#Pigeon Pages

[tanukiimo]

doodled some falin outfits from official art!!

[revitalizationrat]

I bought a new sketchbook and I'm stuck in that stupid stage where idk what to draw on the 1st page

Bruh

[pigeonstab]

Doodles from english classss

[ahollowgrave]

-- first blood.

A young nun after her first battle with the primal, Ifrit.

[catty-kitkat]

Some more silly bird doodles based on photos from Pinterest. I realized I hadn't done any full-color drawings in my current sketchbook so, I colored this page. I primarily used my Neocolor 2 wax pastels on this page.

[ratzinajar]

[ladyfantasma]

Artbook translation: Pergue, Mr. Pigeon, and Le Mime

Early concpet - Evil organization* Pergue

Hawkmoth’s early model, Papillon, is the head of the evil organization Pergue. Papillon’s real name is Richard Sphinx and has insight into the future with the help of the kwami Null’s supernatural power.

He has enormous wealth and eloquence, and is obsessed with wealth and a desire of domination to forget the pain of his missing wife.

Papillon’s kwami Null is planning to change the work back to the state of zero, and Tikki and Plagg each got trapped in the earrings and ring due to Null.

Unlike Hawkmoth, who works alone currently, Papillon works as an organization and is with his capable secretary, Pokerface. Pokerface’s real name is ‘Adoni Duther’**.

She has the power to make every emotion from people of the world disappear. Pokerface loves Papillon, but understands it is an emotion unachievable, and serves as Papillon’s loyal secretary.

Mr. Pigeon

An ornithologist who believes pigeons are the smartest. He invents various weapons that can control pigeons, and the most powerful weapon Mr. Pigeon invented is a weapon that corrode objects with pigeon poo. He has the power of the kwami Becil***, who represents foolishness.

Le Mime

Every performance art the mime artist Le Mime does can turn into a real event. For example, if Le Mime pretends to hold a hammer, someone will really get hit by a hammer. With the help of Mimic, the kwami with the ability of miming, he continues committing crimes.

(Early Miraculous Ladybug)

(Ladybug)

(Chat Noir/Felix)

(Quantic Kids)

(Translation notes in readmore)

*In literal translation, it's actually 'Villain organizaion'. I thought 'Evil organization' would be more natural, so used that instead

**There is no romanization for 아도니 두서, so this is what I presume. I chose 'Adoni' because I found that according to Wiktionnaire, 'Adonis' in French means a type of butterfly

***Like Adoni Duther, this 베실 has no romanization too. I presumed it as 'Becil', because of the word 'imbecile'

[nickbutnodick]

here's a quick tip from one transgender to another.

NEVER read The Sandman Book Two.

[loftclan]

-Throws flying pigeons at you and runs-

:DD

tysm! they're beautiful, aren't they?

[pigeon-wizard]

i was straight up not prepared for this week's alt text, holy shit

[ndostairlyrium]

In my head, Caterina looks and talks like Virna Lisi. Same elegance but oooboi, that presence could kill a man lol

[widdendream5]

hey guys! just realized i literally never posted abt this but i have a colouring book for sale! 16 different birds (full list on the shop page or under the cut) all native to vermont.

if anyone does buy & colour it please feel free to post it i would LOVE to see :3

List of birds:

Hermit Thrush

Eastern Bluebird

American Redstart

Cedar Waxwing

Blue Jay

Pileated Woodpecker

Ruby-throated Hummingbird

Passenger Pigeon

Rock Pigeon

Whip-poor-will

Sharp-shinned Hawk

Turkey Vulture

Eastern Screech Owl

American Black Duck

Green Heron

Common Loon

@i-maybe-exist @redraspberrycats @chaos-creature1 @moss--knight @jasmineon @thegoopoftheday @just-spacetrash @jenngo @cryptidmelody @oasisofgalaxies @bancaishi @copepods @theoneandonlyyeti

[pigeonstab]

Could you draw this guy for me pls 🙏🙏🙏

A brief moment of panic (I know he's supposed to be stoic but I couldn't help drawing it all axious ;^^ hope you don't mind)

[ahollowgrave]

Portentous (adjective): eliciting amazement or wonder. // the work is never done.

