#trans gryphons

[kvalenagle]

If you're looking for a scarier creature fantasy read for October, try out Coldbright, a full novel in the Tales of Feathers & Flames Anthology.

A queer folk horror tale... with gryphons! A snarky little opinicus and his dire ex-boyfriend investigate disappearances in a misty valley, set in the same world as Dire by John Bailey. Warning: Contains 90% trans gryphons by volume.

[proxycrit]

(I point. Gently, in the voice of somebody who’s mind touched by the outer gods, i whisper truth in your ears:

Your honor the horses are now lesbians

(Anyways here’s the designs)

[foldingfittedsheets]

I revisited the little flock of pride gryphons! I'm so excited for bi people cause honestly that one came out so cute, anyone repping these feathery little bundles is gonna get so many compliments.

You can check out my gryphon buddies on Redbubble and Teepublic! (Repeating pattern is only on Redbubble!)

If you have a question about a flag not shown please read this before commenting! I appreciate it.

[cryingpariah]

Urpi smiling at watching her son-in-law with the Seraphim. She smiles seeing him ruffle Gryphon's hair when he gets an answer right on his math worksheet. She smiles seeing him wipe Gabriel's nose at dinner because the little peanut always gets a runny nose when he eats curry. She smiles seeing him put Nemo to bed with his little stuffed lion.

But Crocodile feels deep guilt whenever he catches this because he couldn't do the same for Luffy and he's worried about Urpi resenting him for that.

“You seemed trouble dear, is everything alright?”

She was making that face again, the picturesque look of warm motherly concern and understanding. Crocodile didn’t know if he deserved to be looked at like that.

He had seen her with the boys, with Dragon, anyone she comes into contact with comes out the other side..better. Warmer. Loved. She understood every one of the Gabriel and Gryphon's nonsensical games. Nemo loved her immediately and refused to leave her arms once in them. He had heard story after story from Dragon about her endless kindness and genuine nature. She was the perfect parent for crying out loud!

And Crocodile….

He met her eyes now, lined with wrinkles and patience before loosing a heavy sigh.

“I was just…wondering is all.”

She smiled, crossing one leg over the other and resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

“Wonder away dear, but don’t be scared to ask either.”

Was he so blatantly obvious or was mind reading some secret Shandian talent she had never deigned to share?

“Alright you caught me. It’s just…aren’t you upset with me, Mrs Urpi?”

An owlishly expression of surprise crossed her face. Her eyes looked around the room a little, as if she was trying to find where the question had even come from.

“Dear I can assure you I am most certainly not upset with you. I apologize if I gave you that impression-“

Crocodile surged forward in his seat, his voice rising and his one good hand gesturing at nothing.“With all due respect Mrs Urpi, let us drop the niceties. I am no child, please speak your mind and be honest: you can’t possibly tell me you aren't angry when you see me with the boys acting like a perfect father when Luffy-“

Losing his steam he slumped back into his chair, staring at his lap in shame. “There’s no way you don’t see me as a failure.”

A silence blanketed them, the echoing of the grandfather clock feeling like a gong.

He stood up, shame swirling in his gut. He'll apologize and then make himself scarce until the end of her visit. He'll-

“Crocodile.”

He looked up (he felt like he did that a lot with her) to see her patting the other half of the couch she laid on pointy. The message was clear and received. He shuffled his way over. For a moment neither of them spoke.

“When I first found out I was pregnant I was terrified.”

He glanced at her in surprise. What is she..

“I hadn’t been feeling well the last couple of days but I had just it was something I ate. I went to the doctor and I’m sure you can guess what they told me. I was happy but I also felt so distant from it all. I never envisioned myself as a mother, hell there was a point in my life where I never thought I’d make it twenty.”

“The pregnancy itself was fine, it was even fun at times but every moment of quiet had terrible thoughts creeping in. I couldn’t connect with my baby, I couldn’t do the one thing I was just supposed to naturally do and I felt like a failure.”

Crocodile was astounded, he had always felt so othered by pregnancy and birth stories and how the mothers had felt such joy and love but this..

“When Dragon was born I felt blessed but also completely undeserving. Every milestone he didn’t hit on time I believed was my own failing. I could barely eat or sleep, I didn’t even shower. I was paranoid and frantic. I watched him almost obsessively but balked at times when he got too close. I thought I was ruining him, that Nika himself was trying to tell me I wasn’t fit to be a mother.”

He didn’t know who reached out, all he knew was his hand was so tightly grasping hers and he felt every word that spilled from her lips like a sucker punch. In five minutes she had made him feel more seen and understood than he had in nearly twenty years and it was as gratifying as it was overwhelming.

“I-I don’t understand..why are you..”

She turned to him, her eyes and smile equally watery. She loosed her hand from his, using it to caress his back as she pulled him close.

“My dear Crocodile, I will never blame you for making your choice then nor do I blame you for choosing differently now. To overcome what you have..I cannot imagine such strength. I just wanted you to know that you never have been alone in your fears. It does not mark you as weak. I want you to remember that I am so very proud of you.”

Oh.

They didn’t speak more than that, they didn’t need to. Her gradually wetter shoulder and back spoke volumes. Had she known he was so close to tears? Is that why she tugged him into this hug, to allow him the appearance of keeping his dignity by hiding it behind her? It definitely didn’t matter but with the doubts and worries of being secretly resenting washing he had to think of something right?

[emistheantlerqueen]

this is for science (for my mom)

pls answer honestly

(Sorry for the lots of tags I need ppl to vote)

[butter-leopard]

On the Longest Night

Story by Nicole Hawberry

Illustrations by Rama Thorn

Summary: A little holiday story in which nothing of note happens but visiting friends, lighting candles, and waiting up for lost souls.

Tags: winter solstice, alternative holiday traditions, asexual main character, lesbian moms, cozy fantasy, doctoral research, Edwardian-era-flavored setting, alchemy never died

Content warnings: past loss of family, loneliness

6,300 words

Suggested tea pairing*: Tranquility by Yumchaa

*unsponsored!

~

On the evening of winter solstice, Ann left her rooms at sunset.

She hefted her basket of gifts and made her way across the quad, boots crunching on grit that had been thrown down to break up the ice. A confection of pink clouds towered atop the university roofs. It quickly dispersed into darkness, and all across the courtyard, the alchemic lamps blinked on. One hissed to life as Ann passed beneath. 

