#octopoid

[asdaricus]

A sea goddess of sorts, using Brom as a style reference

by Midjourney v6, 2024

[scribblingsorsomething]

A Flocktopus. This is a spot illo for my D&D/RPG-related blog and you can read about here.

[vermilllionsands]

Barclay Shaw

[squirmydads-creations]

Octopoids!

"This creature looks much like the ordinary Earth octopus, but with some dangerous differences. Octopoids are greedy, dishonest, and cowardly. They like treasure and human flesh, and will attack to get either. They do not enjoy danger, and will retreat when the going gets tough. They prefer ambushes and sneak attacks." - In the Labyrinth

The three smaller octopoids were initially part of my year end completion resolution, but I saw the two bigger ones on Etsy and decided to do the whole batch at once. I only completed them one day late but I'm glad I got the other two as they are much more detailed and interesting figures.

[hplovecraftmuseum]

H. G. Wells' famed story, THE WAR OF THE WORLDS was one of the pioneering expressions of Science Fiction - though that term would not be coined for decades to come. The novel saw publication in 1898. The alien invaders in the Wells' story are from the planet Mars. In subsequent tales by other fiction writers Mars would continue to be a commonly used origin for "little green men". Lovecraft of course knew about Wells and respected his work. Both the mechanical ships of the Martian invaders and the aliens themselves are depicted by Wells as having octopoid features. Did Wells' Martians inspire H. P. Lovecraft's conception of Great Cthulhu? Certainly the possibility is there though I don't recall reading Lovecraft ever admitting such. Below are pictured 2 illustrations inspired by THE WAR of the WORLDS. To the left is a bookmark being sold at Barnes and Noble, to the right is an illustration by Henrigue Alvin Correa. The Correa illo. certainly calls to mind Lovecraft's image of Cthulhu emerging from his tomb city as it rose from the bottom of the Pacific. HPL's Cthulhu, however, would dwarf any human in contrast to this picture. (Exhibit 467)

[anxious-local-cryptid]

CRYPTID-TOBER

October 16th, 2023

SPAIN'S ALIEN OCTOPOIDS

-

I look at it.

It's- it's a... an octopus? With human eyes and a frowning mouth...?

What the fuck is this?

It's small.

Less that 3 feet tall.

It slowly moves on its four tentacles.

It looks- it looks stupid.

And yet, I don't dare to disturb it, it's piercing eyes scrutinizing me, revealing too much intelligence to be messed with.

-

After many failed Inktobers, I decided to stop trying to follow prompt lists that always end up boring me, so I'm challenging myself to draw a cryptid per day for all the month of October!

No lists, no prompts, just me drawing random creatures I like!

How fun is that?

-

[cripplecharacters]

I have this xenofiction idea set in an alien solar system. One of the intelligent species ideas i had are octopoid-looking but terrestrial creatures that communicate via bioluminescence, and don't vocally communicate but do have hearing.

I started thinking about how blind members of this species would communicate. Does tactile sign language work if you only have identical tentacles and no fingers or toes?

Hey!

My first idea when you mentioned identical limbs was the Lorm alphabet. It's a kind of tactile communication (not really a sign language, more of a signed letter-by-letter transcript) that is virtually unknown outside Central Europe and Georgia in my experience. It requires a single limb from each person. For the Lorm alphabet, you tap and stroke the person's hand (or foot, I've seen it adapted to a double arm amputee too) and the amount of taps and their position (also line or circular movements) signal specific letters. Here's a video to visualize it from the French DeafBlind association - TLDW: two people using Lorm at great speeds at a conference.

What that means for alien creatures who have identical limbs is that there could be Aliorm alphabet where a specific spot on the tentacle signals a specific letter/syllable/binary code/etc and thus allow them to communicate. So if the aliens have some way to codify their bioluminescence-based language into a written system, they could use that.

Another option is to do another kind of non-oral language. Humans have ones that rely on hearing, seeing, and feeling, but aliens could have ones that are based on smell or taste. Especially if they original one is bioluminescence, I don't think it's too farfetched to imagine they could produce other chemicals that perhaps could be smelled as a form of alien olfactory language.

