#*isla rats

[temis-de-leon]

What I would watch with the OM! cast:

Lucifer: How it's made (someone take him to a factory)

Mammon: Peaky Blinders (they speak his language)

Leviathan: MatPat's FNAF lore videos

Satan: Castle (I'd say Sherlock, but I prefer Castle)

Asmo: La isla de las tentaciones (a show full of couples trying not to cheat on each other; they fail)

Beelzebub: Nikocado Avocado (I want him to live the full human mukbang experience)

Belphegor: he'd fall asleep, but Rise of the Guardians (I think he'd like both Sandman and Pitch Black)

Diavolo: ATLA (he's like Aang fr)

Barbatos: National Geographic's snake documentaries (he needs to see some rats get eaten)

Solomon: anything Gordon Ramsay related or those tarot shows that only air at 3 a.m.

Simeon: Glee (the writing is horrible)

Luke: my brain says The Princess and the Frog (Tiana's cooking and hardworking attitude), but my heart says Supernatural (just because)

.

Masterlist

[kuramirocket]

The Laysan albatross now thrives on Mexico's Isla Guadalupe thanks to the removal of invasive species

Many of Mexico’s Pacific islands were once home to vast colonies of birds before human beings appeared on the scene … accompanied by rats, cats and goats, just to name a few of the invasive species that soon wiped out the seabirds.

Twenty-four years ago, a group of concerned Mexican biologists decided to do something about it. They formed a nonprofit organization called the Ecology and Island Conservation Group (GECI) and began the long, slow task of restoring the islands, one by one, to a semblance of what they had been before invasive species turned their ecosystems upside down.

Although the task was daunting, they have succeeded admirably.

“We have been able to turn things around on 39 of Mexico’s islands,” I was told by GECI’s executive director. “Our organization — which was founded in 1998 — began with a special focus on northwestern Mexico because here we find the biggest concentration of islands and the greatest number of invasive species, the most problematic of which are mammals like feral cats, rats, mice, sheep, goats, wild dogs, wild donkeys and rabbits.”

An intrepid biologist squeezes among the rocks to check a nest

After nearly 25 years of hard work, GECI was successful in removing 70 populations of invasive species from 39 of Mexico’s Islands. “We started in the islands of the northwest,” continued the executive director, “including well-known sites like Guadalupe Island. Then we began to explore other areas like the Gulf of California and the Mexican Caribbean. We have seen more than 200 species come back in every category: birds, mammals, reptiles, plants — all thanks to the simple removal of invasive species. “

Once the invaders have been removed from an island, the question arises: will the original inhabitants come back?

I put the question to GECI’s the director of the Seabirds Project.

“This is our special concern,” she said. “Many species of birds that were killed off by cats or rats ended up with the impression that these islands were no longer safe. In some parts of the world we know that — after the elimination of the cats or rats — the birds have returned, but here in the Pacific this process seemed to be taking an awfully long time, so we began to use ‘social attraction techniques.’“

“The idea is to create artificial colonies, taking advantage of the fact that seabirds like to congregate in large groups. So we create decoys, life-like representations of the birds in positions of repose or courtship. We also use mirrors to create the impression that there are lots more birds around. Along with the decoys and the mirrors, we use sound. These are recordings made in well-established colonies. In the case of those seabirds which nest underground, or in the spaces between rocks, we install small boxes which they like to use for their nests.”

The audio recordings are used during the nesting season, which in many cases is spring. “We have an amplifier and loudspeakers together with solar panels to provide power. Of course we play these sounds by day or by night, depending on when that species is active. So we set up the equipment in spring and turn it off in summer or autumn, once the birds have left the island. The social attraction techniques give the birds the impression that this island they’ve come to is a nice safe place where they can nest every year.”

Pairs of albatross decoys simulating courtship rituals were placed on Isla Guadalupe by GECI

Isla Guadalupe, better known in English as Guadalupe Island, was once home to more endemic bird species than any other island off the Pacific coast of North America, before they were decimated by invasives. But recently, something marvelous has happened. Once goats were removed, Guadalupe’s vegetation rebounded and a colony of Laysan albatrosses materialized out of nowhere. Soon, populations of auklets, murrelets, storm petrels, gulls, terns, boobies, pelicans, and cormorants began to reappear.

Once invasive species have been removed and seabirds have been lured back, GECI has to make sure the invaders don’t reappear.

Poster showing a few of the creatures now flourishing on Isla Isabel thanks to the removal of invasive species

“For this,” said the executive director, “we have special biosecurity programs to assure that the fishermen, sailors or tourists are not bringing in something dangerous. For example the boats could be harboring a rat, or shoes could be contaminated with seeds. The success of all this depends on teamwork, of close communication and collaboration with the local people.”

“All this is complicated. We have to work with the local people, we have to work with the government and we have to respect the particular character and reality of each island or archipelago. In reality, each one has its own protocol. Meanwhile, reinfection is always a worry. Just one pair of rats could fill an island with 5,000 descendants in only a year.”

A dramatic example of the lengths to which islanders might go to catch just one rat and prevent reinfection occurred on Isla Natividad in 2019.

In the wee hours of the night, a local resident had shone his flashlight in his shrubbery and spotted a lively and healthy Rattus rattus, a black rat. He was shocked. Like all the residents of Natividad, he knew his island was home not only to auklets, cormorants, pelicans, osprey and herons, but also to the planet’s largest colony of black-vented shearwaters, of which every soul on the island was immensely proud.

A biologist monitors a month-old shearwater chick during the great rat chase on Isla Guadalupe

So began the great rat chase.

Soon, every family on the island was setting rat traps and GECI brought in Merlina, a rat-sniffing dog.

Merlina and a camera trap eventually confirmed it:  yes, there truly was a Rattus rattus on the island.