She stopped first at the home of Dr. Nir, who she’d known since she’d been an undergrad at Sweetwind College. When Dr. Nir had moved here to Janos University, she’d talked Ann into coming along to pursue her graduate studies. Soon after, she’d introduced Ann to her current mentor, Dr. Longway.

At Dr. Nir’s apartment, Ann accepted a glass of cherry cordial and a plate of tiny spiced meat tarts, and politely turned down an invitation to stay for a game of word cards.

She visited the home of Dr. Longway himself next and found that he was out. Ann smiled at the thought of the droll professor making rounds on winter solstice, doling out presents. She left his present on the front step with the pile of packages already growing there. Hopefully he’d appreciate the striped socks she’d knit him in bold yellow and black yarn, in memory of the bee that had followed him across campus one late summer day. He dryly joked that the encounter had left him hesitant to take afternoon walks, but Ann could tell he was at least half serious.

Next, she went to the home of the librarian, Davith. There, to the amazement of his two children, she pulled a handsome box of miniature wooden games out of her gift basket. From the corner of her eye, Ann caught Davith’s sharp look, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She only watched the kids go through the box, crying out with every discovery they made.

It had been a stretch to buy the box of games on her limited budget, but Davith was a good friend to her, and he had saved her research several times by tracking down rare books. She was glad to be able to do this for his family. She only regretted she couldn’t afford to get them proper artisan-crafted toys—ones that danced and lit up and made noise all on their own. These ones had been made by an apprentice artisan as practice pieces, so they were well-made but not infused with any life of their own.

The children begged Ann to sing at least one song with them, but Davith glanced in sympathy at the gifts piled in Ann’s basket before explaining to them that she might have other people to visit. Ann gave him a grateful smile. In truth, she dearly wanted to stay, but she did have a lot of stops to make and not much time.

She made three more drop-offs to colleagues and professors who were out, probably delivering presents, like her. It was just as well, because she didn’t have the heart to turn down many more offers of food and company as she hastened to empty her basket. Each stop brought her closer to the edge of the university, through austere gardens filled with bare branches, dark green juniper bushes, and red solstice ribbons.

By her seventh stop, she was making good time and allowed herself to get sucked into an audio play on a friend’s phonograph. The drama and music reminded her of the rare times she’d visited the theater with her family, and she forgot herself completely until she glanced at the clock and, with a stumbling apology, hurried out.

Her last stop was the farthest. It brought her beyond the university’s walls and across the bridge to the Camp of the Arts. She gave thanks that the morning’s ice had long ago melted as she rushed over the cobblestones.

The Camp of the Arts was everything the university wasn’t. The streets branched messily and were cramped with townhomes, cafes, and studios of different architectural styles and ages. Older structures made of creaking wood and brightly-colored cloth leaned shoulders with newer brick buildings. The newer buildings were no less flamboyant, with their spiraling murals and the mosaics that glittered across multiple shopfronts.

Ann passed the open-air market where she’d bought the games for Davith’s children. Most of the market was closed for the evening, but several food vendors served spiced bubbly cider and fried dough, and groups of merrymakers wove up and down the narrow lanes of shuttered market stalls, taking in the bright decorations: strings of glowing baubles, paper cutouts of twirling snowflakes, musical pipes playing songs. The smell of cinnamon and sweet fry oil tempted Ann, but she kept moving.

The whimsical decorations continued into the residential neighborhood. Strings of paper lamps crisscrossed overhead, drenching everything below in colored light. A stilt-walker leaned to blow bubbles at a group of children, who shrieked and scattered.

Ann stopped at the front step of a familiar townhouse. The house had been decked out in bunches of multicolored ribbons and little bells that rang themselves. Out of their delicate tinkling, Ann could just make out a solstice melody.

A clocktower tolled the hour. Planning, with regret, to make this visit short, she took the last parcel from her basket and rapped on the door. The apology she’d readied froze when Ulma’s face appeared in the doorway and brightened at the sight of Ann. Then Ann was being ushered into the warmth and light and savory smells of her friend’s home.

Ann was still attempting to navigate greetings and apologies when a streak of orange and white shot toward her and tangled around her ankles, putting her further off balance.

“Oh!” Ann said to the calico kitten. “You’ve gotten so big!”

She bent to pet it, and the basket on her arm dipped with sudden weight as a small black shape leapt into it, claws scrabbling.

Ann laughed under the double assault. Ulma laughed, too, and took the wrapped gift from Ann’s hand so Ann could catch her balance.

“That package is for you, anyway,” Ann said.

She set the basket down. Inside, the black kitten—which was nearly full-grown, like its sibling—had found the scrap of cushioning fabric at the bottom and was already curled on its side, attacking the cloth with front and back feet.

Sensing something more interesting going on than greetings from a human, the little calico twisted under Ann’s hand to inspect the basket. In moments, it had tumbled inside to bat paws with the other kitten.

“The pests!” Ulma said. “I’m sorry.”

Ann teased the kittens with the scrap. “They’re not doing any harm.”

“Do you have any more stops after this one? Would you like to stay for dinner? We’re having roast.”

Ann already knew this by the delicious smells. She would have loved to stay; the house was so beautiful, filled with candles and bunches of prickly-grape leaves and more of the tiny bells. And the company would have been even better; Ann loved Ulma and her husband, Teddy.

Apologetically, she shook her head. “This is my last one, but I’ve got to get home.”

“Oh, good—so you have plans. That’s great, as long as you aren’t alone. We knew you weren’t traveling to see your folks this year.”

“Thank you,” Ann said. “The invitation means a lot.”

She took something soft and long from her pocket and handed it to Ulma, who accepted it with slight puzzlement, then recognition.

“My socks! I was wondering where these had gone. And—a pair of Teddy’s, too?”

At Ulma’s questioning look, Ann winked and lightly touched the side of her nose.

Ulma glanced at the squishy package she’d taken from Ann a couple minutes before.

“I needed a size reference,” Ann said, with a sheepish shrug.

Ulma laughed. “I’m sure I have no idea what’s inside this gift you handed me! Hold on a minute, I’ll be right back.” She disappeared through the open door, leaving Ann alone in the entryway.

