#light type
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infenza-dreams · 7 months ago
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The grass starter for my fakemon region, Gloveil!
Moorel (lvl 18) -> Phosbos (lvl 36) -> Loombrataur The mushroom on its head shrinks as this Pokemon ages, providing important nutrients that it needs to grow. In return, a fully grown Loombrataur allows the mushroom to spread its spores into the moss that grows on its back, propogating the next generation.
These guys are Grass/Light types (Light being one of my fan-made types)! They're based on the zodiacs Taurus and Libra, and are centered around the cycle of life, death, and rebirth.
Moorel starts out as a curious, but shy little baby, hiding beneath its giant mushroom and long ears like a security blanket. When it evolves into Phosbos, it becomes excited about exploring the world. Its enthusiasm blossoms into literal flowers and greenery that grows wherever it sets it feet! And finally, as Loombrataur, it becomes a wise and enlightened forest guardian, with a reverence for the cycle of life and death. I had a lot of fun designing them!
Name Origins:
Moorel - "moo" + "morel," a type of mushroom
Phosbos - "phosphorus" and "bos," which is Latin for "cow"
Loombrataur - "luminous" + "mushroom" + "libra" + "taurus"
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vee-more-afraid · 11 months ago
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Creatation - Torchit, Candlamp, and Candlannon
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I'm back! Here's some more Creatatures, adding some life to the Volcanic regions of the world. Catch one and they can provide a valuable light source as you explore dark caves or dungeons!
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theba1ariv0gs · 1 year ago
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Blazing Howls
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- 001: Emberpaw
Type: Fire
Ability: Flare
Entry: Emberpaws are completely weak on their own, requiring supervision from their larger evolutions to defend them from larger Balarivogs. The liquid oil that they secrete all over their bodies is what helps ignite their tail on fire, but because it is young it does not have the full compounds of normal fire to make the fire painful meaning that if you were to put your hand through the fire, it would be warm instead. -Audio log finished.
-Moveset:
-Warm Flare
-Scratch
-Bite
-Headbutt
-Bark
- 002: Vulburst
*Evolve Emberpaw to level 50*
Type: Fire, Light
Ability: Flare
Entry: As agile as they look, Vulbursts are not like their final evolutions meaning they are not as fast as them, making them ambush predators by using their tail that can cast a glowing light, they use this to lure prey to where it is and once that happens, up to 5 or more Vulbursts will ambush their prey ripping them apart while wrapping their tails around them to pin them down and burn them. A Vulburst’s tail has a multifunctional purpose, it can switch its tail to a flaming torch or to the one I just mentioned earlier, a flameless light. They also use their tails to ward off larger Balarivogs during the night as well as using them like a whip with both of their two abilities. -Audio log finished.
-Moveset:
-Fiery Bite
-Luminous Whip
-Leap Effect
-Flame Whip
-Gamma Charge
- 003: Flamehowl
*Evolve Vulburst to level 98*
Type: Fire, Light, Electric
Ability: Flare, Wild Thunder
Entry: The Flamehowl, one of the apex predators of Northern Canada utilize their fiery jaws for a burning bite, their light which is used for blinding prey or for defending the pack, as well as electricity on their claws tailored to be used for either paralyzing their prey or electrocuting them to a slow and painful death. They are usually seen all over the territories most of the time and are rarely seen in any other province other than those three. When two male Flamehowls get into a fight, it’s either during the mating season or they fight violently for the title of being the alpha male, if one wins they become the alpha, if the other loses they are kicked from the pack. Flamehowls are dangerous predators and should be hunted with extreme caution. -Audio log finished.
-Moveset:
-Blaze Slash
-Gamma Pulse
-Thunder Charge
-Rip Apart
-Frenzy
The Inspiration behind this line were Fox pups, Foxes (Red Fox specifically) and Wolves, pretty straightforward. And most importantly these animals inhabit North America, specifically Canada!
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alastorvortex · 1 year ago
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@tanner111
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ratbuchet · 15 days ago
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guy that thinks more than they speak vs guy that doesnt think before they speak (although frisk wouldve still said that even if they thought it through lol) prev
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arcanegifs · 8 months ago
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ARCANE LEAGUE OF LEGENDS: 2x08 - “Killing is a Cycle” ↳ "You're never gonna give up on me, are you?"
