#the catterwall

[suppermariobroth]

Background of the “Catterwall” microgame from WarioWare Gold, extracted from the game’s files. In-game, it is covered with a darkness overlay and is obscured by a large number of cats, making it very difficult to see.

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[froggytimemachineinternet]

batbussy

gotta get at that batbussy real soon gang

i need my malewife twinky boy on all fours bent over

get that man sounding like a wailing police siren

gonna call that man catterwall the way ima be having him on a wall yowling

[brightlotusmoon]

From the Futurama fan group:

Surgeon: *pokes*

Saxophone: [off-key squeedlee-dees and catterwalling]

Surgeon: "Alright, so not that part."

Patient: "What?"

Surgeon: "What?"

[maggie-yo]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Boyds Bear Plush Cat Inky Catterwall, 9”.

[grctw]

All Batman is better if it's written like the 60s show.

Robin: But, holy guitar solo, Batman, there was a lot of great punk coming out when you were my age.

Batman: *offended* PUNK?! *regains composure* Listen to me, ol' chum: punk is nothing but the discordant droning of death, the calamitous catterwalling of crime, and the reverberating rage of the beast that dwells in every ne'er-do-well's heart.

"HOLY WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE, BATMAN!

ITS THE MOST DASTARDLY VILLAIN OF THEM ALL!

C O M M U N I S M!"

"I SEE HIM, CHUM

But he can MARX my words.... whatever disguise he's been PUTIN on this time, there will be no STALIN my fist of vengeance as it Crush-chevs his mad dreams of power!"

[thecatterwall]

[imtheeggman2]

76 & 77 for the asks!

This is where I could end up launching into an essay but I'll try to keep it short and sweet. 😊 76: I love music, a self confessed muso. I've referred to a couple of artists in requests and the fic (Joni Mitchell, suede, Carole King, the charlatans). Big Beatles fan too ❤. Being mad about music also extends to dancing along to records (when no one is watching) and catterwalling along with tunes I bang out on the piano Reading- Could quite happily read several genres. Fantasy, crime novels, fanfics (can be picky though), romances, textbooks for uni. Writing, I guess stems from a love of reading. Engaging with people over common interests, whether that be film, current affairs, music or gossip (a vice perhaps) 77: Things I hate Hypocrisy. I loathe this idea people preach one thing and practice another. Lack of scruples and no values does my head in. Shame these people are in positions of power or are on the verge of being so. Jumping onto bandwagons. Ties in with lack of principles. Seems people just follow blindly in the hopes of promoting themselves and their cause. Go buy a personality and think for yourselves. My own self doubt. Apologies for the speel. Thanks for the ask. 😊

[thomasstalsworth]

A Birthday Evening Surprise

“Naw -- naw, naw … like, blue. You know, not like th’blue y’got right there -- blue-blue. Blue.”

It was difficult to see the gnomish tailor beneath the many, many -- many -- swatches of color he was holding. Indeed, the passing observer could be forgiven for wondering just how many hands the gnome had. Four .. seven? There were swatches of cloth of all color, texture, and pattern. They were all varying states of ‘blue’, or at least some variation of ‘aquatic’. None, however, appeared to satisfy the suntanned man on the other end of the counter.

“Naw … see -- it’s gotta be blue. Like, blue.”

“... I could not more clearly be holding ‘blue’, sir.”

With the faintest hint of irritation fighting through the slake of customer service, the gnome shook his arms. The motion made it look like he had wings made of tailoring-swatches, attempting to achieve lift-off in a hundred shades of ‘blue’.

“Y-yeah, naw I see that. But I mean really blue, you know?”

Above the curl of his pink moustache, the gnome’s left eye twitched. It was not an overt expression. Perhaps the vague concept of the man someday purchasing something was enough to stifle the otherwise overwhelming inner irritation inside the tailor. Again, he waggled the many, many swatches of colorful, textured cloth.

“... I am capable of dying any sensibility of ‘blue’ you desire. However you must tell me what exact coloration you have a desire for, sir. Aquamarine -- ?” The gnome waggled his left forefinger, indicating a swatch of the color at question. “-- Ultramarine?” Again, he thrust a digit to and fro to make marker of the one -- of many -- swatches.

“Periwinkle?”

“Midnight?”

“Navy?”

“Sapphire?”

“Teal?”

“Fluorescent?”

“Suramarian?”

“Baby?”

“Powder?”

“Icy?”

“Arctic?”

“Lordaeronian?”

“Alteraci?”

“.. Light Alteraci?”

“Neon?”