Now the competition was on. Tomahawk cage traps, Sherman metal box traps, camera traps, T-Rex traps, and every sort of trap known to humanity was employed by Natividad residents, along with 13 experts from GECI. They had to work around the clock just to keep all the traps functional.

Every soul on the island wanted to be the one to catch the rat, which had now been named “Chapito.”

This went on for six long months until its capture.

You may also want to check out the stunning images in GECI’s online photo gallery where you can pay a virtual visit to five of Mexico’s “restored” islands, without getting your feet wet.

A masked booby with its chick

The albatross has the greatest wingspan of any species of seabird. The wings of this Laysan albatross measure over two meters

[destined-if]

You and your family moved to Glove City. However, the house caught fire, and you're the sole survivor. Oh, but that was two years ago... you're not still stuck up on that... are you?

After your family died, being 20 with no job or nearby family, you had to live in alleyways, sleep on park benches, and steal food from vendors... until you met them. They hesitantly welcomed you into their little group after you saved their asses, and you've stuck with them ever since. One day, you got commissioned to steal a necklace from a family in the rich part of town for a hefty price, so obviously, your group accepted and prepared for the trip. What you didn't expect is that the family you're stealing from might not be as innocent and powerless as you thought.

Trigger warnings: Violence, drug intake of minor characters, alcohol of main characters (Optional for MC), violence, death, theft, and slight mention of animal cruelty. This list will be updated as the story progresses.

NOTES: Romance options have a ♡ next to their name. Melody is male or female. Optional Polyarmous Route with Melody and Elias. I'll go into more detail with their personalities (As well as appearances) in their character profiles, I've started on them, but they most likely won't come out for a couple days.

Ian/Ivy ♡; A street rat the moment they were born. Kinda a jackass, but they keep you and their friends out of harm's way, so are they really as cold as they pretend to be? Possible Tropes: Opposites Attract, Found Family, Slowburn. Isla "Wren" Hill ♡; Best thief you know. The first time you met, she stole your packet of gum without you ever finding out until a year later when she told you. She's playful, affectionate, and a little bit of a smartass. [Healing Mage.] Possible Tropes: Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Found Family. Valerie "Val" Hill; The little sister of Isla. You think it’s nice how she steals for others free of charge, but don’t understand why. She’s sarcastic, bold, and surprisingly attentive. Oh, and also a bit of a smartass. Trope: Found Family. [Made by @dvoilds] Elias "Eli" Wynn ♡; His life before he met you guys is a blur, or at least what he says, but you don't really think that's true. Other than that, he's as sweet as a thief can be. He's caring and considerate of other's feelings, and your group's peacemaker. Will you get him to uncover his secrets? [Water Mage.] Possible Tropes: Mutual Pining, "You came?" "You called." Melody "Mel" Rose ♡; They got tangled up in this mess, and you're not quite sure how it happened. As far as you can make out, they're actually pretty understanding. It's kinda freaky how nice they are to you guys, even after you got them knee-deep in all this shit. You think they're here to stay, but it's not like they have a choice. Do they have an alternative motive, or are they just this kind-hearted? Possible Tropes: Frenemies to Lovers, Love at First Sight (More like Attraction), Strangers to Lovers. Casper Vespertine ♡; The son of the family you stole from and the man you're running away from. He scares you shitless, and it doesn't help that he talks like a robot. Will you outrun him, or will you let him catch you? Possible Tropes: Rivals to Lovers, Slowburn, Right Person, Wrong Time.

and more!

Customize your MC. Choose your gender, personality, pronouns, assets, appearance, name, and sexuality.

Decide how your MC feels about stealing and how they deal with their family being... dead.

Be a mage or a human.

Run from your problems!

Found family <3

Cute stray animals.

Create close bonds, or break them.

A fully platonic route for those who don't wanna romance anyone!

LINKS; Demo [TBA], Pinterest, Playlist, Character Profiles, Mage Profiles

posted july 19, 2023

[fairyvoidtype]

isla hidalgo: part time bartender, part time gym rat assistant, full time geek with a dark souls obsession. let's talk anime and maybe i'll show you my sphynx cats @ hogmansdelight

[bio-facts]

The last song | La última canción | A última canção

English

Moho braccatus, known as  ʻōʻō de Kaua was an endemic bird to the island of Kauaʻi officially extinct in the 20th century. Its extinction was a combination of several factors, such as mosquito-transmitted disease, introduction of mammalian predators such as the small Indian mongoose or Polynesian rat, and the destruction of its habitat, making the species more vulnerable to catastrophic weather events.

A male was last heard in 1987, the audio from this video. The images are from 1985, when he was last seen.

The silences between songs are meant for the female to fill with her  singing, since during the mating season they form a duet.

Dr. Christopher W. Clark : The last male of a species, singing for a female who will never come. And now his voice is gone.

Not only is the species extinct, but the whole genus was swiped away within the last male.

/

Español

Moho braccatus fue un pájaro endémico de la isla Hawwaiana Kaua’i, extinguido oficialmente en el siglo 20. Su extinción fue una combinación de varios factores, como las enfermedades transmitidas por mosquitos, introducción de mamíferos depredadores como la rata de la Polinesia y el meloncillo chico, y la destrucción de su hábitat, acentuando la debilidad de la especie a catástrofes naturales.

El último macho fue escuchado por última vez en 1987, es el audio de este vídeo. Las imágenes son de 1985, cuando fue visto por última vez.

Los silencios entre cada canto están destinados a que la hembra cante su parte, ya que forman un dueto durante el cortejo.

Dr. Christopher W. Clark dijo: El último macho de la especie canta por una hembra que nunca llegará. Y ahora su voz ha desaparecido.

No sólo ha supuesto la extinción de la especie, sino que todo el género desapareció junto con este macho.  