I'd personally love to see the Lorm alphabet in any sort of media ever, but considering you're writing about aliens, you have a lot of possibilities - there's no one single correct answer unless you find a blind alien to ask.

I hope this helps,

mod Sasza

[theresattrpgforthat]

Alright, I have a weird one. Are there any TTRPGS that revolve around Coral? That, or have coral as an important element of the game?

Oh my gosh my ask box apparently ate this for MONTHS and finally decided to spit this back. Let's see what we've got!

THEME: Coral

Descent into Midnight, by Rich Howard, Taylor LaBresh, and Richard Kreutz-Landry.

At its heart, Descent into Midnight (DiM) is a game about community, family, and hope. It's a tabletop roleplaying game that takes place in a technologically advanced aquatic civilization whose culture has never been touched by humanity. Bioengineering and psionic, or mental, powers allow the strange and varied species to communicate and interact with their surroundings no matter their physiology.

In the game, players take on the roles of guardians, defending their community from a physical, emotional, and even existential threat. The game focuses on the relationships between the guardians, the inhabitants they protect, and their internal struggles and dreams in the face of a corruption that threatens to change their world.

You can play as whatever you like in Descent in to Midnight, including fish, plants, even abstract concepts - so a shelf of coral isn’t really that much of a stretch. The playbooks (yes, playbooks, this is a PbtA game) are centred more about your personality, and what you look like is secondary. The game is designed to take a turn for the darker before it pushes towards hope, so I think your game experience will be different depending on whether this is a one-shot or a long-form campaign.

Delve Deeper, by Maik.

A complete new game of under-oceanic adventuring and exploration. 

Play as intelligent oceanic folks such as the cephaliin octopoids, the crustaciin crab-folk and the fish-like merfolk and explore the coral reefs, open seas and abyssal trenches in search for adventure, pearls and treasure.

You don’t play as coral in this game, but you’re certainly exploring it! Taking nods from games such as Troika!, Electric Bastionland, and Brave Zenith, this game feels solidly inside the OSR camp, but with a special love for the wacky and weird. If you want to have a particular connection to the coral reefs, you’ll likely want to play as a Merfolk, who build cities from the coral and rule as a matriarchal society. This game is full of lore, but not extensively so - it’s only 33 pages long in total. But I think you’ll probably come away from reading Delve Deeper with a pretty strong sense of what this underwater kingdom is like.

Reefs of Despair, by Zaftikat

You are a sea anemone, stuck firm in an ocean that will soon be inhospitable to you. Grapple with climate change as you explore fatalism and ennui.

Sea anemones aren’t coral but they’re kind of close right?

Now this game is neat. It uses popcorn as a resolution mechanic - how cool is that? You have to pop the popcorn in a stove-top vessel, rather than a microwave, because you have to count how many popcorn kernels pop at first pop - the more there are, the better your outcome. Apart from that, your character has two stats: Ennui and Fatalism. These stats rise and fall similar to the way stats raise and fall in Honey Heist - with a similar outcome if you get too high or too low, by ending the game. There’s also a third end state for what happens once you’ve popped all the kernels, but I’ll leave that one for folks who decide to download this game and read it.

The game also is donating proceeds to the Coral Restoration Foundation, so in a roundabout way, I guess it was about coral all along.

Other Games You Should Check Out

Bones Deep, by Technical Grimoire. (You should really check this one out.)

[goodboyaudios]

How do I spell that one octopoid’s name again? Kalamus? Kalamous? Calamari?

Kalamos

[pankurios-templeovarts]

Octopoid by Forest Rogers.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 36 - Resurface

Story to date in order (Tumblr / AO3)

Previous chapter

A kind of a build-up chapter for Virgil, because he’s decided to be brave and face something but that comes at a cost because I am incapable of letting them be fixed first time around. I also had to apply some very very minor whump to Scott just because it amuses me so to do and he was RIGHT THERE being a doofus and asking for it.