Ann always loved visiting Ulma and Teddy’s house, even when it wasn’t a holiday. The couple were artisans, and they kept a rotating display of their works on the shelves and sideboards here. She mourned that she hadn’t visited them in months; she’d been so busy with her doctoral work. Now for the winter solstice, the entry hall was filled with even more wonderful things. She toured the room, running her finger lightly over the wonders: a tiny music box in the shape of a snowflake, a miniature castle with a rotating disk of costumed dancers, a wolf playing the fiddle. Ulma and Teddy had made all of them together. Ulma built the metal mechanical parts of the music boxes, and Teddy carved, polished, and stained the wood that housed them. Which of them infused the pieces with life, though? Ann was watching the wolf smoothly draw its bow across the fiddle, as if she could puzzle this out, when Ulma reappeared. She had a parcel under one arm, a pale wooden box under the other, and a tray of spice cakes in her hands. The cakes were shiny with icing and dotted with fat currants.

“I should have done this in the kitchen,” Ulma lamented as she handed the tray to Ann, set the package on a side cabinet, and opened the wooden box, which was empty. She popped the spice cakes into it while Ann watched, bemused.

As Ulma added the last cake and latched the box shut, she said, “At least take these with you to share.”

Ann didn’t know what to say except, “Thank you.” She let Ulma take the empty tray from her and press the warm box into her hands.

“And this is for you,” Ulma said, reclaiming the wrapped package from the cabinet and proffering it to Ann. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to go gifting this year. We’ve been busy with the roast, and our son’s airship had to stop in Rosewood for bad weather. The kids are the ones who usually go out.”

“I hope they make it safely.”

“Oh, they’ll be fine. The kids were pushing snow down each other’s collars, last I heard.” Ulma’s mouth twisted in a smirk. There was probably a story there. Ulma was sweet but took vengeful delight in her son’s parenting misadventures.

Ann felt bad for him, but couldn’t help her own, answering smile. She bent to tuck the gifts into the basket and then paused when she saw the two cats curled inside, now dozing together.

“Look,” she whispered.

Ulma’s curious look dissolved as she caught sight of them. She gave a “tsk!” and scooped them out, one floppy kitten in each hand.

“Here, they can have the scrap,” Ann said. “Happy solstice, you two. You’re so easy to choose a gift for.”

In the few minutes she’d spent in the warmth of Ulma’s home, Ann had forgotten how cold it was. She paused on the doorstep to wrap her scarf tighter around her neck. As she made her way back through the Camp of the Arts, she kept close to the buildings, out of the wind, catching good smells and sounds of laughter and currents of warm air from cracked windows.

As she reached the university’s moat, the chill took on a wet bite. The noise and bright glow of lamps fell away, becoming only muffled sounds and flashes of light reflecting off the black surface of the water. Ann passed several people on the bridge, many of them carrying lanterns. Their voices echoed around the short tunnel of the university’s gate as Ann passed through it, under the portcullis that had not been lowered in generations.

After the bright colors of the Camp, Janos University seemed so dark, lit only by the steady white illumination of the alchemic lamps.

A wreath had been placed on her door. Ann glanced around the hall, wondering if it had been placed there by one of her neighbors. Bags of candied fruit and nuts had been pinned among its pine needles and prickly-grape leaves.

Beneath the wreath, mounded against the door, a small pile of packages waited for her. The sight surprised her, though she didn’t why it should. Heart warm, she knelt to put them into her basket. From the wreath, she chose a bag of candied fruit for herself and left the rest for any spirits that wandered by that night.

The living room looked just the way it had when she’d left earlier: spool of ribbon, scrap fabric, and scissors out for wrapping presents, an empty tea mug and a plate of toasted nut bread on a chair nearby—and the usual mess everywhere else.

With horror, she realized it was a disaster.

Since early summer, she’d been so focused on her research, she hadn’t taken notice of her surroundings. The apartment looked like the den of some book- and yarn-hoarding creature, a little nesting bird or rodent.

She checked the clock on the mantel. She didn’t have the time to spare, but she also didn’t have a choice.

Her desk offered the only clear surface large enough for the basket of gifts. She set it there, atop her research notes, then sloughed off her warm winter clothes and got a fire going. When the wood was crackling and sending up orange flames, she attacked the living room. There wasn’t much she could do in a small amount of time, but she could at least put things in neater piles.

First, she swept the scrap fabric, ribbon, and scissors into a craft basket and returned the toast and tea mug to the kitchen. Then she ran around the apartment, gathering armfuls of books. At first, she tried to organize them in some relevant way, but when she found herself deciding whether to separate Dr. Rafa’el’s books from the three stacks of research, she quickly gave up and, in a frantic rush, piled them all together.

For a moment, she hesitated over all the knitting, thinking she should arrange it by project, but then she remembered herself and dumped it all on the corner of the couch—the one that was too stiff to sit on, anyway.

One of the projects was an unfortunate first attempt to knit a gryphon doll for her niece. The wings were blocky and looked like two blankets flapping on its back, and she’d forgotten to give it forelegs. She intended to try putting it to rights at some point without completely unraveling it, but until then, it would sit with her balls of yarn, looking confused and left out. Some emotion—pity, or love—urged her to pull it out of the pile and set it on top to watch her finish cleaning the apartment.

Ann pulled long strips of telegraph tape from the desk and threw them into a crate of prints. She suspected one of the messages was a short winter solstice story from her niece; it had arrived earlier in a flurry of metallic clacking.

From the dining table, she swept a pile of equipment for her upcoming research trip into a box and pushed the box—clinking with vials of antinausea draughts—under the bed in her room. Straightening, she spotted a piece of paper on the ground and recognized it as a letter from Dr. Rafa’el. He’d sent this one to her at the holiday years ago; it was one of her favorites. Earlier in the week, in a fit of nostalgia, she’d pulled it out to read. He was usually polite and serious to a fault, but this one contained a rare, silly drawing by him, and it always made her smile.

She tucked it in the closet with the rest of the letters, and spared a moment to wonder how Dr. Rafa’el was doing and how he was celebrating the holiday. She couldn’t imagine him making visits on solstice evening with a basket of presents on his arm, but also, she couldn’t imagine him not. Was he visiting family? Funny, from the years they’d corresponded, Ann could recount his personal philosophies, his favorite operas, and the way he took tea, but she didn’t know if he was married or if he had kids. Siblings. Nieces or nephews that telegraphed him with stories and cost him a fortune in telegraph tape...