/

Português

Moho braccatus era uma ave endêmica da ilha havaiana de Kaua'i, oficialmente extinta no século 20. Sua extinção foi uma combinação de vários fatores, incluindo doenças transmitidas por mosquitos, introdução de mamíferos predadores como o rato polinésio e a mangusto, e a destruição de seu habitat, acentuando a fragilidade da espécie às catástrofes naturais.

 O último macho foi ouvido pela última vez em 1987, é o áudio deste vídeo. As imagens são de 1985, quando ele foi visto pela última vez.

Os silêncios entre cada cantoria servem para que a fêmea cante sua parte, pois formam um dueto durante o ritual de acasalamento.

 Dr. Christopher W. Clark disse: O último macho da espécie canta para uma fêmea que nunca virá. E agora sua voz desapareceu.

 Não só levou à extinção da espécie, mas todo o gênero desapareceu junto com este macho.

|

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Food: fresh fruit. Can't afford it alot of the times but they would kill a man for some sweet, perfectly ripe fruit.

Cat, dog, reptile, or bird: Val adores animals. Likes them more than people in all honesty. They rescue strays and animals that are being abused. That said, she feels a special affinity for any animals that are less loved (rats, reptiles, ect.) and one day they dream of running an animal sanctuary.

Moat to least fuckable: idk all of the ocs yet. But whichever one that has Rhea Ripley as the faceclaim is #1 most fuckable. I will make a proper list one I actually get a feel for all the ocs

Phobias: elfear of vomit. I think its called emetophobia

-🔪

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH 👀👀👀

Whiskey and Meabh absolutely agree on Isla being the most fuckable (@xxshadowbabexx )

[swan2swan]

YES hypothesis confirmed!

See, the problem with Isla Nublar (and Sorna’s) ecosystems is an overabundance of large predators while still maintaining a robust population of herbivores. One of the solutions to this conundrum, however, is the existence of Monolophosaurus. Monolophosaurus is a smaller predator which would thrive on hunting baby dinosaurs--or really small dinosaurs, like Compsognathus and Microceratus.

Compies have no shortage of food on the island: rats, carcasses, and of course, dino dung. So very much dino dung. They can probably reproduce quickly, meaning that there could easily have been over a hundred when the park collapsed, and a thousand six months in...there’s no end to their flocks, and there’s no way an apex predator like Rexy would be able to hunt them (Toro and the Ceratosaurs are also much too large and slow to bother with them). 

This is where Blue and Monolophosauus thrive.

They eat the compies, meaning they don’t have to hunt, say, Gallimimus or baby dinosaurs. This allows the baby dinosaurs to grow into juvenile dinosaurs, or to be snacks for Ceratosaurus or Baryonyx...and also allows the Monolophosaurs to thrive.

Who then, as we see above...make fine snacks for the BIGGER carnivores. 

Monos are said to be loners and isolated (as Darius observes from this and brings up in a later episode!!!). They are also nowhere near as cunning or agile as Blue--making them easier prey. Ultimately, this povides the carnivores with enough food in its own branch of the web...meaning that a young Parasaurolophus gets to live another day, growing larger to feed a hungry T. Rex, meaning she doesn’t have to kill an adult, leaving the adult alive to guard and raise more babies. 

IT’S A BALANCED, FUNCTIONAL ECOSYSTEM!!!

[cynosurems]

collette and isla. @asteroidxblves

❛ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 ? ❜ collette hissed sharply , though was it necessarily a sharp hiss if it was her general tone of voice regardless of the situation ? she grabbed isla's upper arm , with just enough force to show she needed to speak to her , and pulled her off to the side of the room . ❛ i got cornered by the fucking rat , again . can't seem to get away from her these days . ❜ even in front of isla , she hid just how badly the conversation with erin had shook her , unwilling to show the slightest bit of vulnerability even in the presence of one of the few friends she had . ❛ whatever . she'll get hers . you driving tonight ? ❜

[liebe-herrgott]

Every word SnowFlame has ever said in The New Guardians and Catwoman.

The New Guardians #2

First freak who comes any closer is a dead freak. Jeezus, you people are strange! Last chance-- Turn around and take your freak show back on the road! Challenge accepted! I am SnowFlame! Every cell of my being burns with white-hot ecstasy. Cocaine is my god and I am the human instrument of its will! A blow like that would have sent any ordinary man reeling! But I am no ordinary man! I can see that-- and I intend to savor our combat to the fullest! You see before you a man on fire! A man who craves any excuse to burn brighter! Any excuse! I feel no pain, Ram, although I relish your feeble attempts to inflict it! How long do you think your silicon chips can stand up to my psycho-kinetic flames? Don't you understand yet? I burn with thought-- accelerated thought generated by my fantastically heightened mental senses! The more you fight back -- the more you fight back -- the more you fan the fires of my high -- and the stronger I become! But to my regret, I have a job to do. Places to go. People to see. As you can see, people… I never patrol… these jungles… alone. Your visit to Nueva Grenada has just been… Terminated! OPEN FIRE! Bury them-- before they start to stink! With all their personal effects intact! In my jungle, we respect the dead! OPEN FIRE! … Do you know how many bags we have to sell to the dealers, Manuel, to buy a Rolls Royce? Ten, Manuel! A paltry ten bags! MOTHER OF GOD! Where are the lookouts? Give up? Give up the ultimate exhilaration-- the divine rapture-- the euphoria of electricity that now surges through every molecule of my body? Give up? I would sooner choke on the soil from your boots, Guardians! AHHHHH! May this fire burn everlasting! Now I am a true god--! Strike them down, my children! They seek to steal your life’s blood-- they seek to destroy your God! But you will not let them-- for within all of you burns the same rage-- within all of you burns the same fire--! You don’t hide your anger very well, warrior! I thought your kind was supposed to be inscrutable! Feel the heat, silicon man? When I am finished -- there will be little left of you but a pile of melted circuits! (glugg x2) Not just yet! Fool warrior--! My fire cannot be extinguished! 