Hesitating to put this one out because there is so much good fic that’s appeared over the last week and I haven’t read it all yet but… I think if I don’t get this one out of draft mode I’m never going to properly focus on the finale chapter and I really need to get that done so I can finally post the art a fabulous someone did for me four months ago when I last thought I was nearly finished 🫣😬🙄

SO… here we go…

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

Virgil’s studio was recessed into the cliff which meant it was protected from the elements. It was accessible only via his bedroom and a key coded door meant it was protected…ish from marauding younger brothers.

Although a huge picture window dominated one wall, very useful for those sky paintings, this could and often would be shuttered at the press of the button, transforming the room into a haven over which he had unfettered dominion.

Advanced atmospheric regulation meant he could ensure the air it wasn’t too arid for sculpting or too damp to allow a painting to dry. An objectively impressive array of light fixtures popped out at various levels, the angle and tone of each completely customisable at the flick of a slider (or twelve) on his tablet, meant he had absolute control of what bounced off his surroundings into his eyeballs. And the sound system…

Well.

What would be the point of a soundproof room if you couldn’t occasionally crank it up to symphony orchestra brass section volume. Virgil had played the French horn in high school and fully appreciated the sensation of his ribcage vibrating when the trombones sat behind him got into their groove.

He was safe here.

And yet, he couldn’t settle. Everything felt, off. Scratchy. As if sand had got into a sensitive mechanism and no amount of oil would flush it out again.

Virgil tucked the sketchbook under his arm and got up to adjust the brightness of the overhead spots down a little and nudged the temperature control up another increment. He’d been fiddling with it all morning but couldn’t quite find the precise balance he needed. Turning his back on the easel stool, he sat down heavily on the couch, removed a pencil from behind his ear and glared at the page.

He’d thought it might be a good idea to sketch out a few anatomical poses to build the detail on top of… to save Scott having to hang around while he got the basics done. Despite having shut himself in here all morning, he’d barely got beyond sketching a vaguely humanoid shape. Perhaps he’d got a little more fixated on the angle of an arm than strictly necessary… in fact he’d roughed it out in so many positions his graphite brother was giving off distinctly octopoid vibes.

The real one had been popping in and out all morning, providing coffee and snacks and unspoken reassurance but now was Here and Getting Ready and Virgil was also supposed to be Ready do some Healing. Find Some Closure. Desensitisation. All that healthy stuff. He tried to ignore the creeping doubt as to whether he was, or would ever, in fact, be ready to…

“Can I make a suggestion?”

He jumped a little and dropped his pencil as Scott called out from behind Virgil’s bedroom door. He put the book to one side and crawled under his chair to locate it.

“Virg?” The door opened and he could imagine Scott peering around it, with all the darkness creeping up his neck and around his throat… his heart raced and his breath escaped in a tiny squeak.

Uuuuh… he wasn’t ready. Not ready at all. Maybe he never would be. Maybe this was… maybe he was just…

“Virgil, are you alright?”

Realising he’d frozen with his upper body wedged under the couch and that Scott was inevitably now aiming the Concerned Eyebrows at his behind, Virgil forced out an airy “All good, I just dropped my… my… err…” he huffed a fake laugh to cover up the gap. Stifled the panicky breathing… the word had gone. Just gone. He spread his fingers out, feeling the grain of the wood beneath him, sanded almost-but-not-quite smooth, and focussed on drowning out the whistle in his ears with an inane little tune Gordon was humming earlier. This was transient…

“Pen. I mean pencil. Pencil!!”

The floorboards vibrated a little as knees slid into view just beside him. Navy blue knees. No, not navy. Shade 1620 “Airforce Blue” - he had a tube of it on the easel. He squeezed his eyes shut. Hex 00308F. Several paint tubes, just in case. And some inks. Zero zero three zero eight eff. Navy blue was 000080. The three and the F somehow changed everything.

A hand on his shoulder, unnaturally tentative as they all still were around him. Still. He scrunched his eyes still tighter and tried not to let it bother him, he wasn’t the type to be bitter about being ‘Poor Fragile Virgil best-not-surprise-him-lest-he-freak-out-and-see-things-again…’ ok, he was still a little bitter perhaps. And being not very kind to himself either. He’d tell Scott off for that.

