#pigeon death

[sleepsucks]

[omorard]

His little eyes closed and his lil neck lopped back as we picked him up :(

He’s buried now in a nice lil spot under the bushes.

His wings were so pretty

[greytern]

my babygirl... it's a part 2 of a little series i'm doing!!

part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5

[pigeonstab]

Dancetale-Killer fusion!

Dancetale by Teandstars and Killer by Rahafwabas

colored version/other versions:

[darkscorpiox]

I saw this among Saya’s concept sketches and wondered if the flowers put in her hair were chosen for a specific reason.

After hours of searching online, the closest I could find which corresponds to said flowers was the Duranta erecta (common name(s): golden dewdrop, pigeon berry).

In Japan, they mostly mean “I will watch over you (あなたを見守る)”, which is likely why these flowers were picked, knowing what happened to Saya in the game.

If the hand who put them in Saya’s hair was Masamune/Yashiki’s, then it can imply that he either promised to watch over her or regarded her as his guardian angel.

The bond those two share is such a beautiful, yet bittersweet thing. 🥲

[ahollowgrave]

Day 31: Heroic

To do what must be done.

[sysig]

It’ll all go fine if you’d just don’t worry about it, probably (Patreon)

[pigeons-paintbrush]

my thoughts on what the horrorswap boys would be like. took me a while to think of all of sans' text

[bs-fangirl]

A most fearsome wolf

[t00thpasteface]

pigeon dissection notes

[alchemyfire]

Frev Halloween story

Transformations of a demon

When the demon Fouché saw her coming, he sneered scornfully. This will be easy, he thought. He turned around three times and suddenly transformed into a cute black cat.

When Charlotte Robespierre came to the door of her house and was about to enter, Fouché meowed loudly to be noticed and brushed against her shoe. Charlotte smiled at him, took the kitten in her arms and gently scratched his chin. "Oh, you're a handsome little boy," she smiled and carried him home to pour him some milk.

"Maxim," she knocked on her brother's door on her way to the kitchen and waited a moment. No answer came, but that was not surprising, because Maximilien, a famous wizard on the side of truth and virtue, was usually too busy with work and his own thoughts to notice his surroundings at such times. For the past months, he thought of nothing else but how to bring happiness to the people.So she opened the door and quietly entered the candlelit room.

Her brother walked past a table covered with pages of his spells in progress, flipping through a wizzard book, pausing every now and then in front of the chest of drawers to consult his magic pigeon sitting there on a perch. Some time ago, he finally managed to summon the spirit of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and it subsequently took up residence in the body of Maxim's favorite pigeon. They often had discussions all night long. Even now they seemed preoccupied with more important issues than worrying about what was for dinner tonight.

"To invite people to the pure cult of the Supreme Being is to strike a fatal blow to fanaticism. All fictions disappear before the truth and all follies fall before reason," Maximilien was saying taken by the idea.

"All the sects will merge themselves into the general religion of nature," nodded the pigeon.

Charlotte stood in the doorway, listening in admiration. Even the kitten in her arms pricked up its ears and, in tension, sharply dug its claws into Charlotte's arm. She screamed and dropped the kitten to the ground.

"Evil has entered the room," said the pigeon, flapping its wings violently. Maxim turned to Charlotte and frowned disapprovingly.

"How dare that bird call me evil!" Charlotte hissed indignantly, turning and slamming the door behind her.

"She's just my sister," Maxim turned back to the pigeon incomprehendingly.

"Not her, but the cat," Jean-Jacques pointed his beak at the table, where the cat had jumped up and was now curiously sniffing the written texts.

Fouché was startled for a moment when four suspicious eyes focused on him. He backed away, knocking over the ink bottle in the process. His paws then left dark spots on the text-covered pages, which instantly burst into flames.

“I know who you are!” cried Maximilien as he extinguished the fire with a copy of Rousseau's Confessions. Then he removed his tinted glasses from his head and mercilessly aimed the beam of virtue that burst from his eyes at the black kitten.

But the demon Fouché transformed into a giant snake before his pure gaze. In an instant he turned and swallowed the pesky, chattering pigeon. His devilish laugh then snuffed out all the candles.

"Jean-Jacques, NO!" Maxim screamed in terror and fainted on the spot. Fouché, still in snake form, curled contentedly on his chest, breathing into his face, the poisonous odor of pretense and slander wafting from his mouth. It already looked like he was going to kill poor Maximilien for good and destroy every memory of him.

"Not so fast demon," the window flew open and a pale angel of death with ice eyes appeared on the windowsill. His arrival was accompanied by the sound of the falling guillotine, and his face glistened in the moonlight with the fresh blood of the last executed traitor.