Catwoman #23

As I live and breathe-- it’s the cat herself, Selina Kyle. Your personal chauffeur is here, baby. The one, the only… SNOWFLAME. It’s been a while. What’s your damage, Selina? Not happy to see me? Got everything I need, baby: a bitchin’ ride, the threads, the tunes… And an unlimited supply of powder. Life couldn’t be better. Thanks! Wrote it myself. The key to faking your own death-- explosions. If the blast takes out enough people, no one is gonna sift through the rubble to identify body parts. I give these rats everything they need-- food, clean water, fair wages. This place was totally harsh before I showed up! And they repay me by lying. My men keep disappearing, and the workers are blaming it on some half-baked legend. They’re trying to scare us off. The kids are even dressing like cats at night, as if that’s gonna freak us out. Kisin is just another boogeyman. Everything in life can be solved with a bullet or a bump. I don't care who or what is messing with my business-- I’ll find them. Speaking of bumps, wanna get the party started before the auction? You’re not here to party, and you're not here for me… Why are you here baby? I know you, Selina, and I’ve seen that look before. You’re on the hunt… But it’s not for something at my auction. Always. But I’m not wrong. This is Isla Nevada, baby. Everyone who comes here is either running away or hoping to find something. I think you're searching. No idea. I’ve never quit long enough to find out either way. Home sweet home. Mi casa es su casa, baby. The auction is tomorrow, but tonight is all about chillin’ at the gala. And remember… You’re on my island now. You’re among friends, you can let loose. Stop pretending to be someone you’re not. Maybe that’s your problem: you’ve been a housecat for too long… You’ve forgotten what it’s like to take off your collar and let your claws out. Ladies and gentlemen: welcome to the first annual, invite only, totally exclusive SnowFlame auction! Tomorrow night we’ll have some gnarly items up for grabs… Like the talisman of Arok the Magnificent! Even if you don’t want to claim the throne of Gorilla City for yourself, this will look so rad on your coffee table. We have a vial of water from the Lazarus Pit, the famous codpiece cannon, a decoy White Lantern ring.. And the item you’ve all been waiting for… The List. Compiled by the world’s greatest crime-fighters, this list has every shred of intel they’ve collected on… Well, people like you. The bid starts tomorrow at-- Not now. Um, sorry guys, I gotta step out. Interrupt me at my own party. This better be legit.

Catwoman #24

You don’t look happy, baby-- Why you trippin’? I thought you were all about the ice? So what? Armand, what the in the blue hell happened to my lights?! Yes, I can see that-- I need to know why the power went out! Get on your radio and find out where Hughes and Campbell are-- they’re supposed to be guarding the generator! Sanchez, behind you! Don’t bounce yet, guys! Come back! We have some gnarly items up for grabs! Come on, the codpiece cannon is still available! Ross, seal the gates-- and find out who’s guarding my office! Dammit, Selina. Send a crew up there now! I’ll try to talk some sense into Catwoman. What is she doing to me?! Storming my compound, killing my men?! What do you mean she escaped?! She’s a woman with a whip and a catsuit-- you have machine guns! Damn it, she has my list-- I know it! We’re running on backup power, and soon all my emergency lighting and my laser grid will go down. Find out where that panther disappeared to and put a bullet through it-- I’ll handle Catwoman! A woman with a whip is kicking an entire security team’s ass… Disarming her can’t be that hard! You come into my house, destroy my business… You’ve crossed the line, Selina. You’re forcing my hand. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me. You might wanna stand back a little, because… You’re about to feel the heat of SNOWFLAME! I hope this isn’t all you’ve got, because these cheesy old tricks aren’t going to cut it.  You’re looking a little sluggish, baby. I think you’ve lost a step. Here, let me get closer and give you a little pick-me-up. Euphoric? I tend to have that effect on the ladies. This is adorable. You’re gonna sniff that nasty green dust the jungle rats cooked up to come down off your high? Nice try with the antidote. Killing my buzz doesn’t drain my power. I can still dish it out, and I can still take a-- My nose! I was taking it easy on you, but now I’m going to crush your- GHAAAAH! How did… What was that spear coated with?! D-don’t kill me, Selina! This isn’t you! Wait… come back, baby! I can change! Give me another chance! Don’t leave me here with-- 1269 words, 6900 characters.

[kuramirocket]

Mexican biologist Yuliana Bedolla 

Off Mexico's west coast, the Baja California Pacific Islands are key global nesting sites for 23 seabird species and Natividad Island shelters 90 percent of the breeding population of the Black-vented Shearwater (Puffinus opisthomelas).

Mexican conservation biologist Yuliana Rocío Bedolla Guzmán, Director of the Marine Birds Project at Grupo de Ecología y Conservación de Islas (GECI) says that invasive mammals like cats and rats wiped out at least 27 seabird colonies in the past.

The researchers have been working with fishing cooperatives to decrease the likelihood of reintroductions that would lead to expensive eradication efforts.

"In 2021, we created the local community group “Líderes Comunitarios'' formed by enthusiastic and committed women who have received formal training on island biosecurity and bird identification, and are becoming agents of change in their communities," Bedolla says.

Recently, Bedolla won a 2023 Whitley Award from UK charity Whitley Fund for Nature (WFN) and will use the funding to boost the role of local women and fishing cooperative.

"The goal is to continue preventing the accidental introduction of invasive mammals on Natividad and San Benito Oeste islands by actively involving local leaders and fishing cooperatives in biosecurity protocols," she says.

"My Grain of Sand"

Bedolla grew up far from the sea in Moroleón, a small town in central Mexico, where she enjoyed being out in nature.