Scott…

He pressed his fingertips into the floor just enough to stop them shaking, just enough to hurt. As his neck and shoulders tensed in sympathy he felt his brother’s arms curl around him, holding him steady, keeping him from bumping his head on the wooden frame. Holding him steady, keeping him from sinking through the floor into who knew where… he dragged in a breath, cursing his vocal chords for the little whine that caused.

“I’m here. What do you need?”

“Pencil.”

The harmonic skitter of light wood rolling over heavy before the pencil was nudged up close to his hand and he grasped it like a lifeline.

He couldn’t open his eyes, not yet. He was terrified he wouldn’t be able to trust what he saw if he did.

He could feel Scott breathe, the weight of his arm. He could hear the repeated “It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

Yet both those senses had betrayed him before too. Only one had not. It had never lied to him, but, quiet and unshowy, it was easier to ignore if the others told him a better story.

Right now, the impersonal fog of the dry cleaning spray Grandma had used almost overwhelmed him. It was a white noise.

A grey noise?

He reached past the grey for something familiar, something safe - something to prove this wasn’t hollow. There was the ever-present scent of coffee on his brother’s breath and the subtle hint of super-shiny gel… no, he corrected himself, he’d upgraded to the pricier ‘sublime shiny’ recently… which he swore was better despite Virgil pointing out the identical ingredients, smell and, even taste… alright he might have taken the debate a little too far but when Scott had poked his tongue out at him Virgil hadn’t been able to resist giving him a sample. For science’s sake.

The look on his brother’s face had been spectacular.

He chuckled and a little of the dread melted away.

He still needed to sneak some down to Brains’ lab to run a chemical analysis actually…

“Virg? You with me, short stu…OOOFFF”

Scott had clearly ducked his head under the couch to try to see what was going on and the resulting clunk demonstrating he’d immediately forgotten that he’d done so vibrated through Virgil’s teeth.

“Scott! Your head!”

“Is fine. Thick skull, remember?”

“The thickest.” Eyes still resolutely closed, Virgil assessed his tone. It was light, but not the too-light tone Scott adopted when trying to conceal an actual injury from a brother… There was more than a hint of worry, obviously, which Virgil needed to Do Something About because he was painfully aware it was him causing it.

“Virgil, are you ok? What do you need?”

“I’m ok. I… yeah. I’m good.” He was. He could do this.

“Alright.” The audible skepticism was perhaps justified but Scott had clearly decided to let him call the shots today.

“I’m not criticising your process here but would it be easier to do the arting somewhere other than under the couch.”

Virgil grunted, which was frankly all the response the question deserved. Then, eyes tight shut he shuffled backwards. The sensitive skin just below the edge of his little finger brushed against Scott’s leg and he shivered as he recognised the fabric. Polywool. Strong but soft. Permanent military creases. More capable of withstanding a worried brother knee-sliding across a wooden floor than the string of ludicrously expensive but patently unScott-proof suit pants that the CEO wore to TI meetings and managed to destroy on a regular basis. But not robust enough for any kind of action. This was dress uniform. Just for show. He’d never have got in a jet wearing it.

But without it he’d never have got in that jet…

The voice of dread in his heart hissed at him. Virgil tried to squash it, but the edges were sharp and tried to steal his breath. He could feel his pulse begin to race again, echoing back through the thumb-tips he had pressed so firmly into the floor. No, that wouldn’t work. He knew this. He knew how to deal with this now. The hand on his shoulder tightened infinitesimally, lending him strength. So, he forced himself to take a slower breath and let himself acknowledge the thought. It was a logical fallacy, he knew that, but as the counsellor had advised he resisted the temptation to be angry with himself for thinking it. He could see where it came from. It wasn’t unreasonable or stupid for his subconscious to reach for something, anything to blame. It just wasn’t helpful. It wasn’t true.

What was true?

He’d come back. Scott had come back. He was here right now, humming Mom’s song as he rested his head on top of Virgil’s and stroked his arm.

Virgil opened his eyes. Brown floor. Black pencil. 1620... Scott’s legs. He raised his head a little, braced for the darkness…

Light blue?

Light blue shirt? Airforce shirt, yes, but not what he was expecting.

Scott interpreted his frown of confusion before he realised he’d formed it.

