife Health Center. But when flus infect domestic poultry, he says, they “can evolve into highly pathogenic strains as they are passed from bird to bird, becoming ever more virulent in the process.”

Status: In late 2014 a nasty strain called H5N8 came to the United States from Asia; by June, 49.5 million chickens and turkeys across the Midwest had been killed, mostly from culling to prevent the virus’s spread. Wild birds are also at risk. A Canada Goose in Oregon was infected with H5N8, and geese in Kansas, Wyoming, and Michigan contracted the related H5N2 virus, which can cause severely twisted necks, tremors, and an inability to fly or swim. Ip’s team has also found the virus in seven species of falcon, eagle, and owl.

Remedy: It’s difficult to protect wild birds from the flu. Tracking and predicting outbreaks before they hit particularly vulnerable populations may deliver the most bang for the conservation buck, says A. Townsend Peterson, a disease ecologist at the University of Kansas. The virus isn’t likely to push common birds to extinction, he says, but if an outbreak hits in tandem with habitat loss and other pressures, “you could see one of these pathogens contributing to making a bad thing worse.”

No Mere Fluke

Malady: Parasitic Flatworms

Alien arrival: The faucet snail, Bithynia tentaculata, likely first reached the Great Lakes in the late 1800s in ship cargo from its native Europe. At some point, infectious parasitic flatworms called flukes followed, possibly carried by infected migrating waterfowl.

Mode of attack: Many species of fluke depend on both faucet snails and birds to live and reproduce. One, Leyogonimus polyoon, requires faucet snails, insects, and gallinules such as the American Coot to survive. In lakes and other freshwater systems, snails eat fluke eggs, which then hatch thousands of larvae. When waterfowl eat infected snails, flukes end up in their digestive tract, where they gorge on blood through the intestinal lining and cause ulcers, hemorrhaging, and death. Flukes lay eggs in birds, too, which make their way back into the environment to start the cycle anew.

Status: By 2002 faucet snails had moved south through Wisconsin waterways to Lake Onalaska, a backwater of the Upper Mississippi and a key migratory stopover. They've been infecting birds with flukes ever since. In spring 2006, for example, flukes killed up to 26,000 waterfowl, especially Lesser Scaup and American Coots, federal wildlife agencies reported. Researchers now expect regular die-offs, says Rebecca Cole, a parasitologist with the USGS National Wildlife Health Center. “Every spring and fall, we plan on a surge of carcasses along the Mississippi.”

Remedy: Conservation is tricky: The snails have built-in “trapdoors” that block poisons and other treatments. The best bet for now may be to strengthen avian populations by conserving habitat and food sources.

— Audubon Society | By Brooke Borel | November - December 2015

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