Realizing she was smiling again, and that she’d been standing in her dark room, staring at her closet for several minutes, she shook her head at herself.

When at last she was done, the apartment still looked like her own—the apartment of a doctoral student lost in her dissertation work—but it seemed (at least she hoped) a bit less desperate. If nothing else, some of the floor was visible. In a word, it was acceptable, and she relaxed a fraction.

She still had a lot to do.

The fire had burned itself into smoldering coals nearly perfect for cooking. With her limited time, she should have opted to make dinner at the stove, but stubbornly, Ann rearranged the coals and added more wood. They always made winter solstice dinner at the hearth. It was tradition.

Ann retrieved the iron pot from where it lived for most of the year in a corner of the kitchen and set it over the coals on its three squat legs. Soon, the apartment was filled with the sound of sizzling and the smells of rosemary and parsnip. Beef stew wouldn’t make for a particularly fancy meal, but it would be warming and—she hoped—appreciated.

In her apartment, Ann had a total of three chairs. While the stew bubbled, she gathered these around the small dining table, spread out a lace tablecloth, and arranged three place settings. She put a knit cushion on each of the chairs.

Seeing the table this way did something funny to her. It had never been only her and them before.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, with a snap of her fingers. She retrieved the box of spice cakes and, after a minute of rummaging, found a serving platter to set them on. They looked too good like that, dressed with icing and currants. It made Ann smile. A lot of love had gone into them.

All she had left, now, were the finishing touches.

From beneath the couch, she pulled a wicker box filled with her most precious holiday decorations. First, she took out the bunch of silver bells. It was one of the few artisan-crafted items Ann owned, and it had been given to her by Mum and Auntie when she left home. Though the bells didn’t ring on their own or play music, the silver never tarnished and their nest of ribbons looked as crisp as if just-tied. Then, she lifted the little soul lantern from its protective fold of velvet cloth.

She stepped outside to hang the on the hook above her door and set the lantern on her doorstep. Across the courtyard, children whooped and a man called out a greeting. Ann crossed her arms over her chest, breath frosting, and watched their group go by. The atmosphere had taken on a rare, hazy quality that softened the lamp and lantern lights, making them into ghosts.

After the crackling cold, the air inside her apartment was thick with heat and rich smells. The door sealed out the children’s laughter, and in the insulated quiet, the clock above the mantel ticked the seconds.

Suddenly, the apartment was very small and very large and very empty and very close. She didn’t look at the clock. Now that it was almost time, she couldn’t.

To keep her hands moving, she placed a pan of wine over the fire and added cider and spices. She rearranged the contents of the dining table. Added the gifts from her basket to the mantel with the other cards and presents. Relocated her teapots so they could all fit. Sat on the vacant end of the stiff couch and watched the fragrant steam rise from the mulled wine. After a time, she realized she’d pulled out her talisman—the one Dr. Rafa’el had sent her years before—and was stroking its silky feathers, something she did when she was nervous.

The clock chimed ten.

“All right,” she said to the knit gryphon sitting on the hill of wool next to her. She tucked the talisman back under the collar of her sweater and went to the door.

“Welcome,” she whispered, and locked it.

From the wicker box, she took the last objects: two silver candle holders. She placed a slender taper in each and lit them with a flame from the hearth, as she’d been taught.

The pale-yellow beeswax burned sweetly. Once upon a time, the women of fishing villages had gathered together to dip the tapers that they’d later burn in their houses at night—lights to guide home their husbands and sons. Brothers. Fathers.

Ann placed the candles on the windowsill.

Winter solstice. Everywhere across campus and in all pockets of civilization, people set candles and lanterns in thresholds and in windows, on gate posts and at the edges of camp—beacons promising warmth and safe haven to all stray souls. Family and strangers gathered at the fireside, sharing bounty and story, reinforcing old connections, creating new. On the longest night, everyone had a home and hearth.

Ann ladled three bowls of stew. She set these on the small dining table with warm bread, a pot of honey, and butter. She poured mulled wine into each of the mugs.

“I hope you enjoy,” she whispered to the table.

She had intended to take a seat at it, but in the end, she took her meal to the hearth. Maybe this was rude, but somehow, it felt right. She ate while listening to the murmur and snap of the coals, and allowed herself to feel at peace. She hadn’t known what she would feel, sharing the holiday this way, but it wasn’t bad. It was…good. It was quiet, and she felt connected. Inexplicably, paradoxically so.

Outside, the approaching clang of a bell marked the passage of a solstice search party, a procession of candle bearers who traveled from door to door, guiding the way for lost spirits. They neared Ann's door, and the bell went silent. Into that pause, the bearers would be lighting the lantern on her doorstep. The peal of the bell resumed a few seconds later, and the procession moved on, drawing the spirits along with flame and sound—helping them find their way home, and, if not, helping them find friendly shelter.

She listened to the sounds disappear. In the gentle quiet that followed, she tried to sense any difference in the apartment. A shift of the air, a watchful presence that hadn’t been there before, maybe an inexplicable flicker of the candleflames at the window. How did these things work? She’d never been in an otherwise empty room on the night of solstice.

The clock continued to tick. Her bowl, now empty, cooled in her hands.

If any spirits had found their way inside when the procession passed by, Ann could not detect them any better than she could when surrounded by five other women and a small flock of birds all making music and conversation together.

There was also the alternative: that there weren’t any spirits because the souls that would have visited her hadn’t been lost.

In the fireplace, a log popped.

She rose to put her bowl in the kitchen, then covered both bowls of stew on the table, reckoning it wouldn’t hurt to keep the contents warm and clean. Just in case.

She tried not to be disappointed. It wasn’t like she’d expected to speak with them. It wasn’t like she had expected…anything, really.

Her hands rested on the back of a dining chair. She realized she was gazing at Ulma’s spice cakes. She picked one up, inhaled the sweet butteriness, and took a bite. The dense dough was still very slightly warm. The fragrance of spices and orange peel evoked memories of late nights in the sitting room with her foster sisters, playing number tiles and weaving leftover ribbons into bracelets and solstice crowns.

What were their mothers doing tonight? Was the house very quiet? Were they listening to music and enjoying an evening without four demons flinging bells at each other behind their backs? Ann hoped they were. She hoped it wasn’t as strange for Mum and Auntie as it was for her, gathering all the cards and packages from the mantel and settling on the floor with them.

