#just worldbuilding a little

[canisalbus]

hii i'm so fascinated with the anthro dog worldbuilding and had a question about it !!! if domesticated canines exist in the world, do undomesticated canines (wolves, foxes, coyotes, maned wolves, etc) also exist? if so, what role do they play in society? ^_^

Domestic dogs are the only anthropomorphic species, they exist in place of humans.

Wild canines exist, but they're just regular wolves, foxes, coyotes and so on. Anthro dogs view them the same way humans view apes and other primates. They recognize that wolves are superficially similar to them in some uncanny ways, but have no gualms about hunting them. To a dog living in the pre-Darwin era, a wolf isn't a distant relative, it's a wild beast that will eat their livestock.

Actual pet dogs are entirely absent.

Other domesticated animals exist as normal. Anthro dogs keep cats as pets, raise chickens and ride horses.

[grailknightmonty]

upon the heart of magic mountain 🌸🗻

from the oceanic goddess revered in the cyberpunk city on its hillside, to the stories of the ochre-feathered canary who's song hasn't been heard in years, it has been long thought by theorists that perhaps the magic imbued into this mountain was no coincidence- but rather the creation of mystical beings seeking to make a haven of sorts, a home protected by the powers that lie within this volcanic formation.

[filurig]

SO my old basilisk refs and things felt grossly outdated esp now bcs i have changed some things about them. So now have a new ref and some more extra informations about them. or at least the basilisk community most relevant to pareidolia...

[starflungwaddledee]

a star system is a small number of stars that orbit each other, bound by gravitational attraction. a larger group of stars is generally called a star cluster or a galaxy, although broadly speaking these are still star systems. at the centre of galaxies, one can commonly find supermassive black holes.

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ┊ ┊ ⋆ ┊ ★⋆ ┊ ◦ kirbytober 2024 #05 ★⋆ galaxy // mirror

[utilitycaster]

little unexplained things can be future plot hooks but sometimes they are just details that make the world seem real. This is a big part of why I don't think every character in a D&D game who plays an instrument should multiclass into bard - some people just play instruments in this world! What does that look like? what are the instruments? What are the musical traditions? And I think this is something Ashley Johnson is exceptionally good at, at playing characters who expand the world without it necessarily having to be part of the plot. Yasha covers an area no one else does. We don't need to know why she's an aasimar or understand it because it tells us a lot about the world and her culture and experience. She isn't a bard but she loves music; she isn't a nature-based class but she loves flowers. Fearne also provides new insight into the feywild. I think people undervalue being really good at embodying a vibe because it sounds surface level but for Ashley it never feels like just aesthetic, it always feels rooted in something.

[blackkatdraws2]

Giggling about this [Achromatic Loop AU/non-canonical]

Original Image:

[beebfreeb]

[spinsvi]

he misses gromit methinks

i like to think that shaun never told anyone much about what happened to him and the flock when they got rustled in A Close Shave, only that they were taken in by a nice man and his nice dog and that they were part of a wild dog chase. he never spoke about their kidnappers, and the flock themselves had little to no idea about what went on behind the scenes aside from the fact that they were all nearly killed.

he'd boast about how great of an escape they had (which he earned btw), i hardly think he'd be openly vulnerable about how scared he was. so while the flock already moved on from the situation, shaun himself was suffering in silence.

though yknow, his family won't ever let him do that ^_^

bonus thing:

[starry-bi-sky]

I'm in A Mood™ (stressed) so im going back to my roots of melting two character together into one person. So bruce wayne!danny fenton. Danny Fenton who, for eight years, grew up in a beautiful gothic manor with his mom and dad under the name "Bruce Wayne". Playing piano with his mother, running around the manor with his father.

Then when he's eight it's ripped away from him. There's blood on his hands and pearls pooling at his feet, and both his parents are dead in front of him.