“Saint-Just?” Fouché hesitated and looked at the angel. "It's none of your business, go away," he hissed, rearing his long body menacingly.

“But yes, it is…,” Saint-Just stepped closer, an iron sword of justice suddenly appearing in his hands. "No freedom, to the enemies of freedom," he thundered and cut off the snake's head with one mighty blow.

Fouché fell to the ground, but an inconspicuous rat slithered out of his dead snake body, unnoticed by the angel as he bent over the prostrate wizard to breathe eternal life into him.

So the demon slipped unnoticed through the open window and disappeared into the darkness of the coming night, for lies and envy will never die either, but will continue to spread their poison throughout the world.

[ah-bright-wings]

The Garden - A Holy Saturday Story

A night wind rustles through the garden. Acacius shifts his feet, eyes following the bounce of a tree branch, though no night creature disturbs it. The sky is empty of clouds, leaving the moon silver and naked. The faint blush of dawn touches the horizon. Acacius feels his back touch the stone behind him and he straightens himself.

“Have you noticed,” he says sideways to Longinus—who alone remains awake while the other two in their guard sleep, rotations completed—“that you can’t hear any insects?”

Longinus doesn’t respond. When Acacius turns his head, he sees the man’s face is set, eyes unfocused. He’s on his back, one hand behind his head, the other on his belly, calloused fingers curled. His thumb taps an unsteady rhythm.

“Longinus,” Acacius says, and the man finally looks over, though for a moment only.

“Hercules died,” he says.

“…Hercules.”

“He was a demigod. He died. So, the sons of gods can die.”

Acacius’ grip tightens on his spear. “You’re speaking of the Nazarene.”

“Who else could I speak of?”

It’s not a biting retort, but an earnest one. Longinus has not spoken since they left Golgotha. Now, his voice is quiet, gruff. Uneasy. The brush rustles, and Acacius’ head snaps towards it. Longinus doesn’t flinch. His eyes remain fixed upwards.

“Are his followers really stupid enough to try stealing the body?” Acacius asks when he’s certain there’s no one in the garden.

“Does their god have sons?” Longinus doesn’t seem to have heard the question. Or, he’s heard and ignored it, continuing his own thoughts. “He must. All gods do. His mother must be a great woman.”

“He’s not a demigod,” Acacius says, a sigh held behind his teeth. “And we saw his mother. She was plain. So was he. Just a man.”

“He wasn’t just a man.”

“Why not?”

Longinus’ thumb taps on the curve of his bottom rib. “You saw what I did.”

“I saw a man die on a cross.”

“And the earth shake at his death.”

“Earthquakes happen.”

“Not like this.”

“If you are so certain,” Acacius says, “perhaps you should make an offering to appease his father. The lightning could strike you any moment now. Oh yes, look, here it comes.” He lifts a hand to the clear sky above. 

Longinus’ jaw shifts. He pushes himself up on his elbows so he can properly see his fellow legionnaire. There is still blood on his tunic, spattered against him by the wind when he thrust his spear through flesh. “Be careful what you mock.”

“I mock nothing. I mock no one. Is their god so powerful? Hm? He does nothing for them while Rome rules. He sends only rain while his ‘son’ hangs on a cross.” Acacius snorts and readjusts his stance. “They have one god, and he has forgotten them.”

“You’re a fool,” Longinus tells him. “Even Petronius recognized him for what he was.”

“The centurion is superstitious.”

“And you aren’t?”

“We did our duty.” Acacius is growing uneasy. Something rustles again in the brush. “So he was unusual. So, then, what? It changes nothing.”

“He prayed for our forgiveness.”

“Then he was sentimental.”

Longinus mutters a crude retort and lies down again. Acacius smiles thinly. The Nazarene had disturbed him, with his piercing eyes and silence under their whip, though he won’t admit it. The man’s eyes had been open when they pulled him down from the cross. Acacius had shut them to hide from them. 

“If he truly was the son of a god,” Acacius says, after the silence has stretched out like a shadow and grown heavy, “then we’d be the ones who killed him.”

“Yes,” Longinus says quietly. 

There is a warm wind stirring the trees like a breath. The earth is otherwise still around them. For hours, it has been still, as if creation is holding its breath, and just now, it has let it out again, sending puffs against Acacius’ skin and raising the soft hairs. The other two guards stir in their sleep. Longinus sits suddenly upright.