"But I had my Eureka moment when I learned to snorkel when I was 12 years old at a beach in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, in the Mexican Pacific," she says adding that she remembered a feeling of amazement, wonder and a new sense of connection to nature.

"That experience was life-changing for me and marked the beginning of my journey as a conservationist," Bedolla says, "From that moment on, I knew I wanted to become a marine biologist and contribute with my grain of sand."

She would go on to study Marine Biology at the Universidad Autónoma de Baja California Sur in La Paz, Baja California Sur, Mexico, learning to dive and study coral reefs and associated invertebrates on several islands in the Gulf of California.

Bedolla would contact GECI in the course of her masters degree and years later, after a Phd in Germany, GECI offered her the directorship of the Marine Birds Project.

Bedolla says that being from the Global South helps her to bring diverse perspectives and approaches to scientific research, which can lead to more innovative and creative solutions.

The San Benito Islands, which is among the islands Yuliana Bedolla is trying to protect from invasive species

Yuliana is a marine biologist, graduated with honors from the Autonomous University of Baja California Sur (UABCS).

She is a Master in Coastal Oceanography from the Autonomous University of Baja California (UABC) and a PhD candidate from the Justus Liebig University of Giessen in Germany. For her doctorate, she obtained a scholarship in Germany. Yuliana speaks Spanish and English and has basic knowledge of the German language. Her doctoral research focuses on the foraging ecology of three petrel species that nest in the San Benito Archipelago, in the Pacific of Baja California.

She began collaborating with the Ecology and Conservation of Islands Group, A.C., (GECI), in 2009 as a field biologist, and is currently the director of the Seabird Project, which aims to restore and conserve seabirds through the use of social attraction systems in conjunction with systematic monitoring, research and environmental education. She has carried out numerous research studies with national and international institutions. Her scientific publications in international journals focus on the response of seabirds to environmental conditions, the parasites that infect seabirds and the response of native fauna to the eradication of invasive mammals.

She has collaborated with several national seabird conservation programs and has been directly involved in environmental restoration projects in Isla Isabel, San Benito Archipelago, Banco Chinchorro and Arrecife Alacranes, related to the eradication of invasive rodents for the benefit of seabird colonies, among other island species. Her activities at GECI include project planning, staff coordination and supervision, applied research and monitoring, environmental education with local communities and dissemination of information in conferences and scientific reports and publications.

Source

[wolfavens]

List 3 of your favorite sims from other simmers you enjoy and explain why (Send this to 10 other blogs 💖💖)

nicooole, your meanness streak continues in making me choose only 3! 😭

my wife Aida @eslanes (she is my wife, what kind of monster wouldn't list their hot wife. especially if said wife could set my house on fire or some crazy shit)

cassian @mireuja (the rat boy i fell for on ig, you will forever remember your very first ig love ok? forever)

emilia @streetlites (i think this counts as a blast from the past but that woman scares me into loving her. unlike Aida i know emilia would only hurt me if i did something to deserve it... or had a lot of money/land/influence she needed. hehe i have none of those things)

(bonus because I can't accept 3 slots without mentioning some old flames from the requestor: 3 names - Isla - Reese - Peaches. I would marry each and every one of them *drops mic*)

[pixelatedollhouse]

Sadly towards the end of the week, there’s a loss in the family - Whiskers passed away from old age.

Seeing as how busy they are caring for Isla, Miko and Andy decide to hold off on getting another rat. Perhaps when Isla’s a little older, she can help pick out a new pet for the family.

[emcads]

so, regarding this scene (which, LOVE) I saw someone write in the tags about James becoming admiral as signifying his not being able to adapt. and i ... personally think that’s not true.

I actually think James is one of the most adaptable characters next to Elizabeth in terms of navigating across lines of legality, propriety, and civility; out of all the main characters, I’d argue he’s the best at continually transforming himself to persist as the demands of the world change.

and I think this is exactly what scares him. he was full three way swordfight pirate scoundrel in DMC, drinking his ass rats off in Tortuga, betraying and lying - even to Elizabeth - about his intentions, and doing what he needed to to survive and get what he wanted. not quite the same level of capital p Pirate as jack or barbossa, or elizabeth, even, but certainly different to "i serve others, not only myself" (although, even then, it's debatable how much of that was really true, since he ultimately made for isla de muerta anyway)

I think he's much more *comfortable* with a rigid system of duty / honor / black and white justice and orders to follow but he doesn't need it to function, not in the way he tries to convince himself he does. he's an absolute mess in Tortuga, sure, but i think most of that comes from the grief of losing almost all of his men and fucking up So Badly, as well as the stress of having your entire world and way of living yanked from under you. the man was doing the most JUST to get a privateering commission. getting back in the navy was never on the table, and he never expected to be made admiral for it –– nor was merchant service ever something to be pursued prior to beckett’s offer.  (interestingly, the opposite choice jack made in a similar scenario.) which i think makes it a choice different than economically surviving, or sailing, or “freedom”

privateering is only one step removed from piracy in terms of "legitimacy." certainly not the same kind of honor/duty/society that he had in the navy, but he still gets the nod of approval, still has good guys/bad guys set up as he knows them. it's a way of continuing, in some semblance of the way of life he knew,  without fully becoming what he hated or admitting that his worldview might have been wrong. it upholds the system of law / legitimacy in justifying maritime violence, even if it isn't rigid in the way the navy is.

he’s royal navy to the core but he isn't ... ordered. he seems very by the book and proper and Just on the surface but that's not true, else beckett would never have gotten the heart to begin with. he's royal navy to the core in that the royal navy also kills and steals and kidnaps people to get what they want, they just have an authority behind them.

[miss-may-i]

Please list 5 facts about your favorite sim, and send this to 10 people whose sims you adore! ❤

Stuart Miller:

Stuart is the secondary protagonist for Sex on the Beach.