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kettlefire · 5 months ago
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Muscle Memory (DpxDc)
Jason barely remembered getting back to his safe house or even finding his way to bed. The night had been so tiring, so busy, and so many parts of his body hurt.
The moment his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light. Drifting off into dreamland for some much need sleep.
That was until a noise stirred him up from his sleep. It was a soft creak of one of his many loose floorboards.
It was in a flash that Jason was up, eyes still heavy with sleep, and a gun held to his thigh as he exited his bedroom. The soft light coming from his bathroom was the first hint.
When he pushed open the bathroom door, the sight before him had him holstering his weapon. Black hair, blue eyes, and blood. That's all Jason needed to see.
Jason would swear he wasn't still half asleep, that he knew this wasn't one of his brothers. In reality, still sluggish from a hard night and sleep deprivation, Jasin's brain had automatically assumed it was one of his baby brothers.
As he immediately settled into patching up the wounds, holding back questions for now. It wouldn't be the first time one of them came to him for aid when they didn't want Bruce to know they were hurt yet.
It was pure muscle memory as Jason worked. Yes, he didn't like the injuries, reminding himself to ask which rogue did this in the morning.
Now wasn't the time for an interrogation. Not with the barely concealed tears in those eyes, or the dark bags that decorated beneath them.
He barely grumbled for the teen to take the couch, reminding that there were extra blankets in the hallway closet. Dropping a few pills into the boy's hand to help with the pain he was surely in.
Jason left the mess in the bathroom, leaving it a problem for more awake him. He waved the boy off when he tried to speak, telling him they'll talk in the morning.
In the end, Jason was glad to finally face plant back into his bed. Barely bothering to curl up under the covers before sleep took over once again.
When morning came, Jason almost forgot about letting one of his brother's crash in his place. Stumbling out of his bedroom to immediately notice the lump on his couch.
He put a pot of coffee on, grabbing his phone, ready to let Bruce know that whoever came to him last night was safe and sound.
Except, when Jason moved over to confirm who it was, he finally noticed. This wasn't one of his brothers. And last he heard, Bruce hadn't taken in any new strays.
Jason stood over the sleeping boy, phone in one hand, and mind figuring out what to do. His mind replaying the half-asleep memories from last night.
It made sense, now that he thought about it. The boy had seemed so scared, so surprised that Jason was helping. The boy hadn't done anything either by the looks of it.
He didn't seem to have taken anything or even snooped. The boy seemed to have just crashed on the couch like Jason had told him to. He didn't come here to rob him or cause trouble. The kid had broken into his safe house only to raid his first aid kit.
The kid had broken into his safe house only to raid his first aid kit.
Well, Jason wasn't about to put Alfred's teachings to shame by being a horrible host either.
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syoddeye · 2 months ago
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knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual. cw: noncon touching, manipulation
After years beneath your mother’s watchful eye—less a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and key—you are at last released.
Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.
It’s a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.
You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.
As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the King’s service and court.
Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr. 
Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.
His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.
“An old comrade—Sir Simon Riley.”
You run a thumb over the edge. “Is he as handsome as his portrait?” you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.
Lord Garrick only grins. “He is, dear one.”
“And noble? Chivalrous?”
“The very image,” he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.
You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling. 
You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.
When you arrive, you trail in your sister’s shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.
You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.
Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, you’ll be presented formally.
On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.
“There’s someone I’m due to introduce you to,” he says. “Sir Riley.”
He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.
It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction. 
But the man you’ve come to love as a brother—steady, kind Lord Garrick—pats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.
He bids you wait. He’ll fetch Sir Riley himself.
You let him go with a wobbling smile.
When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.
It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.
“‘eard you been wantin’ to meet me, girl,” his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.
You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.
“It’s…an honor, sir,” you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. “I wasn’t expecting…That is, I thought Lord Garrick would–”
“Thought he’d stay? Look after you?” Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. “Nah. Garrick’s a busy man. ‘Sides, if it’s lookin’ after y’need, no one’ll do better.”
The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.