And he gets shipped off to distant relatives "the Fentons" shortly after, Alfred close on his heels because someone needs to take care of him, someone that knows him. Bruce goes to the Fentons for the safety of anonymity. Gotham's press wants to sink its teeth into him.

Danny misses his city even if it took everything from him. There are shadows in his eyes and he's pale as a sheet even beside his distant cousins, and they change his name to "Danny Fenton' because nobody should know that their newest child was illustrious orphan Bruce Wayne.

They call him Bruce behind closed doors. Danny prefers it that way, he clings onto the name -- the one his parents gave him -- like a lifeline. He makes friends with Sam and Tucker. Tucker takes one look at the willowy, morbid little boy standing in the corner like a shade, ghosts in his eyes, and drags him out into the sunlight, and takes him over to Sam.

When Danny is twelve, he's still not over it -- and he's a little obsessed with the Fentons' research, with the morbid. He has books upon books on death, murder, detective work. Anything he can get his hands on. And stars. He loves stars.

Alfred owns the apartment next to them and comes over regularly. Danny clings to him.

When Danny is twelve, he's still quiet, meek, a shy little thing prone to being bullied. Freaky little Fenton with the night in his eyes and too-cold skin even before he put one foot in the grave. in a sleepover in his room with Sam and Tucker, he tells them the truth. They're his friends, he trusts them.

"My name is Bruce." he murmurs, voice quiet as the breeze, always quiet. he's staring at his star-covered sheets.

"Like Bruce Wayne?" Tucker asks, a joking tone in his voice.

Danny smiles a little, lamb-like with insecurity. "I am Bruce Wayne." And he takes them down to the lab, disrupting Maddie and Jack, to prove it. Sam tells them of her own wealth then shortly after. They start calling Danny "Bruce" in private too -- its trust. Thats what it is. It's trust.

Sam goes to media functions and comes back with aching feet and complaints on her tongue -- and Danny soaks it up all like a sponge, splayed across a beanbag chair with Tucker in her room. He's not envious of her, he used to go to events with his parents and they kept him safe from the ugly of Gotham's Elite. For the most part. He's had comments made at him, he doesn't miss them.

Alfred returns to the manor semi-regularly, Danny goes with him. he wanders the hallways and helps Alfred clean, the last thing either of them want is for their home to fall into disrepair. He brings Jazz with him next time, then Tucker, then Sam. They all help him clean, and he shows them his room. The one across from his parents', it feels strange.

When Danny dies when he's fourteen, the first adult he tells is Alfred. He and Jazz go over to his house more often than they stay in the Fentonworks building. At least at Alfred's, the food doesn't come to life. Alfred sits at the kitchen table and weeps when Danny tells him, Jazz is upstairs, and its just the two of them.

Danny's ghost form wears pearls around his wrist and the gloves look stained with some kind of black substance. He looks like a child who died in a lab accident, but he also looks like a child who has shadows dripping off his shoulders, curling at his feet, hanging from his eyes.

because amorphous blob batman has my heart always and danny/bruce will not escape it even in death even if that IS the only reason im giving him Mild BatBlob Vibes...so far

when they go to the manor, alfred helps danny make a pile of stones between Martha and Thomas' graves, nobody but the two of them (and sam and tucker) will know what it means. (not even bruce's children later down the line, not for a long, long time)

danny dives into ghost fighting on shaky feet and not half as witty as he once was in one world. he's skittish, skittering between blasts from shadow to shadow and clumsily making his way through each battle. but helping people lights a fire in him. he still has shadows dripping off his feet but there's a purpose in his eyes.

and god help him, he's going to help people.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I made a few new wax seal stamps out of clay (like the ones I did for my worldbuilding stuff forever ago), this time just of random symbols that I thought might look good done in the style of painting over the raised part of the wax or etc. :0c Some of them aren't carved deep enough to really show up that well, but overall they worked okay for being clay lol

[proxycrit]

Part 1 / Part 2

Emmet remembers when he and Ingo first brought Elesa to explore Celestial Tower, back when they were fourteen and thought they were immortal.