And on, and on -- and on it went.

Time became a bare, vacant concept in the mind of the poor tailor. His sense of self began to dissolve as the expansive of chronological nothingness continued unabated. All that remained to ground him to the gentle sensation of reality was the burning of his arms as the swatches remained held in his hands. That and the ‘blue’ -- the ever present, unyielding and uncompromising ‘blue’ which took hold of his mind. There was nothing but blue. It invaded his thoughts, his senses -- everything color-shifted, and even the inane babble of the man was reduced to various shades and tints of the aquatic color.

Then, right about when the tailor’s ego was experiencing its final death knell -- salvation came.

“... Wait, what abou’ that one?”

The inescapable spiral of mental desolation suddenly had a rope ladder. With far more speed than was necessary, the gnome desperately attempted to look for the swatch which the man referred to. He may have snapped his own neck were it not for the bundle of swatches which he was having to hold up with his chin.

“-- Which? Which one!?”

“That one, right there.” The man extended a fat finger to tap a simple, well-dyed swatch.

“... Navy?”

“Yeah! That one’ll do. Navy. Appropriate, figure’n. Good, rich color. Can we have it made wi’ that color n’ cloth?”

The anger -- and disbelief --  which simmered beneath the gnome was immense. Were it a meal, it could have fed a hundred -- no, a thousand of Gnomeregan’s hungriest. Yet the promise of a sale kept the white-hot rage caged with the peppy veneer of customer service.

“... Of course. Of course we can. I can have it ready by this afternoon.” Anything to get you out of here and away -- far away.

“Tha’ sounds great! Here … “ The man produced the appropriate purse of coin, paying for the services. Albeit perhaps not for the exact time expended. All the same, he exited with a polite smile of broad teeth, and a wave of his fat-fingered hand.

“Great Maker … “ The gnome groaned in protest, eyes rolling as he dropped all the swatches, bundles, and fabrics into a heap on the counter.

---

Thomas had never been a huge fan of Boralus.

Sure, it was the market-hub and port capital of Kul’Tiras. There were stalls, markets, storehouses and shop fronts for everything under the stars. Rare was the oddity unfound amidst the merchants, tradesman, and seaside hawkers. There was a kind of beauty, indeed, to the Tradewinds in full afternoon swing. Shoulder-to-shoulder, screaming sellers all out-bidding each other on the most peculiar objects. How much was the fair, going price for lizard gizzard? South Sea Barnacle juice? Imported Vrykul ‘whiskey’ from the Howling Fjord? How much a pint -- a gallon?

The roar of the mercantile crowds gave a boon to Thomas’ already blooming smile.

Still, he was a Crestfall born man, and proud of it. Despite the short length of his life on that particular island, he had always found a deep kinship to it. A rememberance which followed him all through his days. Perhaps it was the idyllic recollection of youth -- but everytime he had gone back to visit, for various and sometimes unscrupulous reasons, he had found every hill to be the mountain he remembered; each stream a roaring river. Good thoughts.

The trek from the gnome’s tailoring shop was a short one. He was almost home as it was -- Boralus was suddenly rather a close destination, relatively speaking, to where he laid his head.

Stormholme.

A duchy, as it were -- and he its Duke.

That thought still made his southernly orifices clench up. It gave him the same sensation to consider as a windy day in the crow’s nest. That odd combination of excitement, fear, and abject confusion.

Through the crowds of the Tradewinds, Thomas made his way. He heft his posterior up the seastone stairs which brought man, beast, and cargo from the outer wall dockyards to the interior of the city. Passing memory gave him idle consideration of a time wherein the idea of foreigners rubbing knuckles with the inner city guard was unheard of. With a pouching of his lower lip, he tried to remember seeing a single foreigner in his youth …

An elf? Maybe? -- Oh, no, yes, there was one.

One of the auburn caterpillars which made their home on his face wiggled. It curled, turning on itself to arch in silent contemplation. He did remember an elf. She was a … ‘Quel’dorei’? What did the elves call High Elves? High was right -- she was tall. Legs which went on from sunrise to sunset, and a rear end like a ripe --

“HEY!”

Thomas took the sudden force to his shoulder in stride, instinctually aligning himself to stand proper. Sea legs did good on land as well, it turned out. The man whom he had accidentally rammed into whirled about like he was ready to whallop Thomas -- but halt at recognition.

“You barnacle-cock son of a -- … Tom? TOM! Well shit in m’pants and call me a baby! Ain’t that the Big Iron, as I live an’ steal breath? Fuck on and piss, come here!”