His family is originally from Lucky Palms but moved to Isla Paradiso when he was a teenager.

He loves the heat, whether it's on the beach or in the desert.

He is a lifeguard.

He has a pet rat named Nibbles.

[piratesgiftexchange]

Domestic Macabre

for @bloomingcockroaches, by @pinchinlanesblog​

PROMPT: Something about/set during Tia Dalma resurrecting Barbossa between CotBP and DMC. Shippy preferred but genfic happily accepted! WORD COUNT: 3474

Author’s Note: A house is not always just a house, as Barbossa discovers in the strange, impatient days between Isla de Muerta and the world’s end.  I would be remiss if I did not mention that this piece was inspired by Will There Be Enough Water?, bloomingcockroaches’ gorgeous piece of fiction on A03.  It is a glimmering, brilliant star in the firmament of Tia Dalma/Barbossa fiction and is scrumptiously wicked and beautifully done, and I read it often. The rating on this piece is Mature. 

Water has a draw and power all its own. Just as a house over an underground spring is imbued with uncanny awareness, a ship can hold more inside her wooden frame than the hopes and fears of the men who work her. She holds her own memories, and keeps her own counsel, except for the occasional creak and groan.

  These things Barbossa knows, and these things he ponders under the witch’s eye in the in-between existence that is his parcel and portion.

  Pale light meanders through smoky glass, playing tricks on his eyes as he anchors a shelf to the wall. The house flinches from the prick of the nail, the wall standing damp and warm under his palm. He rests his hand against it, as if he might touch the flank of a horse troubled by the bite of a fly. The clack of the bones that sounds as accompaniment to his work falters and stops.

  “Da time draws nigh.”

  Barbossa lowers his hammer and leaves his task, stooping beneath the door frame of the little house to step out onto the porch beyond.

  The house leans into him, calls him back.  It is his ship now, anchored deep in the muck.  She languishes, listing slightly to starboard, filled to the rigging with an unseen crew that watches and whispers.  Brackish water spreads out in every direction, interspersed by the knobby knees of trees breaking black from the water and reaching up towards the moss that hangs still and unmoving.

  There is no air here, no wind. The damp seeps into every corner with the sentience of a living thing, swells wood and chills bone in equal measure. He draws it in with every breath; it lingers on his skin, in his beard. It’ll grow to moss if he sits too long, he often thinks, and scratches at his chin.

  We’ll weigh anchor and row for a wind.

  He half-expects to hear the pad of Tia Dalma’s footfalls behind him. She is content this time to watch from the kitchen window, and so he sits on the stoop and smokes, and looks out into the purple-green twilight until the whine of insects and the longing for light and companionship drive him back inside the waiting house.

  “Why d’ye watch me so?” he complains some time later, as he stands at the little hearth and scrapes the bowl of his pipe out onto the stones. Shadows scatter against reason at the fall of ash and residue, slipping into knots in the floorboards, between cracks like rats in the hold. A spider spins its web across the open window, the strands catching in the fitful light of the candles. High above the swamp a yellow moon glows; he catches glimpses of it through the windows, caught in the bits of glass hung in the trees. “All these long months… have ye not seen enough?”

  “Why ya troubled?” she returns, fixing him with a bright eye. He will have no answers from her, nothing of value without a trade. Ever it was; ever it will be. 

  “I’m not.” The words eke out between tight-clenched teeth. Stubbornness has not deserted him in death; neither did it flee at the first spark of reanimation. It is knit through him, sunk deep into the marrow of his bones. His tongue curls against it, and he recalls that one of the first things he’d tasted after she’d dragged him back into the world was the copper bite of his teeth sinking into his own sharp, impatient tongue. 

  “Ya need watchin’,” she says from her place at the table, the heavy stone pestle in her hand grinding and scraping against the mortar. The action works the muscles in her slender arm, causing them to bunch and shift under her smooth skin. She relents. “Ya still lookin’ back, when ya should be lookin’ forward.”

  He does not deign to answer, and knocks his pipe against the mantel. She will make him sweep the floor in the morning. The house listens and watches.

  “Besides, I cannot be sure ya won’t run away,” she adds, pitch-stained mouth curling up in the corner, chin lifting in challenge. She looks him up and down, and shows all her square, stained teeth. “Or try.”

  It stays with him for hours, days; it festers and splits open at last as he sits before her with newly-spun yarn around his rough hands, holding it as she twists it over and around itself into a ball.

  His reply grates from him like metal on metal. I have killed men for sayin’ less. I was a captain, a pirate. “I’ve given ye m’word.”

  “I cannot be sure,” she repeats, working the yarn around, again and again. She shakes her head, causing the beads and bones and feathers she’s tied into her locs to clack and shake.  A bell rings from somewhere inside the house; it sounds like a ship’s bell, far away. “Sometimes da old wicked ways linger; cause ‘em to dwell on tricks an’ deal in canny words, an’ t’ink dey might fool Tia Dalma. Some give little credence to da shadows left by dere passing; some cannot bear it and da mind slips away, chasin’ after corpse-lights in da gloom.”

  Her breasts shift in her bodice as she shrugs, her bare shoulders kissed by lantern light. Her nonchalance strikes deeper than it should; he flinches at the twinge of the scar over his heart.

  He dealt honestly and with the only thing of worth left to him: his life for her freedom. Voices come from the upstairs room, mutters and sighs creeping down the crooked stairs; he wonders how many before him made such a promise, and how many could not outrun the past.

  The house groans. A swampy, foetid breeze makes its way through the door. It whispers through the herbs and rushes she’s hung from the rafters; twists the bits of polished glass and the bottles and jars and sets the contents to motion.

  He thinks of Jack Sparrow and of The Black Pearl, and of a bullet in his chest, and disappointment.