“I was going to suggest maybe I don’t wear the jacket just yet? I could, I dunno, just hold it or something. Till you’re used to it?”

Virgil realised he wasn’t blinking enough and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets for a moment.

“Right. I… yes. I’m sorry I…” he huffed irritably “This is so ridiculous.”

“No it isn’t.” Scott squeezed his shoulder again. “And you told me not to say things like that.”

Virgil swallowed the impulse to point out that for Scott it was different. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t so different. In the absence of anything constructive to say he removed his hands from his face and made an attempt at a reassuring smile. It was going quite well until his eye was caught by a rush of movement as the hastily slung jacket slithered off the back of a chair and curled into a pile of darkness on the floor. He averted his eyes and returned his attention to his brother’s face.

“So, what do you want to do?”

Here, Virgil drew a blank. Beyond his request to paint Scott wearing the dreaded dress uniform, he was surprisingly unsure about what he wanted to do. He hadn’t got much past the idea to get himself, Scott and The Uniform in the same room and not go mad.

As the heap of fabric continued to noisily suck all the light from the room, he wasn’t sure the latter part was going as planned.

“I don’t… I don’t actually err…” he tailed off but the point had been conveyed.

Scott hummed again, but not in a musical way this time. That was the ��IR-Commander-is-formulating-a-plan’ hmmmmm.

“We have all day... no need to rush anything. Do you want to go outside for a bit? It’s really nice out there?”

Outside was Scott’s go-to fix. If things were difficult, he did better in the open air… or at least somewhere with a clear view of the sky. Virgil suspected he knew why and tried not to think about that too much. What he did know was that it was when his brother tucked himself away - when he found a hidey hole, enclosed and dark - well that was when little brother’s alarm bell needed to ring. Outside was good.

Yet, Virgil knew Scott hadn’t suggested it for his own benefit this time. It wasn’t for the air but for the sun.

Virgil’s comfort instinct was more towards warmth. The flannel wasn’t purely a fashion choice after all. It didn’t matter where he was - snuggled in bed, melting his face off in the sauna, taking an excessively long hot shower, hibernating on a sun lounger - it was all good as long as the goosebumps were kept at bay. Gordon had long ago given up trying to persuade him to lower the cabin temperature of Two. If Virgil’s skin was warm and relaxed he had at least a chance of thinking clearly about everything else.

Outside in the sunshine sounded good. It had a decent chance of being better than here anyway, in the bowels of the earth where the darkness was closing in and an icy draft scraped across his face.

So Virgil nodded and allowed his big brother to steer him towards the doorway. Where he stood helplessly for a few moments as he realised the hand with which he’d reached for the handle was a white knuckled fist clutching a pencil for dear life… and he didn’t quite seem to know how to put it down. He shivered again.

Scott rushed around behind him, chattering away and collecting whoknewwhat, then took charge of the door-opening and, taking a firm grip on Virgil’s pencil-free hand, towed him up the stairs and out into the daylight.

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

[asdaricus]

Another attempt at a primordial sea goddess

by Midjourney v6, 2024

[winged-self-indulgence]

The person who put Siren!Z in my head, you know who you are. Why would you do this to me?

You’ve never not known Z.

The thought spins through your mind, as idle and as careless as the salt-laden breeze that carries your little rowboat on the water’s surface. The ocean is calm tonight, an expanse of obsidian dotted with silver pinpricks that match the equally dark sky above. It’s late, and you should have been home by now. Should have taken hold of the thick twine that acts as the only thing preventing you from drifting further into the horizon, and pulled the wooden boat back to the lights and safety of the shoreline.

You didn’t though, and you won’t, because the creature on your mind is far more interesting.

He watches you from the other end of your boat, tanned arms folded loosely atop the bow and acting as a comfortable perch for a sharp chin. All of Z is sharp, from the tips of his frilled ears to the steel-trap mouthful of teeth that stretches wider when the siren catches you staring back. You can barely see his eyes beneath the tangle of waterlogged hair, but you’re certain that his gaze is similarly edged.

“Enjoying the view, Dove?” The question makes you blink, pulling you from your thoughts. Z smirks at you, jet-black scales catching the moonlight and illuminating the scarlet hues that tint their extremities. “Why don’t you come a little closer and get a better look, huh?”