“Miss you all,” she said to them. “Thank you for these.”

 She opened the cards first, starting with one from a friend she kept in touch with from primary school. She unfolded the handwritten note she’d come to expect every winter, with its accompanying heliograph, and saw that her friend’s family had an extra tiny, bald person this year. The firelight glowed through the creamy paper, silhouetting the words as she read them.

The cards from her university friends and mentors were also familiar and expected: most offered short greetings and wishes for a happy holiday, as they did every year.

Opening the cards from her sisters, however, was an odd experience. Usually, she received family updates and holiday tidings in person. This year, however, they’d agreed not to get together. With Ann preparing a research proposal for her expedition in spring, Linden caring for her one-month-old, Alyssum opening a business, and Heather off in the northern ice pole, they were all too busy—or too far—to travel home.

Ann had braced herself for missing them, but still wasn’t prepared for the ache at reading their words. The feeling eased as she continued, though, and it seemed rather like they were there with her. She could hear their distinct voices as they recounted new baby troubles, happy accidents in floral arrangement, and spousal drama.

Only after she had read the letters did she remember she might not be alone.

“Sorry,” she said, glancing at the table. “Just in case you’re listening: This one is from Linden. Her first child was born last month. All she wants for solstice is sleep. I wish I had some to spare, but I’ve been woefully low on my own supply lately.” She picked up the other letter. “This one is from Alyssum. She decided to open a flower shop—in autumn. Good luck to her. Sorry; that was mean. She’s actually doing quite well for herself. She received so many orders for solstice swags, she closed the shop early in the month. I’m proud of her.” She set the page down. “There’s no card from Heather. She sent it last month because mail is unpredictable for her. She’s at the northern ice pole. That’s her gift on the mantel, the carved antler. She got it from a tribe she stayed with for a few weeks.”

Ann treasured the piece. She had stopped to run her fingers over it many times since she’d unwrapped it from its cushioning strip of fur. It depicted a tiny sled being pulled by dogs, just like Heather’s. Every time Ann looked at it, she imagined the tread of paws on snow, the whispering slide of runners, the vast silence and frosting breaths—and smiled.

She loved all of her foster sisters, but Heather’s sense of adventure had always spoken to something inside Ann. Even if Ann herself was too timid and book-bound—and too afflicted by height sickness—to strike out on her own adventures, it made her heart full to think of Heather camping under the ribbon of northern lights.

Ann smiled and added, “I think you’d like them all, my foster sisters.”

After slipping each of the cards into their envelopes, she tucked them into the chest of drawers for safe keeping.

She unwrapped each of the presents next, revealing—from her university friends—caramels, mittens, knitting needles, and a hat.

Her sisters had sent colorful sweets, an anklet, the clay impression of a baby foot, a glass vial filled with delicate dried flowers, and two notebooks bound in soft leather (one from each of them).

Dr. Longway’s present made her stomach drop, even as she smiled. “You’re terrible.” It was a rubber stamp with her name and her title, as it would be when she completed her dissertation and graduated her doctoral program. She’d lamented so often that she would never finish. “I guess I have to get through it, now. This stamp is too handsome to waste. And ‘Dr. Fairweather’ does have a nice ring to it.”

The gift from Ulma and Teddy made her gasp. They had made her a gleaming music box the size of her palm. It bore a motif of feathers and ivy leaves, and when she thumbed the switch, it filled the room with the soft strains of her favorite solstice carol. She couldn’t decide if she felt more grateful or guilty. Had she hinted too hard by fawning over the boxes when she visited? Then she remembered the genuine smile on Ulma’s face and, with a vow to make them something extra nice for their birthdays, set aside the guilt.

She placed the music box on the mantel, delighting when it moved onto a new song and continued to play.

Only the brown paper parcel from her foster mothers remained.

Bells tolled—big bells this time, from across the courtyard, marking midnight. Ann added another log to the fire and a pinch of incense that made the flames flash green. She sat back down with the package. The brown paper was the rough kind used to wrap meat. Ann loved this quirk of Auntie’s: the woman who so loved fine, frilly things delighted in wrapping presents with the most unassuming paper and jute twine. It made the treasures inside all the more dear.

Ann picked at the knot of twine until the loopy bow sprang open, then unfolded the paper a corner at a time to reveal a tissue-wrapped bundle. It was floppy and thick in her hands. She pulled aside the tissue, then frowned quizzically at the knit inside. Bright jewel tones clashed in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but was…unexpected. She unfolded it to reveal a child’s blanket. This was odd. Mum and Auntie did often give blankets as gifts, but they favored quilts and creamy-colored crochet throws with tasselly ends.

An envelope fell to the floor. Ann draped the blanket on her lap and opened it to find a heliograph of Apple the cat curled in a basket of laundry, a recipe card for Mum and Auntie’s solstice-morning scones, and a letter in Mum’s handwriting, pasted with whimsical paper cutouts of birds and snowflakes. Ann brushed her thumb over the texture of them.

Dear Ann,

How is your project going?

Auntie brought home three loaves of solstice bread today. One is your favorite, with crushed pistachios. Auntie doesn’t like that one, and the one with candied cherries is more than enough for me. What are we going to do with all this bread !! I might give it to the neighbors when Auntie is out. I doubt she’ll notice it’s gone. There is so much food in the kitchen. I think we forget that you girls won’t be home for the holiday. Maybe we’ll have to invite some of the old women from the quilting class. Some of them haven’t got family anymore. The class is a way for them to get out and see people. You know Auntie and I stopped asking much for the class years ago, just enough to cover the supplies. Ettia’s bank stopped paying out her fee months ago but we won’t say anything to her about it. The class is the highlight of her week.

The letter went on for several more long, rambling paragraphs as Mum covered news of the shop, the decorations they’d put up, Apple’s bout of sickness (“She’s fine now, she threw up a big hairball one morning. Auntie stepped in it. Now she won’t stop screaming for food”), and their slow renovation of the house.

Auntie and I were cleaning out some old trunks in the back room and found this. It’s your baby blanket. I thought you might like to have it.

Mum’s neat handwriting continued on for the rest of the page, but Ann stopped there.

Her baby blanket. That hit her in an odd way and she blinked, and then it hit her harder when she realized that her mom, her real mom, must have knit this—or even her grandmother.