(I am unsure what to tag directly but please know this writing contains horror elements.)

This place is holy.

Was?

No -- is, you decide. It is no longer used but what does that mean to the hands that blessed it so long ago?

You gingerly sidestep a cobweb older than you.

Your nose itches, threatening a sneeze.

Ahead of you, the wailing continues.

Behind you, None waits. You had them stay outside, nearly apologetic, dismissing it as a whim.

None had stared up at you -- how novel for you! -- with their serious dark eyes and their serious frown and in their serious voice they had said: “I trust you. You trust you.” And then they had sat on a rock and jerked their chin at you in a clear gesture: get going.

You got going.

This place had been abandoned quickly. There are rotten baskets with their contents scattered across the floor. Abandoned chests tower in corners and near doorways. Forgotten toys and tools dot the hallways. It is all covered in a choking layer of dust.

Your footsteps are light, silent, as you press onward. With each threshold, you feel it get colder. At certain points you stop and still yourself, unfocusing your mind. A current, invisible but insistent, pulls at your skirt. A river diverged from the source. You follow it and as you do, the wailing grows louder.

You and None have heard it for three nights now. An unnatural screaming cry that freezes the forest with fear. Finally, you have found the source of it.

When you come upon her it is a surprise to both of you.

The corridor you had been following ends suddenly and opens into a big, central space. The upper portion disappears into the darkness but you can see the dying light of the day. Rays fall into the cavern, illuminating the carpet of animal bones that surround a long-dark cooking pit.

Your ears ring with the remembrance of laughter and music and life.

Surrounding the cooking fire are the rotten remains of several benches and seats. A shrouded sits -- perches -- on one of them. And it cries.

Great big gut-wrenching, shoulder-shaking, teeth-clacking sobs. Occasionally one of them reaches a high enough note to make your head spin, to make you feel sick to your stomach.

It hasn’t noticed you.

“… Hello?” You call out. You absolute idiot.

Abruptly, the crying stops and you are all too aware of being studied. The figure before you hasn’t moved but you feel the unmistakable weight of a stare.

Your sluggish heart skips a beat, a difficult thing for the old goat to do.

“… Sorry.” Why. Why would you speak again?

You are not allowed to scold yourself for long.

A face - a duskwight woman - is suddenly in front of you. She is too thin, her bones poke through her skin like a needle just before it punctures fabric. Her hair is a tangled, wild mess. She is nude. She is horrifying. She is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. There is a large puncture wound between her breasts, weeping a tar-like substance. Her eyes are liquid black. Tears stain her cheeks. She has been crying for years.

Her eyes are so big.

You are falling into them.

“Hi.” Why.

She screams in your face.

You think this is what being skinned feels like.

She is reaching for you and her hands are claws, perfect for scooping out soft insides.

You reach back for her. Your cane clatters to the stone floor but the gem wrapped in its living branches continues to glow. You take a clumsy step forward - you have never embraced a woman before - and you wrap your arms around her.

You trust yourself.

You palm the back of her head and feel what remains of her hair detach beneath the pressure. Your other palm flattens between the sharp point of her shoulder blades. You press her to you, guiding her head to the crook of your neck.

You wait for the feeling of claws in your gut.

They do not come.

You are both terribly still.

You cry so much that it does not surprise you when you start to cry, now. Your face buries itself in her shoulder -- distantly, you’re aware of goo on your skin -- and you cling to her like you have wanted to cling to so many others. You feel hands at your back and then you are pulled tighter against the spectre.

When she starts to cry it is different. It does not set your teeth on edge and does not pierce into the center of your brain. It is simply the cry of a scared and wounded girl.

She has cried for so long. Alone.

“I am so sorry,” your voice is the sound of falling snow, “You can leave it with me.”

By the time your tears dry it is the Lover’s light that filters through the holes in the roof of the cavern. A moth of shiny black clings to the front of your robe. There is, indeed, goo on your skin and clothing.

None is waiting for you, patient as the river.

[kagekrow]

OOPS! All pigeons!

[pigeon-ponders]

when the game is so good you search for academic articles about it