You scoff and lean forward so you can make proper eye contact with him. “Nice try, Z,” you reply. “I thought sirens were supposed to lure humans to their deaths with beauty and song. Not harass innocent people trying to relax.”

“Aw, if you wanted me to sing to you then all you had to do was ask,” he coos teasingly. You’ve only heard Z sing in passing, and only under his breath. Scarcely more than a hum, the sound dances across the still water, smooth and melodious as it ripples through the darkness. It feels as though you and Z are the only beings out here, which is impossible. You know it’s not true, but somehow you can’t bring yourself to turn your head the scant 90 degrees it would take to spot the distant lights of the city at your back.

“Ah-ah! I’m not falling for that,” you point at Z, narrowing your eyes further when he meets your suspicious squint with an innocent pout. “Even if you weren’t a mythical creature known for killing and eating humans, I wouldn’t get into the water with you. You’d probably dunk me or something.”

The siren gasps and rears back, placing a webbed hand on his chest in an affectation of utter horror. “Perish the thought! You wound me, sweetheart,” he releases his grip on the gunwale, and you lean over to watch the long shape of him as it dives silently beneath the surface. You’ve never met another siren before, so you have no idea how large they are on average, but Z is huge by your own estimate. What he looks like below the waist is a mystery to you, but you suspect it’s something octopoid in nature judging by the shapes that twist and coil greedily out of the corner of your eyes.

Perhaps the rope isn’t the only reason you haven’t drifted off.  

Z reappears again, this time starboard and startlingly close to your face. You yelp and flinch backwards, almost toppling in entirely under his amused gaze. He watches you as if you’re a particularly fascinating seashell lying on the beach. The wind picks up for just an instant and you catch a glimpse of serpentine slits against a backdrop of crimson and gold.

“Are you sure?” He asks, and his voice a low cajoling rumble that wraps around you like dense silk. “The water's perfect you know, and I promise I'll keep you nice and safe. Besides, it’s not every day you get an invitation to swim with someone as charming as me.”

“Charming? Last week you tried to poison me!”

“On accident!” Z raised his hands in appeasement. “It was an accident! How was I supposed to know pufferfish was toxic to humans? You told me you considered them a delicacy!”

“I–!” You opened your mouth to refute him, and then closed it again. He had a point. You hadn’t clarified further because it had seemed obvious that anything so poisonous had to be carefully prepared to render it not poisonous. The entire fish had to be carefully killed, skinned, fileted, and cooked to remove the tetrodotoxin and other dangerous microbes. Not tossed into your lap still leaping and squeaking like an angry chew toy when you lazily mentioned that you were kind of hungry.

“And I already apologized,” the siren tilts his head, and you once again become hyperaware of the necklace around your throat. It’s almost a collar given how little chain there is, and from the center hangs a perfectly cut garnet. The kind of wealth that would be right at home in some imaginary pirate hoard. Curiosity rises in your chest as your fingers trace the edge of the gem, and Z must pick up on that. “Come on, sweetheart. You’ll never know what you’re missing until you dive in. I can show you things no human has ever seen. Hidden caves, sunken treasures, the most beautiful coral gardens…"

You hesitate, wavering between wariness and sheer curiosity. A single swim wouldn’t hurt, would it? You’ve known Z for…however long you’ve known him. If he wanted to do something to you, surely, he would have already done it, right? Even now, the only thing keeping you from the water is a rickety old rowboat missing one of its oars. Just a quick dip, and then back to shore. That’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

Z’s returning cackle is enough to have you rethinking your agreement, but the siren refuses to let you backtrack or renege. “Aw, don’t get all shy on me now, Dove,” he teases, latching a hand around your wrist while the other cups your cheek, soaking your skin and clothes. You can taste salt at the back of your throat when he tugs you closer. “That’s it honey, just trust me.”

Then you’re in the water, and it’s nothing but bubbles and black and ice burning in your lungs. For a moment you’re not sure which way is up. You flail around, terror pushing a flurry of bubbles from your lips as you struggle to find Z or anything to hold on to. Where is he, where did he go, did he leave you to die?