You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure that’s served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isn’t how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.
And yet here you are. 
He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.
You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.
“I only meant…we’ve only just met, and I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere—”
He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.
The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that you’ve backed into the wall.
“I should go,” you eke out. “I’ve no doubt you’re very tired from your duties, and this isn’t right—”
Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.
“You’re a nervous one.”
He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.
He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.
His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violence—keloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.
He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promised—but the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind you’ve spied in the King’s hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.
“What’s wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.”
The word—pet—snaps like a ribbon.
In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.
You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.
You look at him again, truly look this time.
And realize: perhaps the artist hadn’t lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth he’d once had.
You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays you—a stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.
Sir Riley notices.
He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey he’s cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.
“You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Your mouth dries. There aren’t many portraits of you beyond your family’s walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on one—a secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.
You never questioned what became of it.
“I—I should go.”
You move to slip past him, but he doesn’t allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes different—ash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.
You try again. “Lord Garrick—he didn’t say—he never said you—”
“Yeah?” 
He smiles. Not kindly.
“That I-I,” you whisper, heart beating hard enough that you’re sure he must hear it. “That I’d be alone. This isn’t right—”
“Not alone, pet,” he shakes his head. “I’m here, aren't I? I’ll see you well looked after.”
Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.
You could faint.
Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.
You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.
He doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.
“No need to shy from me,” he rasps.
Your breath catches. 
(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall now—the alternative—)
He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You can’t move. You should, but your feet fail.
He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. “You’re shaking.”
You don’t answer. Can’t.
“You don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?” he drawls. “Bet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.”
His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.
“Want me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?”
Your heart screams no.
But nothing comes.
He watches you in that awful silence—measured and methodical. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.
He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.
You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.
“Go on. You’ve been staring.”
Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. It’s rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” he asks, almost amused.
Your throat tightens. “No—no, I—”
He clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie. Don’t like liars. You scared?”
You are. You’re mortified, shaking with it now—caught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. There’s something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.
He sees it. Of course he does.
And he pounces.
One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. It’s a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.
You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesn’t let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.
It’s too much. He is too much.
When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of what’s just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.
He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.
“There she is,” he says quietly, near reverent.
You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.
He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.
“Didn’t think you’d be this sweet,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Garrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured I’d ‘ave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said there’d be no need. That you’d behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?”
His eyes flick over your features—warm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.
“Look at you. Shakin’. Precious thing. ‘Course you are.”
He kisses you again. Harder.
No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.
Another panicked noise makes him smile.
He sighs. “Didn’t guess you’d be this soft. Bet you’re soft everywhere.”
Then—
The door bursts open.
A gasp of startled voices—servants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.
Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explain—this isn’t what it looks like—but you never get the chance.
Sir Riley doesn’t release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.
In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of them—their roles, their kin. Swears they’ll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what they’ve seen.
They flee. Mute. Terrified.
When the door shuts again, it’s like the last breath is sucked from the room.
You’re a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.
With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness you’d dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.
“What a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?” he murmurs against your damp skin. “How fortunate that Garrick and I already ‘ave an audience with the King.”
He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.
“Dry your tears, pet.”
He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.
“By spring, you’ll be Lady Riley. That’s a promise.”
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greykolla-art · 1 year ago
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My favourite thing about Alastor is his hoard of gal pals!
He’s just a cool and charming dude that women feel comfortable around…And is also a power hungry eldritch horror.👌👌👌
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jomo-is-here · 3 months ago
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a quick doodle with not much thought behind it. My personal hc is that leshy is a yapper. Like he is physically incapable of shutting up lmao.
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girbirty · 5 months ago
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house and wilson smoking weed together but wilson has a panic attack for no reason and house is The Same As Usual
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kagihirapotato · 4 months ago
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lu guang’s bridon arc fit means everything to me
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emziess · 4 months ago
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Anon asked: Buck in the Kitchen scene
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theba1ariv0gs · 1 year ago
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Emberpaw, Vulburst, and Flamehowl size comparison
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fuckyeahchinesefashion · 8 months ago
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How people in the past processed fresh tea leaves for long term storage by chinese artist 山白shan bai
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