She spread the blanket beneath her hands, taking in the pattern of the colors, absorbing the deep, almost primordial familiarity. Her fingers bunched the knit and she pressed it to her mouth, blinking sudden tears. She didn’t even know what she wept for.

She glanced toward the table. She took a deep inhale, but the blanket just smelled like home, the home she grew up in with Mum and Auntie. With Mum and Auntie—and her foster sisters and their birds and a host of dolls and swathes of fabric draped over every surface. The home where they hid in closets and flicked thimbles from under the bed and placed the cutlery on the table just so. The home where she’d hidden behind the lemon balm in the summer and fashioned fairy gardens out of patches of moss, where she sneaked out of her room at night to steal tablespoons of jam from the ice chest, where she curled between Mum and Auntie when she couldn’t fall sleep in her own bed. Home. Lavender sachets and ginger syrup, glass pitchers of minty water and lacy drapes fluttering in the breeze.

She wasn’t even sure if it comforted her that it smelled like her childhood, or if she was disappointed that it didn’t smell like something else—like someplace else.

The fire burned down. The music box from Ulma and Teddy continued to play. Ann lowered the blanket and got up to turn it off. She covered the stew pot, poured the remaining mulled wine into a jar, and organized all the gifts.

The clock’s chime at the half hour found her at her desk, staring at her dissertation notes. She didn’t remember sitting down. Muscle memory must have brought her there, where she’d spent so much of the past year.

She set the notebook aside and pulled the telegraph machine toward herself. She thought for a moment, then tapped out a message to Mum and Auntie, wishing them a happy holiday and thanking them for the blanket. She almost asked them about it. They rarely talked about her parents; Ann still wasn’t sure how, or if, they’d known them. But after staring at the telegraph for several minutes, she flipped off the lamp and stood.

At the table, where the bowls of stew sat with the wine and the remaining cakes, she whispered a happy solstice and a thank you.

Briefly, she considered stepping outside to clear her head and breathe fresh air, but the soul lanterns had been lit. While it wasn’t taboo to leave the house after the search party had passed, it didn’t feel right. So instead, Ann cleaned the dishes and did, after all, organize her stacks of books. She even made an attempt to read her niece’s holiday story, but her gaze kept skating over the length of telegraph tape without reading the words.

Ann poured herself a last mug of wine and settled on the couch. Next to her, the little knit gryphon listed on its perch. She picked it up and ran her fingers over the stitches, frowning. The blocky wings flopped.

She should unravel it. Or maybe not.

It was time for bed.  

The blanket still lay in a neat heap on the floor. She hesitated before she picked it up, bunching it in her hands as she stared at it and then spreading it open. It was even smaller than she’d originally thought, vibrant with color and soft.

She looked at it for a long time before finally taking it with her to the bedroom. On the windowsill, the candles were nearly burned down. She left them, and would leave the window latch unlocked tonight. Just in case.

fin.

(Li'l author note: Happy holidays, and thank you for reading! Ann's story will continue in 2023. ☕️📚🪶 -Lep 💜)

[thealmightyemprex]

Kiki is friendlier to humans then most gryphons but that doesn't change that she sees them as food .if she is on the hunt her predatory instincts take hold and she will not hesitate to gobble one up

@ariel-seagull-wings @goodanswerfoxmonster

[maverick-werewolf]

Folklore Fact - Gryphons/Griffins

Gryphons, griffins, griffons, however you prefer to spell it (I personally use gryphon) - let's talk their folklore and mythology!

(Attic pottery depicting a satyr and a griffin and an Arimaspus from around 375-350 BC, Eretria.)

You probably already know the common popular culture concept of a gryphon: a big, vicious beast that attacks people and probably eats them and/or carries people away to its nest to feed them to its babies. Not much about it has changed in legend, though in a lot of popular culture today, it has seemed to lose its divinity. Gryphons - griffins, whatever you prefer - have quite the robust history, like so many creatures of myth and folklore. Unlike some, however, they have changed very little over time.

Note that this article a general overview of concepts, not a detailed history.

Let's start with etymology, because I just love that stuff. The word "griffin" comes from the Greek word "gryps," which referred to a dragon or griffin and literally meant "curved [or] hook-nosed." Late Latin spelled it "gryphus," a misspelling of grypus, a Latinized version of the Greek (source: https://www.etymonline.com/, one of my favorite websites).

Griffins are said to have the head and wings of an eagle and body of a lion. They may or may not also have pointed ears, depending on the depiction (they more often did, overall, though the griffin of Crete is a notable exception). They were said to guard the gold in the mountains of the north, specifically the mountains of Scythia. The one-eyed Arimaspian people rode on horseback and attempted to steal the griffins' gold, causing griffins to nurture a deep hatred of and hostility toward horses.

A Scythian pectoral, thought to have been made in Greece, depicting - among other things - griffins slaughtering horses. Griffins really, really hate horses.

The famous griffin in the palace of Knossos at Crete, from the Bronze Age (restored).

Griffins appear in truly ancient civilizations, not only Greece but also ancient Egypt and civilizations to the east, including ancient Sumeria. Griffins were later said to also dwell in India and guard gold in that region, and they continued to appear in art throughout ancient Persia, Rome, Byzantium, and into the Middle Ages throughout other regions such as France; they were depicted in ancient Greece with relative frequency and occasionally of considerable importance.

Griffins appeared in many ancient Greek writings, including Aristeas in the 7th century BC. Herodotus and Aeschylus preserved and continued these writings in the 5th century BC, including lines such as,

"But in the north of Europe there is by far the most gold. In this matter again I cannot say with assurance how the gold is produced, but it is said that one-eyed men called Arimaspoi (Arimaspians) steal it from Grypes (Griffins). The most outlying lands, though, as they enclose and wholly surround all the rest of the world, are likely to have those things which we think the finest and the rarest." Herodotus, Histories 3. 116. 1 (trans. Godley) (Greek historian C5th B.C.), source: https://www.theoi.com/Thaumasios/Grypes.html (a wonderful site)

Physical descriptions of the griffin were not commonplace until some later works, and even then, their appearance wasn't always agreed upon. Even the notion of griffins having wings was sometimes disputed. Some scholars even got pretty wild, claiming griffons had no wings at all but instead skin-flaps that they used to glide. They apparently hated awesome things, so it turns out there were always boring people who thought they knew everything, wanted to explain everything "logically," and generally assume they were the smartest ever while also ruining mystique. They would make great scientists today.