  She comes to him and takes the yarn from him, tilts his face up toward hers with strong hands. “Turn ya face back toward da light. Ponder da waking world, Barbossa.” 

  Her hands are warm. She releases him to run a hand over his brow, his hair, and presses her mouth to his. He waits, head tilted back, and watches with gleaming eyes as shadows pace back and forth above the floorboards.

  xxxx

  It amuses her to play at domesticity, but she is as ill-suited to it as he is. There they work and quarrel and make peace, and there they sit and smoke and seethe, her stuck in her bones and he somewhere between the living and the dead. All around the spirits go on with their business, the house mutters and sighs, and the swamp waits for it all to sink into the muck, to begin again.

  She sleeps beside him sometimes, back curled into him. It is the duality of her which anchors him against the wash of whispers and sighs that echo in that place, for what he cannot countenance in the waking hours is reconciled when her legs tangle with his, the soles of her little feet cool against his skin, her body sleep heavy and sweet.

  Black-green night breaks to pale green morning. He leaves her asleep and makes his way down the narrow stairs, worn smooth from more than a lifetime of traffic. Those who live nearby are creeping into the morning light, just as he. He watches them from the porch as they watch him.

  They do not speak to him.

  He pulls her little boat up onto the clearest patch of dry land he can find in order to mend it. There are others who could do the work better, but he does not argue, for it would be boorish to admit he is not part of the reason why they come so reluctantly to her door.

  The witch and the dead man.

  The swamp is wakeful as he works. It hums and sighs. He can hear the burble of frogs deep in the muck; the whine of insects. Birds fly far above his head, calling out; there is a heron, standing like a silent sentinel in the shadows. He himself is a morsel, a bit of living gristle deep in the belly of the whale. Hot agitation thrashes in his chest, and he desires like Jonah to be spat out again, to breathe the air and feel the sun on his face, to be master of his fate and a commander of men once more. It seems as the sweat drips in his eyes that there is a crowd of men and women moving around him in circuits all their own, as pale green and untouchable as the murky dawn. Their hollow eyes make his heart hurt; he is breathing too fast, or he is breathing not at all…

  “Barbossa.”

  How long has it been?

  She is sitting in the boat, leaning over where he kneels in the bottom. The hammer is heavy in his hands; she takes it from him, and brushes the hair back from his brow.

  “Ya turn ya eyes back, an’ undo all da hard work me do,” she chides gently. “Ya hold onto ya dread like a dog wit’ a bone. Tell me ya promise.”

  Her breath is soft against his cheek. She folds into him and he groans, hands coming up to hold the bench she sits on, arms hemming her in.

  “Yer freedom,” he rumbles obediently, “for my life.”

  “Ya life,” she says, “for my freedom. No more, no less.” Her smile is soft, fond, but he reads concern across her brow. “Do not look too far into da way of t’ings. Be easy. Bide a little longer.”

  He sleeps when she bids him sleep, and sleeps deeply. She feeds him dreams, dreams of battle, of food and rough water and soft women, before calling him back toward the waking world with fire in her mouth.

  Beyond belief, Jack the monkey is perched on his chest when he wakes again. The little creature chitters when he lifts his heavy hand to pet him, nuzzles sweet into his palm and the crook of his fingers. 

  “Hello, Jack,” he croaks, feeling for the first time the warmth of the beloved little creature, the almost human touch of his little hand. He draws a deep breath, and then another, and hot tears shudder out of him, not squeezed out in the raging torrent of a tormented soul, but loosed freely to slide down weathered cheeks and dampen his pillow and beard.

  Relief.

  Jack watches with curiosity, reaching out to pluck at his collar and touch his face. Jack’s clothes are rumpled and worn, and there’s a sharp expression to his little face that Barbossa recognizes.

  “Took the gold again, did ye? Better off we’d have been, if we’d all taken to the curse as well as ye.”

  His body feels loose-limbed and uncoordinated. He stumbles his way through the afternoon, Jack on his shoulder, while the house creaks around him. Jack has brought the salt wind with him; it tears through the windows and open doors, whistles in the rafters. Barbossa breathes deep. He thinks of the sun on the water and smiles.

  Tia Dalma orders him to strip to the waist and sits him at the kitchen table. It’s late or very early; time feels strange since he awoke, and he cannot see the stars, the sun or the moon. He thinks it must be night, for the fireflies hang in the trees and hover over the high ground.

  “Ya crew is comin’,” she says, as steaming water is poured over the ash of ground herbs in her basin. She banishes Jack to the rafters with a wave of her hand. “Ya must be ready.”

  She washes his hair, shaves him and trims his beard. He should be wary of the razor at his neck, but fear lies sleeping now somewhere deep inside, soothed to sleep by the little rasp of her callused fingers against his skin, the warm press of the smooth inside of her arm as she leans into him.

  Droplets cling to his beard, his face. She smooths them away, fingers lingering near his mouth. “Ya a fine man, Barbossa. Ya a fine man, to give ya heart to da sea.”

  He lifts heavy eyelids to sight her; she is upside down in his vision, her smile as shy as a girl’s.

  “Ya been mine since ya first looked at da sea and longed for power an’ strength. I heard da whispers long ago, when ya walked into da water an’ swore ya would be a better man dan him who came before ya.”

  He shifts under her hands, old pain waking, and she strokes her palm over his chest to rest against his heart. “Belay that,” he threatens, but it is a hollow thing and she knows it.

  “He may have made ya,” she soothes, hands roaming, “but da sea formed ya heart an’ soul.” His fingers curl around her wrist; she pushes her little hand high against his rib cage, holding him. “Da sea shaped ya, fed ya dreams an’ hopes an’ fears. Ya sang her praises when she were sweet, an’ cursed her when she were not.” 