“Something is here,” he says, hand on his sword. He’s up before his words are out, kicking the others so they wake. The dawn makes itself known. The wind rises quickly. Clear is the sky, but the moon trembles as if afraid, hiding its face. A shaking begins, deeper than stone, making the trees shudder and groan, causing the roots to untwist themselves from the ground. Caius, who had laid his head on the Nazarene’s tunic, which he had won, has gone pale. He clings to his sword and shouts into the wind. His words are lost.

A man—no, it is not a man, though it is dressed in the white robes of one—comes across the grass, silent in its steps. When Acacius looks at it, terror seizes him. It’s a flash of terror, bright and terrible, illuminating all within himself that he has tried to hide. This is death! he thinks. This is death! His legs are limp beneath him. His face is crushed against the ground.

The man who is not a man places its hand on the stone. The wax seal melts away. Though the soldiers had strained themselves closing the tomb, the stone is pushed away with one hand, as easily as a boy might pick up a pebble and toss it away. It lands on its side, though it makes no sound. The being sits on it.

When Acacius comes to his right mind again, he is on his belly. His cheek is damp with dew. With his head turned sideways, he can see, two paces from him, Longinus, who is prostrate on his belly also, arms bent at the elbows so that his hands cover his head. He is shaking. Acacius hears him speaking, though it is more a babble than intelligible speech, the words forced from his lungs as he weeps.

Mercy, Acacius realizes. He begs for mercy.

There is still a terror in his own self when he raises his head to see the tomb. The being is gone. The tomb is open, stone cast aside, seal destroyed. Slowly, Acacius turns his head from side to side. The garden has come alive. In the new light, green has unfurled itself splendidly, trees putting forth their fruits and flowers like offerings so their fragrance fills the air. He sees fruit he does not know, nor has ever tasted. In the dipped branch of an olive tree, a grey dove sits.

His sword is gone. When did he drop it? He lifts himself and looks for the others, who are sprawled on the ground like dead men, though they breathe. He should check them. He should look for wounds. But something draws him towards the tomb, until he’s at the dark mouth of it, leaving the others behind, breathing in the cool, damp air. 

The tomb is empty.

“My gods,” he whispers, and he is terrified. He takes a step back, then another, turning from the empty tomb and the white linen cloths folded neatly where the body should be. His sandal catches on a root. He sprawls. The ground strips the skin from his knees. Blood rolls down his right calf as he limps forward.

Father, forgive them, had said the Nazarene, with a tongue swollen from thirst. 

“Run,” he tells Longinus hoarsely, grabbing the back of his tunic and hauling him upright. The others rise too. Their swords are abandoned. The Nazarene’s red garment lies crumpled on the ground. In the tomb, the graveclothes are folded. 

Father, forgive them, the man had prayed.

They know not what they do.

Acacius falls again, knocking the breath from himself. No one stops. The other three run ahead, fleeing the emptiness of the tomb, and though he gasps after them, they do not hear. 

There is no strength left in his limbs. As if gripped by fever, he trembles. Every story he has heard of the wrath of the gods comes to him here, crouched in the dust, made as low as beasts, while some great and holy fear passes over him. He covers his head as Longinus had done and begs for mercy.

Son of a god I do not know, he pleads, have mercy on me. Have mercy on me.

A hand touches his shoulder. 

Peace, says a voice he has heard before. Be still.

Immediately, the trembling leaves him. The terror that had overshadowed him passes on, leaving him be, and he is alone in the dust, alone, breathing. A dove coos. When he opens his eyes, he sees it on the path ahead, feathers ruffling. His eyes follow it when it takes flight.

The tomb is empty. The seal is broken, and the Nazarene is gone. At last, the world has thrown off its silence, and it sings around him, crying out while he stands mute. For a moment, he is still, seeking the source of their song. From where does it come? He cannot discern it. He abandons the stillness and presses on.

It is only when he rejoins the others that he finds his skinned knees made whole.

[eggwishing]

dave but mlp

[crehador]

the huge cast in dead mount death play occasionally makes for such hilarious moments, like there are so many different teams and factions that when two people fight for the first time they often have no idea why they're fighting or have the completely wrong idea of why they're fighting

and they'll say seemingly clever things like "so you can turn parts of your body into a bat... ah, i know... you must be solitaire's apprentice" with complete certainty but like no babygirl. there are 50 other unaffiliated people in shinjuku who could've taught her to do that

[smalldumbpigeon]

OC COMIC (cw mild horror/ tw for implied death)

Mirrored to Tapas if that's more your style

Oc One shot comic :)

[bens-birds]

Deceased juvenile Common Woodpigeon (Columba palumbus)

Co. Galway - 09-09-2021