Griffins were, however, often said to be holy in nature. They were referred to as the "unbarking hounds of Zeus" by Aeschylus, who warned others never to approach them. Gryphons were also considered sacred to several gods, including prominently Apollo, who was said to depart Delphi each winter, flying on a griffon (griffin, gryphon, etc, I keep swapping this around, I know; my brain spells it differently because I've read way too many sources), and he also is occasionally depicted as hitching griffins to his chariot in addition to riding one. This was particularly prominent in the cults of Hyperborean Apollo, one of the many endless and fascinating cults of ancient Greece.

Medieval bestiary depiction of a griffin slaughtering a horse.

Even by the Middle Ages, gryphons still hated and slaughtered horses and guarded gold, elements that certainly persisted throughout their legends. They also killed men and carried them away to their nests, similar to the manner in which Aeschylus warned people to stay away from gryphons even back when. We can obviously assume griffons were never cuddly, so that isn't much of a change.

Griffins also did not entirely lose their divine relations even into the Middle Ages. Christianity often used positive portrayals of griffins to represent and uphold certain positive tenets of Christian faith; likewise, they became important symbols of medieval heraldry, used to represent a Christian symbol of divine power, as well as general courage, strength, and leadership, especially in a military sense. The depiction of the griffin as a powerful and majestic creature - killing horses and men or not - throughout its history is no doubt because they are a combination of two beasts often considered noble symbols of bravery, power, and divinity: the lion and the eagle, kings of land animals and birds, respectively.

That's a general overview! As you can see, griffins aren't always so bad, at least not compared to some of the other creatures out there from folklore and myth.

( If you like my blog, be sure to follow me here and sign up for my free newsletter for more folklore and fiction, including books!

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[were-bastard]

Avian Masculinity

Note: When I use male/female in this, I’m talking about two of the many facets of bird gender (as I experience it) since the English language lacks vocabulary that I find sufficient to describe these experiences in their own right.

This is quite long, the rest is under the cut:

I think that the masculine/male side of my gender is really neat, since it’s not fully like the traditional idea of (white, western) human masculinity. Unlike the stereotypical idea of a [male] bird, I (along with the rest of my species) am not sexually dimorphic.

However, having been raised as human- and internalizing both human and highly sexually dimorphic avian ideas of gender- my gender is a bit different than a typical gryphon of my species.

For example, I’ve internalized the male avian need to be boldly coloured, as well as flashy and loud. While from humans I acquired a desire to be somewhat more muted in colour, but still posses a certain volume and “take up space”.

When compared to other [sexually dimorphic] avians, I’m fairly drab- preferring darker, more muted colors, albeit of a moderately “brighter” variety (ie. teal, blues, et cetera)- but compared to a male member of my own species, I’m unreasonably bright and flashy.

Male members of my species are the same as the females in both size and appearance. Interestingly, we do share a need to “project” and sing (moreso trill) with [some] other avian males- a need which the females lack. Both sexes have subtle variations upon brown-ish plumage with slightly darker speckling, barring, and the like (comparable to something like a Great Horned owl or Short-Eared owl) in summertime and generally white plumage with faint markings in the winter.

Due to my other avian influences, however, I identify more strongly with somewhat higher contrast between the body and stomach feathers, as well as brighter coloured tidbits here and there (think the blue-green iridescence of a magpie or Cayuga mallard). I also- in this passably human body- enjoy wearing brightly coloured jewelry (usually of the blue or green variety) because it helps to simulate iridescent accents in my feathers and also assists in sating my need to hoard (gryphon hoarding instincts my beloved beloathed).

Due to being socialized as human and also having absorbed “bird gender”, the way I present my gender is likely to come off (to other members of my species) as strangely gnc- if presenting as [a] gender of another species can be considered gnc (it can)- as well as to humans.

When you combine both human and avian gender ideals, you get a strange sort of gender nonconformity that goes both ways. For instance, I’m a trans-man, but due to the nature of my gender and experiences, I consider myself to be Butch (in the gender way), as well as a same gender pairing bird (despite the fact that I like women & am not one* [& am also aroace]). But as a bird, I would be considered (by my species) to be gender nonconforming in an odd way (species non conformity?), while to other species of bird I would seem unusually “feminine” in colour and behaviour (my species tends to be less vocally excessive, and has more subdued display practices than some other bird species). *[Side note: this is not due to me having been originally assigned “female”, since agab is a social construct and is, quite frankly, ridiculous.]

A fascinating side affect of the way my human learnt gender and avian gender interplay is I retain a strangely cobbled together presentation of femininity. From the human idea of gender, my paternal urges to brood and take care of eggs seem uniquely feminine, as well as my love for jewelry. On the other talon, to birds my “dull” colouration and general lack of fancy feathers seems strangely hen-like (hen as in a female avian). Compared to human ideas of female-ness and femininity, I really enjoy this form of “feminine” gender.

Altogether, my nonhumanity makes my gender weird and it’s pretty cool :]

[hemipenal-system]

please

send me asks i need content

[kvalenagle]

Spent last night chatting with James Scott Spaid, my audiobook narrator, about how challenging and rewarding it was for him to voice a character who grows up and transitions over the course of the first five GryphIns books.

("Don't you dare hurt Lei!" is a common fan mail I get.)

[vergess]

sorry if this is an odd ask to send out of nowhere but i thought your mlp post was really interesting! could you go further into detail about what you think the show does wrong in later seasons? you don't have to, i'm just curious since i really like the show and it's been one of my hyperfixations for a very long time & you have really interesting takes/meta on things in general

thank you for your time!! :3

It very much gets "less about girls" as it progresses. People's background friends/family are suddenly almost always male, for example, with Fluttershy getting a brother, Rainbow Dash's other school friends being male, her dad being more prominently played than her mom, things like that.

This isn't even a bad thing!

While I would argue, and have before, that a show almost exclusively about women is an important thing for the media landscape compared to the glut of All About Men shows?

The reality is that any artistic lens that focuses exclusively on a single gender is going to be worse for it, if for no reason other than where are the trans people.

A truly "gender neutral gaze" would be the ideal, but to be honest I don't even know what that might look like. I can at least conceptualize the female gaze out from existing, limited examples of female led production for a female audience.