You gasp out what you believe will be your final breath, only to suck in a lungful of cool air. A bubble surrounds you, paper-thin and yet impenetrable when you press your palms against the glasslike surface. High, high above you can see the underside of your boat bobbing far away, now barely bigger than your fingernail.

What…what the hell…?

Finally.

The voice – it must be a voice, though you swear you didn’t truly hear it inasmuch as you simply perceived it – fills your mind. Avarice and adoration drip from every syllable. Glee wraps around every letter. A familiar cackle skitters up the back of your neck. Your bubble moves, buoyed by something dark and shimmering and tinted red that spins you around until you come face to face with the creature you thought you knew.

You have never met another siren before, so you have no idea how large they are on average, but Z is titanic. Eyes like fire remain fixed on where you kneel, doll-like and helpless in the palm of his hand. A body that stretches far into the abyss, where even the sunlight wouldn’t dare to venture. Jaws that part for a tongue longer than you are tall, tracing across teeth bigger than your torso.

Don’t worry, my little human. I said I’d take good care of you.

[redscharlach]

Tentacle time at Leadenhall Market, London, courtesy of an installation by Hoxton Monster Supplies.

I can’t decide if it’s one octopoid underbeast coming up from the bowels of the earth, or two octopoid underbeasts who came through the wrong portals and have ended up yearning at each other from neighbouring pockets of reality.

[doctordune]

Square octopoid

[shipburner]

The Gloskun

The gloskun (singular and plural) is an amphibious octopoid about the size of a chicken, found in tide pool habitats. They fill similar ecological niches to seagulls and large semiterrestrial crabs; their intelligence and robust digestive systems makes them extremely adaptable generalists. Often referred to as a "quadrupedal mollusc", the gloskun has a full complement of eight arms, but the rear four are adapted into strong, short legs - rather than tapering like an octopus' arms, a gloskun's legs are wide at the base, with the final two suckers adapted into broad, protective, nonsensory "hooves". When moving about, gloskun hold their fore arms together in a "trunk" shape, moving apart to manipulate objects; gloskun are frequently observed with only three arms in the trunk and the fourth holding wet sea grass over their beak to preserve moisture and extend their periods on land, to the degree that cartoon images of gloskun often have green "mustaches" as part of their body. Gloskun defend themselves with ink in water and on land, where they contract their siphons to carefully aim it at the eyes, noses, or mouths of would-be predators. Gloskun move with a characteristic "stamping" gait on land and when hunting on the seafloor; they typically spend water periods resting, but their relaxed legs double as powerful, rippling paddles for fast movement underwater. Gloskun are frequently observed splashing in puddles; biologists previously explained this as a tactic designed to splash prey out of tidepools, but recent study of gloskun behavior has corroborated folk reports that gloskun extract prey from tidepools with their dexterous forearms, and that puddle splashing is a play behavior. Their playfulness, responsive intelligence, and large eyes (often observed as upturned and "pleading", although it's far more likely that gloskun are simply observing their taller observers) make them endearing to humans; this is offset by their dexterity, ink jets, problem-solving intelligence, and long association with humans, which also cast them firmly in the role of "pest" -- similar to opossums, raccoons, foxes, and monkeys in both public perception and folkloric roles. Seaside communities' DO NOT FEED THE GLOSKUN signs are matched only by gloskun skill in getting humans to feed them; gloskun are capable of using tools, and an arms race exists between gloskun and gloskun-proof-trash-receptacle manufacturers. Pet gloskun are analogous to pet parrots, both in that they are frequently found perching on fictional pirates' shoulders and that they require too much stimulation to be ethically kept as pets (gloskun are not as social as parrots, but have much better ability to manipulate objects and equal or greater intellectual stimulation needs). Some communities and individuals do have more equitable working relationships with gloskun, picking up litter in exchange for food rewards or assisting with shellfish harvests.

Joking around with a friend this morning and accidentally invented the perfect seaside pest, which we now release into the Creative Commons to menace your shores.

The gloskun species © 2024 by Nausicaä Enriquez and @transtanium is licensed under Attribution 4.0 International.