A sandy-haired man of wide shoulders and thick man-carpet, the perpetrator of recognition rolled forward to grasp at Thomas, hugging him. It took a moment, enough for Tom to slowly put his arms around the man before --

“OH! Piss’n ma’ boots, how’n the fel are ya’? Been more’n a minute since I caught sight of the ruddy salt-stained hog call’t ‘Owen McManus’!”

Owen released him, smiling with a shit-grin to match Thomas’ best.

“Been more’n, aye. You still runnin’ your slag-heap cock up an’ down the Eee Kay?”

“Naw, naw -- long story, ain’t done none a’ that in some time. Been a maelstrom a’ life fer’ me lately, ma’ boy.”

“That a damn fact? Well shit -- you gon’ have to split a keg with me an’ regale. I’ve been runnin’ rope with these absolute bastards up’n from Freeman’s Bones. A real salty stack a’ bitches, I promise. Proper drinkers, may even make you see double -- ha!”

The ache of old memories -- and a life now gone -- began to creep up Thomas’ spine. It was not an unpleasant sensation. Like the nibbling of liquor when you thought you’d been drinking ‘virgin’ cocktails at a party too high-heel for you.

“Shit, piss n’ damnation … I ain’t been down to Freeman’s in a long time. They ever fix th’fucking stilts on that pub? Or is it a half a ball-bag from th’salty brine by now?”

“Oh, fuck’n no! You know Halloway is too cheap fer’ that. She’s gonna let the patrons wade in at the knee before she actually pays a carpenter.”

The smile which ate up both men’s faces was as genuine as could be. Old friends splitting old words. It felt good.

“-- Well shit, McManus. Light’s honest truth be tol’, I gotta be on a gryphon by …“

Thomas checked his bare wrist, as if there were something to tell him his time.

“... an hour ago. Believe it or not -- an’ I know this’ll keep yer’ curiosity enticed until I can fuck a keg open with ya’ -- I’m damn’t married now. A real proper lady, as it were. Chil’ren too, two girls.”

There was the sudden hooting, horning, and general catterwalling of laughter. A thick, hearty laughter which only found itself a home in the throats of the working class. Eventually though, Owen quit chuckling and simply stared.

“-- Yer’ serious?”

“Aye, am.”

“Well .. fuck. How’n the fel-fuck am I abou’ to get a gal spread-eagle now? You got a wife, where’n the fuck’s m’first mate gonna be when we hit th’pub?”

A fat finger rose from Thomas’ fist, waggling at the sandy-haired man.

“First of all -- y’were always my first mate. We both know I’m prettier, an’ end a’ day -- ladies prefer t’saw a hardwood log. Second a’all -- gonna have t’rain check the pub. I’m serious, gotta be on m’way. Got a wife’s birthday t’surprise.”

Owen threw his hands up -- nearly clocking a passing merchantman in the jaw -- and sighed.

“Fine! Fine … but you come’n by Hops Line n’ Sinker by end a’ week, ask fer’ me -- or I’ll be weepin’ like a maid in her milk-shirt. Good t’see ya, Tom.”

“Good t’see you too, McManus.”

And with that, they parted ways. In good timing too, as the winged beast which was to ferry Thomas was indeed, soon to depart. Not an hour hence, that was a lie. But there were few ways to escape the hookings of a McManus ‘evening out’. So after another walk around the Tradewinds, soaking in the sights -- and some of the liquor -- Thomas returned to retrieve the item of his earlier purchase.

Happily, the gnome handed it over, all done up in a silvered gift box. Wrapped together with a neat, blue bow, the package was easily passed long to Thomas. With a tippance of another golden coin for the fine -- and speedy -- work, he left. Much to the happiness of the proprietor.

It was only hours -- albeit some in succession -- before Thomas was home. He did his usual post-gryphon-ride ritual of almost vomiting, clenching his cheeks, and checking to make sure he had not, in fact, soiled himself at some point during the journey.

He did not -- this time.

With all of his sanitary interior squared away, he crept into the manorhouse of the estate. Not the easiest feat, seeing as he was sort-of known there. Being the Duke was a bit of a burden in the stealth department, certainly. But -- he was used to avoiding detection. It was not as easy as it used to be. Back in the old days, he could simply wrap his hair up in a bun, tie it with a bandana, and stand with one hip cocked out -- the Stormwind Guard often mistook him for a poor-off lady-of-the-night. Atleast, when the lanterns were dim.