“Allegedly, the bell chime will bring ghosts home”, ingo had told emmet with the pompous knowing energy of a child who read way too much brochures. “It’s culturally significant! We must ring it.”

“Hmmm,” emmet had responded suspiciously. “Brother. The bell is at the top of the tower.” The implication stands: Ingo, there are thirty flights of stairs between here and the top, and no elevator to speak of.

Don’t be a coward, Litwick had told Emmet with the blaise tone of somebody who’s going to be piggy backing off of somebody else. Go ring the bell. Tynamo, sensing a litten fight, floated towards a loitering blitzle.

Ingo turns his lilipup eyes on Elesa, who’s squinting at the carved stone faces of the front door.

“Elesa? What do you think?”

Elesa thinks. She shrugs. “We already made our way here,” she said in accented galarian. “Might as well make it the rest of the way. Ganbatte!”

Emmet sighs. “This is a mistake,” he tells the two in exhaustive patience, but lets himself be dragged into the building.

Last time the twins were here, Ingo caught litwick— but not before she managed to nab a good chunk of Emmet’s soul. It’s not terrible; he felt fatigued for a week and bounced back pretty quickly, but it was the principle of the whole situation— celestial tower’s a pain in the ass and Emmet will stand by that until the day he dies.

Like right now.

The map isn’t working. Emmet checked it once. He’s checked it twice. He’s taken out his pen and written on it, which he would usually never do but desperate times call for desperate measures. The compass he brought spins useless circles. It’s like chargestone cave up here, but worse because instead if electric pokemon it’s all ghosts.

“We’re lost, yyup yup!” He announced to the crew. “I vote we eat Ingo first.”

“I love you too,” Ingo told Emmet placidly. “But we all know between the two of us, you’re the tastier one.” Litwick gives Emmet a thumbs up. Emmet gasps in mock affront.

“Elesa, help!”

Elesa gives the two of them a wary look. It took two floors for her to realize this is not just a weird temple with strange rocks, but a full out graveyard. She’s not very happy about that development.

“Don’t drag me into this,” she tells them. “Teme wa urusaii.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Ingo reports back.

Emmet, who’s cheerfully struggles with Galarian on a good day, simply gives her a thumbs up.

The three painstakingly crawl their way up. And up. If all else fails, Emmet told himself, at least they can orient themselves towards high ground.

“We’re like pidoves,” Ingo gasps. He has fallen behind them on the stairs, with Emmet taking the lead through sheer spite despite his legs going numb on floor twenty two. “We, hah, we are attracted by the magnet of the bell, like, like probopass-“

“I am emmet! You are not making, sense!” Emmet called back. Elesa, who’s stuck between them and looking two steps from perpetual collapse, giggles.

“No, no hear me out, Ingo wheezes. “What if the bell’s a magnetic pole? And that’s why your compass doesn’t wo, woo, hahh, work.”

Emmet stops to rest, just because Ingo is using precious breathing air to infodump. Elesa gratefully slumps against the railing. Tynamo and litwick, lazy in their still small size, have settled on a weary blitzle and look very smug doing so. (Emmet is not jealous, he tells himself. Emmet is also lying.)

“The bell’s important,” Ingo had repeated.

“Okay,” Elesa responds. “If it’s important to you, then it’s important to us.”

And Emmet finds that he agrees with Elesa. Partially because they crawled up twenty fucking three flights of stairs, but also because Ingo thinks this is important, so it is.

And here’s the thing—

— emmet doesn’t remember much after that.

The rest of that trip was a blur of exhausted groaning and burning legs, and by the time the trio managed to breach floor thirty, people’s brains have all but dribbled out their ears. Emmet remembers being disgustingly sweaty. He remembers blitzle almost tripping to death and litwick’s swearing. He remembers tynamo sticking to his neck like a damp towel. He remembers Ingo’s excited sneasel smile, and the way the sunset bounced off of Elesa’s hair.