But in terms of, IDK, a trans-led production for a genderqueer/neutral audience, I don't even know it that kind of thing exists. It must, because well, trans people are everywhere in the indie arts, but I have never seen it.

Certainly I've never seen it around a kid's show. And one of the things that makes kid media so easy to analyze is, the "allowed" topics are fairly limited. When sex is off the table, you can devote that time to deepening friendships. When men are off the table, you can spend that time deepening female characterization. etc etc.

So anyway, while I would say a female gaze is preferable to a male one in this male dominated society, both have their deep shortcomings. The way MLP handled male characters in S1 by either not having them, or having them be kind of the butt of the joke (Spike) isn't actually a good thing, just a very different one than is common. And there are plenty of ways that the show mistreated Spike particularly for Being A Boy that would make me hesitate to suggest season 1 to, say, trans masc viewers.

But then there are some ways that I can safely say later seasons are just worse.

The fat jokes, for example, were Not A Thing in S1 and as a fat viewer that was a huge relief at first, which became a sharp slap in the face as characters began making fun of heavy eating or using obese background ponies as gross out gags, etc.

On the other hand, the racism very much was present from the beginning, as evidenced by Over A Barrel's portrayal of native americans as literally another species. And that's before we get into the sheer racism of pony colonialism in the first place. Also Zecora the Zebra's... situation. Which was okay as a one off bit in S1, trying if not succeeding at the message of "different=/=bad."

But, like many of these early flaws, the later seasons magnify the problem, especially when the show tries to approach real world issues. Just off the top:

Zecora becomes the magical negro whose mystic knowledge transcends that of the pony gods.

Gryphons become antisemitic stereotypes, obsessed with cash hoarding and isolationism.

Yaks live in technologically inferior wastelands of Yakyakistan, where they are loud, rowdy, and even dangerous.

Dragons are... just... really fucking bad, like by nature, with rare "good ones" going to live among ponies to become civilized.

The fucking saddle arabians apparently just Not Having Perfomance Art and needing to be taught by Trixie.

The kirin being very literally silent to show how zen they are, needing Westerners to give them back their voices.

The sheer audacity to bring Little Strongheart back in the fucking finale and "assign" her as Applejack's token buffalo friend (not even RD???) after AJ and her family nearly wiped the buffalo out and fully never fucking apologized

There's definitely more. Basically every single non-pony species shown to be sapient ends up some kind of a racist mess. At least cows are just like... white people from wisconsin so there's less racism inherent to their depiction but even then...

There are also ways in which the attempts to cater to a male audience weaken the show's overall presentation. Ponies with adult men's human meme images as cutie marks started popping up, for example, which is again not a bad thing, but weakens the overall fantastical world building.

Likewise, the attempts to modernize the setting are... um. Let's go with uneven.

In S1 technology is firmly pre-industrial Euro-Fantasy. I'd put it around 1770-1800 in the human western world.

By S2 there is an electrical grid even in "small" towns like ponyville, something which in the human world didn't take place until about150 years later, with another 50 years to roll out things like video games, which also start appearing.

But only for ponies.

Never for the other species.

I get why they did that. It's a "have your cake and eat it too" scenario where they can keep the pre-industrial fantasy tech level sometimes, but use a modern tech level at other times. It opens up more storytelling options. And it's not like the magical horse universe needs to obey our physics and timelines.

But then why only ponies.

All that does is deepen the racial division between ponies and other species. Which the later seasons LOVe to do. Deepen racial divieds.

After all, in S1 most other species (cows, gryphons, etc) were shown to live in equestria too. But in later seasons, are revealed to live in cloistered ethnostates nominally self ruling but in practical terms subservient to the equestrian state if they want basic rights like the fucking sun.

Which acts to retcon Spike's hatching and adoption from something very heartwarming into something very horrific.

Honestly, the "male gaze" is not the issue I have with late seasons of MLPFIM. It very much comes down to "this show got SO fucking racist SO fucking fast what the FUCK."

And that probably would have happened with all female writers and directors, too, if they were mostly white.

This all makes me sound like I hate MLP, but I promise you, all of this criticism comes from a place of utmost love. This show is really, REALLY good. It is charming, beautifully animated, excellently directed, with passion poured into every aspect of the visuals, the audio, the stories, the characters...

That's what makes these constant missteps so painful to encounter.

Because the highs are so high!

I mean, the movie easily constitutes the best 2D animation out of the western world in DECADES and every track on the album is a banger, and that's just the movie. Cartoon movies aren't exactly noted for their stunning quality, but MLPFIM sure as fuck stuns.

And when the highs are that high, oh man, the lows look lower by comparison.

[kendraw]

I've been turning around concepts and ideas for anthro gryphons in my head for YEARRRRSSS but finally felt I had enough of a clear image in my minds eye to give it a shot! Here are Lapis and Azalea! (Azalea is a trans girl btw! She's a cardinal!)

[the-alphonze]

HE WHAT?!

I think I’ll try checkin’ up on him you should try doin’ somethin’ that’ll get your mind off of. Whatever the fuck happened

The ice cream is vanilla if you wanted some

update: the sharks are gone, as far as i can tell. things are generally Fucked up here, though. capt. chip is going to do something very, very stupid and none of us seem to be able to convince him otherwise. haha. fuck.

gryffon

I’m almost done sortin’ in here. It’s lookin’ nice for once. Did you know we had ice cream?

Thank you for the updates though they’re very helpful :]

Wait what is chip doin’

[emistheantlerqueen]

NORMALIZE DRAWING TRANSFEMS W NO BOOBS AND TRANS MASCS W BIG BOOBS.

[sunlightsilence]

Realized I never uploaded the pixel art version of this... A few years ago I was making an rpg, these were four of the eight main allies.

From left to right, there's M'sha the intersex Elf with a seed embedded in their chest that gives them plant powers, Aislin the quarter harpy mercenary who can transform into a Phoenix, Rami the gryphon rider and captain of the knights, and Elion the trans prince by birthright who ran away because he wanted a life of adventure and womanizing instead of being raised as a princess. For a few reasons I doubt I'll ever pick the rpg project up again but I still very much love the characters and might draw them again in the future..

Shading styles were a bit inconsistent cause I wasn't sure if I wanted to use dithering or not so I did two dithered and two not.