Thomas crept into he and Anna’s shared room. He looked around, eyeing the dark chambers. She was not in for bed -- not yet. With a flick of his gaze, and the gift box under one arm, he checked the time on their clock. Massive, ornate thing that it was -- five to tenth bell. Perfect!

Coming forward toward the bed, he carefully lit a pair of candles on the nightstand. A flick of a match did the job -- a fire he kept far from the gift box under his arm. Then --

With a shimmy, Thomas began the swift process of undressing.

First his boots came off, unlaced awkwardly with one arm and toed aside. He kicked the stout leathers beneath a desk, hidden for now. Similarly he tossed his coat, hurling it through the opening to their off-suite bathing chambers. Hopefully it did not land in the tub. After that, the rest of his clothes were summarily dumped within an open drawer and stuffed shut for later recollection. Now that was not important. Now? It was game-time. If his recollection of his wife’s schedule was correct, she should be coming in for bed any minute.

With himself now fully nude -- at least aside from the auburn carpet which gave him a wool tank-top and shorts -- he climbed aboard their four-poster. He fussed a few minutes, arranging and rearranging the bedding to best support his grand posture. One leg cocked up, knee raised up, other leg splayed outward, holding himself up in a pose to show off his chest. One hand was balled to a fist, aligned at his jaw -- jaw pressed out in handsome fashion, of course -- while the other clutched …

An anchor.

Well, a pillow, really. It had been within the nearly arranged gift-box. A masterful work of tailoring. The ‘pillow’ was gargantuan, more of a faux-body than anything. It was large enough to be quite the cuddle-buddy within a cloak of blankets, were need to arise. Slightly fuzzy, effortlessly soft, and wreathed in the most noble of Navy-blue dye. At the very bottom corner, on the rightmost arch of the anchor, was enscribed a tiny, golden ‘f a h’.

He held it over his groin.

And now … now all he had to do was wait.

@elaianna

[hunterclaringtonswitch]

It’s all Domestic

Well, the robot didn’t die, so that’s something.  I have never cared for a child before, so being in charge of a helpless thing was illuminating.  If I were ever in a position to become an actual parent, many parenting classes would be required before the thing comes into my life.  As it was, the screeching the robot made at night was very unsettling.  I haven’t slept in several days and am very happy to return the baby to the teacher.  If it could have a schedule, that would have been a lot less stressful, but as it was, it would catterwall at random intervals and was not communicative in telling me what distressed it.

[ask-kuronue]

Like the little catterwall, your tail fluffs up when ya do it. That noise.

Yoko, do you think Kuronue has a favorite sound that you make?

"Oh, I'm sure he does have a favorite, and it's probably not one the kids should be hearing."

[dresupi]

the child he deserves

Pairing:  Fred Weasley/Hermione Granger For: Anon Prompter Prompt:  Single Parent AU

Hermione picked at the hem of her blouse nervously.  Fred reached over beneath the table and squeezed her knee.  "Stop that, Granger. Amalie's going to love you."  

"Children rarely do," she murmured under her breath, watching in a combination of abject horror and intrigue as the fireplace lit up.  A woman and a child emerged.  The child, a girl, had a headful of red hair and smudges on her cheeks.  Definitely a Weasley.  

"I hate the bloody Floo…" the girl groused, and her companion looked down to scold her, but she was already running towards Fred with her arms spread wide.  "DADDY!"  

"Hello there, poppet…" Fred scooped her up in his arms and nodded towards the woman, a day school worker who dropped her off at home.  "Thank you, Ms. Catterwaller."  

"It's CAT WALLER," she said slowly.  "My first name is Cat, my surname is Waller."  

"Unfortunate…" Fred muttered under his breath.  "My apologies.  Thank you, Ms. WALLER."  

"That's twice she's sworn in my presence today, Mr. Weasley.  You really shouldn't allow her to talk that way."

"What did she say?"  

"She called Scorpius Malfoy a... 'bloody git'."  

Fred glanced down at the girl in his arms.  "Amalie, you shouldn't call people names. It's hurtful."  

Hermione was surprised by Fred's show of paternal scolding.  Amalie even looked sufficiently contrite as she mumbled her apologies.  

"We'll send an owl to the Malfoys straight away, Ms. Catter...Ms.  Waller."  Fred gave her one of those patented Weasley Brothers smiles and the teacher was on her way via the Floo.  

"Daddy, do we really have to send them an owl?  Scorpius was being a bloody git."  

"Yes, well I don't doubt it…" Fred replied. "But you really shouldn't call people names.  It is hurtful.  So, we'll write Scorpius an apology and send it to him straight away."  

Amalie sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly.  