He remembers the brassy ring of the Celestial bell. It sounded like victory.

But it was Elesa’s cackle turned scream as Ingo swiped cold hands down her neck that sounded like home.

—-

So when the conductor at thirty one, lost and disoriented in the Impossible Place, heard the sound of a familiar bell, ringing over and over and over-

-the sound of laughter-

-EMMET! Elesa cried-

-like a homing pidove, the conductor, thinks nonsensically as something in him perks up.

(Emmet had always liked winning, more than anything else, and the sound of victory calls him home.)

—

Elesa catches lightning in a bottle. Elesa, arms outstretched, finds purchase in her brother, and does not let go.

Emmet is so, so cold, Elesa thinks as the wind steals air from her lungs. (That’s okay. She’s already breathless from a terrible business called hope.)

Emmet stares back. His hands flap against Elesa’s jacket. Elesa desperately drinks in his wan face and too wide eyes and his frost bitten lips. In a tiny, meek voice, almost lost to the wind, he asks:

“Are you real?”

Elesa lets out an ugly sob. Her tears whip away in the wind as they fall. Emmet’s frightened countenance turns immediately to alarm. His shaky grasp becomes a solid grip as they spin through the air, cushioned by chandelure’s psychic.

“I think so??” Elesa warbles. She sees Emmet’s eyes dart to her mouth. He’s reading mirroring her, she realizes with giddy delight— it’s such an Emmet thing to do, to read lips, and-

“I am Emmet,” Emmet breathes. His eyes have started to water. “Yyou are Elesa- Oh dragons, Elesa!?“

Elesa reaches. Hesitates.

Emmet grabs elesa by the lapels and crushes her tight against him. Elesa holds on, and the grief and relief in her accumulates into a wet sopping mess. She’s ruining his jacket, she mourns, but its okay because he’s dripping all over hers.

She can’t hear what he’s saying into her shoulder, can’t read what he says, but everything’s okay because every part of her is chiming

You came back

You’re here

I’m not alone anymore.

Around them, the air distorts as Chandelure’s psychic wavers, flutters, and solidifies. Gravity reverses its call as they settle gently on the ground, dust billowing in all directions.

The ghost pokemon drops next to them, shaking so hard the musical clang of glass makes Elesa flinch.

You fucks, Chandelure gasps. DON’T GO LEAPING OFF BUILDINGS, I AM NOT YOUR EMERGENCY PARACHUTE.

“I’m sorry,” Elesa gasps, still giddy from the adrenaline.

AND YOU! Chandelure howls, whirling on Emmet, who’s still staring at the ghost with huge eyes. He’s gripping on to solid ground with the energy of a man who realized he could have been a splat on the ground.

YOU LEFT!

Emmet winces.

You- You left us, you left me-

Ah, ah no, Elesa thinks as golden globules of light shed from Chandelure. This is what a ghost looks like crying.

Emmet holds out his arms. Chandelure drifts into his embrace, and shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

You left me, the ghost pokemon whispers. How dare you. How could you.

“I didn’t mean to,” Emmet whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Stop doing this to me, Chandelure demands. Golden brine joins human tears, like drops of sun trapped in wet glass. Stop going where I can not follow.

And Emmet holds his tongue, because he knows he can not promise staying. Not while Ingo and Eelektross are still in Hisui.

(In the back of Emmet’s hurt and shattered mind is a spark. Synapses connect. The cold breach of the Distortion does nothing to drown out the sudden flare of hope in Emmet’s chest, so great he can not breathe, so strong he can not feel, because there’s a path. A difficult, painful path through the Space that Can Not Be, but a path all the same.)

“Elesa, Chandelure-“ Emmet’s voice breaks. He wants to tell them about Eelektross. He wants to tell them about the terrible past that is Hisui. He wants to explain how the last five months were filled with horror and wonder and fear and hope.