  She untangles herself from him and pushes him forward, holding him there with a hand between the shoulder blades while the sopping rag drips and drags across his skin, beneath his arms and across his back. He would protest at being treated like an invalid, but the house has come to life all around him, panting, watching him, raising the hair on his skin so that the path of the rag across his chest is an exquisite torture.

  The ship’s bell rings alarum, the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder…

  “A fine man,” the goddess sighs, and her hand rests possessively on his belly. 

  Her skin is blazing hot, and he is torn between the desire to pull away and the longing to take her in his arms. Her fingers flex; the pads of her fingers rough against his pale, soft skin.

  “Ya grew strong an’ tall,” she whispers; her breath sounds in his ear. “I felt da echoes of ya terror and joy da first time ya took da wheel against a storm.” 

  He feels the push of her, the weight of her body against his back. Her fingers tighten, dimpling his skin, nails biting.

  “Ya drove ya’self hard against wind and wave,” she breathes, swaying in time with his heartbeat, and the slow scratch of her nails over his belly galvanizes him. She groans, pressing her face into his hair. “Drove hard and wit’out falterin’ ‘til she broke at da last, sweet an’ worshipful. An’ da next time ya took a woman… ah, but ya remembered da storm breakin’ under ya hands…”

  She is drawing something across his back, sigils and wards, or else she is kissing him there, slow, languid kisses across freckled shoulders and knobby spine, and the house is shifting with it, sighing and shuddering. He imagines he can feel the water beneath the boards rise and lap at the soles of his bare feet, welling up and through the cracks in the floor, between his toes and up around his legs, his thighs and torso, until he too is caught suspended in place, one of a multitude, left to watch and breathe and yearn across the centuries…

  Jack screeches.

  “Avast,” he says weakly, pushing himself up and away from the table, from her hands and mouth and the push of her against his skin.

  Tia Dalma huffs, and reaches past him to collect the basin. He catches her wrist; her eyes flash.

  “How many men?” he asks, suddenly and properly angry. “How many souls have ye caught and toyed with in yer quest for freedom over the centuries?”

  “Ya no saintly man,” she retorts, wrenching her arm from his grasp. “How many ya leave in ya own wake?”

  He’s offended her, he can see, and he won’t begrudge the truth she speaks. She lets the basin clatter to the table and takes her chair by the hearth to stare resolutely into the dying embers. “Ya don’t know what it take to bring a man back from the edge of nothin’. Mebbe ya t’ink to ask another favor of Tia Dalma, for da sake of a few old lyin’, whisperin’ shades.”

  He draws in a breath to clear his head, and the house is just a house, and the woman no more than any other woman, sulkish and cross with his ill-temper. “I know better than to ask,” he says mildly, “though I rarely heed m’own advice.” He retrieves his shirt and draws it over his head, and goes to sit on the footstool before her chair.

  She cuts her eyes at him, shifting restlessly in her chair so that he is left studying her profile.

  “Jack Sparrow has been taken to da Locker,” she says, “along wit’ da Pearl.” Her hand rests on her lap, picking at a tear in the fabric of her skirt. She leaves off and reaches toward him; he takes her hand in his. “Do ya not mourn?”

  Her hand is cool in his; he turns it over, inspecting the lines and calluses, the delicate workings of her wrist. The hands of a woman. “For Jack? Never. He chose his life, same as I. We’ll see him soon enough, I warrant, whether it be at the hospitality of Davy Jones or in the grey shadows of the in-between.” He sighs; her little tapered fingers twitch against his. “The Pearl, though… that be a loss, indeed.”

  As much a goddess as any woman, though her fury and power sleep, leaving behind a doubtful expression. He offers a smile, which she returns, though it be reluctant. “Tell me ya promise?”

  “Yer freedom for my life,” he says stoutly. “Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

  “Ya hearin’ mostly whispers an’ dreams, an’ people who ain’t people, but pests.” She tosses her head. “Turnin’ ya eyes to da shadows when ya have a livin’, breathin’ woman before ya.”

  She will warm his bed tonight, if he is lucky. He wants it despite the danger. They blow hot and cold, the pair of them, fighting for the way it makes the blood rush; swiving for the same reason.

  “If yer bones read right then this be our last night alone in a house with a sturdy bed.” He lifts his eyebrows, gives her a look he knows she likes when the weather is fair between them. “Let’s not spend it quarrelin’.”

  Her sulk crosses the razor’s edge into sultry. “Ya slept a long time,” she says, looking at him from under her eyelashes. “Long enough for da apple blossoms to bloom an’ fall a hundred mile inland. I was lonely for ya company. Mebbe if ya sweet, I give ya da present I got for ya.”

  “I am sweet.”

  “Look in da pocket of my dress.”

  He unfolds himself and rises, leaning over her, bracing his arm on the back of her chair. His heavy hand cleaves to the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip, and follows it along until the opening of her pocket makes itself known.

  “Ah, m’sweet dolly,” he murmurs, pleased at the familiar shape under his hand. Hunger flares and he grins, sharp and eager. “Ye have an apple under yer skirts.”

  Her smile is temptation itself. “An’ him gwan eat a whole bushel of apples, me t’inks,” she breathes, carding her fingers through his beard. “Seeds an’ all.” She gives his beard a tug, making him grunt. “Maybe him eat so much it kill him, an’ me bring him to life again.”

  “A worthy end,” he japes, and she is all woman when she laughs at him, and the light from the little fire gleams in her hair and eyes and in the damp hollows of her collarbones.

  He follows her upstairs a short time later, and the floorboards behave as floorboards should, and the walls behave as walls will do. The woman is as preternatural as any woman is in the throes of her passion, and he watches in rapture as she takes her pleasure, back bowed, rushing toward her end like waves breaking against the shore.

  At this the house has nothing to say, only sits, contemplative, and awaits the break of day.