"But we'll send it with Puck, so it'll be a challenge to obtain…" he added, causing the tiny girl to beam brilliantly at her father.  It was at this precise moment that her big brown eyes found Hermione.  

"Hullo, you're Hermione Granger."  

Hermione chuckled.  "And you are Amalie Weasley."  

"Quite…" Amalie turned to look up at her father, a glint of mischief in her eyes as she smirked up at him.  "She's far prettier than you said."

Fred's mouth fell open and Hermione started to laugh.  

[bearalove]

+@#! Cute Lot 2 Boyds Bears Cats Fellina B Catterwall & Pal Millicent Vintage NWT https://ift.tt/3exiW3V

[aintitfun21]

Beyond the Wall

So priest man is still alive because alcohol good to know

oh look white walkers walking slowly in single file

that’s not suspicious at all.... 

all but one is conveniently killed but then he summons the rest with his catterwalling

Quick take the white walker back to the wall before we die because the ice is breaking

[adelha-mathilde]

Adelha had gotten out a container to open it for Leon. The parcel filled to the top with beef jerky. Enough for two people easily. Another container next to her with dried fruit and edible nuts. However, it is quite clear that Adelha is not impressed with Leon's catterwalling or his insistence he push his run down body further. Her frown turned into a scowl for iced words to have replaced her usual sweet tones.

"How about you sit your half dead carcass back down. Else I'll gladly watch you fall back over to drag you back where I put you. I do have some meat with me, Leon. However, I am not going to give it to you until you prove you can keep food down without retching. Hence why you will start with taking two bites of the herbal bread. It settles the stomach and will soak up whatever toxin is already ravaging your health. As for you telling me what you need, I'm of the opinion you need a boot to your sculpted ass. Like you in your condition could possibly hunt in the first place. Not to mention the idea of you sneaking into town is asinine. You might as well head right for the jail and crawl into a holding cell. So be smart and stop being so stubborn. Neither Heaven nor Hell will give credit to a foolish mule and it's braying. So sit back down and eat the bread. Please."

Adelha.

Adelha narrowed her gaze at the man before her to look quite concerned. Brows furrowed to clench her teeth in hopes of quelling her temper. And it was obvious she had noted how ill he looked. So she moved to set the parcel in his hand. Tugging him with the other to sit down in a bit of the sunshine cascading down from the trees. Her more formal tones all but gone as she spoke in a deepened pitch.

“No wonder you look so out of sorts since last I saw you. Sit down and we will see to getting you feeling better. Take at least two bites of the bread before you tell me what you have been eating, if anything. I have more to offer once you prove your stomach can tolerate the bread. And before you start bitching and whining, I do not charge people in need for my services as an apothecary and white mage.”

Adelha all but shoved him to sit down in front of her. Kneeling down soon after to rummage in her duffel bag a bit. Words of rich eloquence denoting her displeasure in German. Clearly, Leon is getting help with his health. Whether he likes it or not.

[ ⸸ ] – “I’ll bitch and whine all I want, lady! Now hands off!” Quick to shove her away, the knight hops back onto his feet. “How about instead of grabbin’ me like a fuckin’ ragdoll, you help me find some game around here, huh? That’s what you can do for your stupid plants.” Leonhart snapped, his tone all-too-clearly irritated. He didn’t care if his disheveled appearance made him look like shit, or if his body was exhausted from the sick he felt from eating things he had zero knowledge about — he was starving, and god forbid if Leon was going to allow himself to die from it.

“And if not that, then you can come with me tonight to ransack one of the shops in the nearby villages for the meat. I’m not going to sit here though and let you play doctor on me while I fucking waste away–!”

[greattechnomancer]

Lillith Von Catterwall XIV She is from a long line of barbarians from a post apocalyptic world. The first Lillith survived the mysterious catastrophe that destroyed the world. While other humans banded together to try to rebuild their world, she seized the opportunity before her and became the first barbarian queen. When the first princess was born, she was raised to the age of six before being sent out into the world to make a name for herself. She was not allowed to return until she had conquered enough to add to her mother's kingdom. It was not until she was successful that she was given the name Lillith Von Catterwall II. This became tradition, with the name being handed down not to the first born daughter, but the first successful daughter in each line. This is the first daughter of Lillith Von Catterwall XIII, determined to return home a warrior worthy of her name. She rides a mutated beast known as a Weena, and has no weapons, save for a large, glowing orb that was woven tightly into her hair as a child. This was meant to make her stronger, as it was almost too heavy for the child to carry. Now, however, she barely even notices it, letting it hang as it is.