Hope, he thinks. So he says this:

“I know how to get Ingo home.”

NOTES:

AAAAAND THAT’S ALL FOR THIS DRABBLE. ITS OUT NOW. I CAN FINALLY GO BACK TO POSTING HAPPY SHENANIGANS! (Now you know the shape of their story.)

Thanks for reading this monster of a post!

[whenthelightisrunninglow]

remembered @hehe-hoho-ohno's misfits au it's sooooo good and i love it. CHEERS AND APPLAUSE. YAY

[pallastronomy]

looking for a new piece of xenofiction

ask the creator if their xenofiction is Watership Down or Warrior Cats

they don’t understand

pull out illustrated diagram explaining what is Watership Down and what is Warrior Cats

they laugh and say ‘It’s good xenofiction sir’

look inside

it’s Warrior Cats

[chiropteracupola]

"Are you finished with my portrait yet? Show me!" "Cipacton, I can't draw you if you keep moving!"

[bunnieswithknives]

Spent the last billion hours inventing fictional foods and brands for my OCs to enjoy

[audliminal]

It's Just a Game, Right? Pt 11

Masterpost

Patrol that night is relatively boring; Tim stops a handful of petty criminals and makes some progress on a couple of his cases, but none of the work is particularly hard and despite his earlier exhaustion, Tim finds himself wide awake the second his head hits the pillow.

It's annoying, but also unsurprising, and after a few minutes of laying in the dark, he sits back up with a grumble. He turns the light on and walks the few steps over to his desk, and the notes that he'd left there before patrol, and he stares at the names of the... people? They're not exactly victims, so to speak. Unless this arg is trying to imply that their causes of death are a cover-up.

If that were true, it'd be something well worth looking into, but the whole point of this game is that it's supposed to be fictional. Of course, there's always the possibility that this whole thing is some fucked up rogue plot. It doesn't necessarily fit with any of the known players' usual MOs, but if the Riddler were working with someone...

Of course, the two deaths in Gotham were before any of the current rogues really started operating, so the probability of them being killed for the sake of this fucked up game is low. The possibility of a serial killer is also still there; someone who might have orchestrated these deaths and was never caught, now taunting the world and wanting credit for their crimes.

Probably, he should seek someone else's opinion. But Bernard doesn't have the training of a vigilante, and frankly, which of the Bats could he take this to? He has no concrete evidence, just a weird collection of facts and a horrible gut feeling. Nobody had been interested in humoring him after Bruce disappeared, so why would they think any different now?

He knows it's not their fault, really. Tim knows he's prone to making logical jumps that other people can't follow. But it sucks, seeing details and patterns, things that are definitely concerning, and not knowing how to explain it to anyone. And he'll, he could be wrong. One doesn't become a vigilante without gaining serious trauma, and everyone knows that the Bats are some of the worst off in those regards. Gotham rogues are known for their fucked up mind games above all else.

And yet, whoever is creating these videos clearly isn't limiting themselves to just Gotham. That, above all else, makes it unlikely that this is the work of a Gotham rogue. People of Gotham are typically loathe to leave for long, and even when the rogues are sourcing details outside of the city, they still tend to stay close by, and their actual operations almost always remain within the city. It's an odd fact, and it tends to baffle the other heroes, but that makes it no less true.

So, really, the most likely possibility is serial killer, and the wild variance between the two modes of death he already knows, makes that also questionable. And as far as he knows, there's nothing connecting these people, other than the fact they're dead.

Tim catches himself yawning, and glances back towards his bed. Realistically, there's not much he can do about this now, and he does have work in the morning, so he really ought to make a good effort to get good sleep. Besides, he's pretty sure he's read that even just closing your eyes can help, so he forces himself away from the puzzling mess, and drops back into bed, and waits for sleep to finally come.