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cryptidclaw · 1 year

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Cryptidclaw's WC Prefixes List!

Yall said you were interested in seeing it so here it is!

This is a collection of mostly Flora, Fauna, Rocks, and other such things that can be found in Britain since that’s where the books take place!

I also have other Prefixes that have to do with pelt colors and patterns as well!

Here’s a link to the doc if you dont want to expand a 650 word list on your Tumblr feed lol! the doc is also in my drive linked in my pined post!

below is the actual list! If there are any names you think I should add plz tell me!

EDIT: I will update the doc with new names as I come up with them or have them suggested to me, but I wont update the list on this post! Plz visit my doc for a more updated version!

Animals

Mammal

Badger

Bat

Bear

Beaver

Bison

Boar

Buck

Calf

Cow

Deer

Elk

Fawn

Ferret

Fox

Goat

Hare

Horse

Lamb

Lynx

Marten

Mole

Mouse

Otter

Rabbit

Rat

Seal

Sheep

Shrew

Squirrel

Stoat

Vole

Weasel

Wolf

Wolverine

Amphibians

Frog

Newt

Toad

Reptiles

Scale

Adder

Lizard

Snake

Turtle

Shell

Birds

Bird

Down

Feather

Albatross

Bittern

Buzzard

Chaffinch

Chick

Chicken

Coot

Cormorant

Corvid

Crane

Crow

Curlew

Dove

Duck

Dunlin

Eagle

Egret

Falcon

Finch

Gannet

Goose

Grouse

Gull

Hawk

Hen

Heron

Ibis

Jackdaw

Jay

Kestrel

Kite

Lark

Magpie

Mallard

Merlin

Mockingbird

Murrelet

Nightingale

Osprey

Owl

Partridge

Pelican

Peregrine

Petrel

Pheasant

Pigeon

Plover

Puffin

Quail

Raven

Robin

Rook

Rooster

Ruff

Shrike

Snipe

Sparrow

Starling

Stork

Swallow

Swan

Swift

Tern

Thrasher

Thrush

Vulture

Warbler

Whimbrel

Wren

Freshwater Fish

Fish

Bass

Bream

Carp

Dace

Eel

Lamprey

Loach

Minnow

Perch

Pike

Rudd

Salmon

Sterlet

Tench

Trout

Roach

Saltwater fish and other Sea creatures (would cats be able to find some of these? Probably not, I don't care tho)

Alge

Barnacle

Bass (Saltwater version)

Bream (Saltwater version)

Brill

Clam

Cod

Crab

Dolphin

Eel (Saltwater version)

Flounder

Garfish

Halibut

Kelp

Lobster

Mackerel

Mollusk

Orca

Prawn

Ray

Seal

Shark

Shrimp

Starfish

Sting

Urchin

Whale

Insects and Arachnids

Honey

Insect

Web

Ant

Bee

Beetle

Bug

Butterfly

Caterpillar

Cricket

Damselfly

Dragonfly

Fly

Grasshopper

Grub

Hornet

Maggot

Moth

Spider

Wasp

Worm

Trees

Acorn

Bark

Branch

Forest

Hollow

Log

Root

Stump

Timber

Tree

Twig

Wood

Alder

Apple

Ash

Aspen

Beech

Birch

Cedar

Cherry

Chestnut

Cypress

Elm

Fir

Hawthorn

Hazel

Hemlock

Linden

Maple

Oak

Pear

Poplar

Rowan

Redwood

Spruce

Willow

Yew

Flowers, Shrubs and Other plants

Berry

Blossom

Briar

Field

Flower

Leaf

Meadow

Needle

Petal

Shrub

Stem

Thicket

Thorn

Vine

Anemone

Apricot

Barley

Bellflower

Bluebell

Borage

Bracken

Bramble

Briar

Burnet

Buttercup

Campion

Chamomile

Chanterelle

Chicory

Clover

Cornflower

Daffodil

Daisy

Dandelion

Dogwood

Fallow

Fennel

Fern

Flax

Foxglove

Furze

Garlic

Ginger

Gorse

Grass

Hay

Heather

Holly

Honeysuckle

Hop

Hyacinth

Iris

Ivy

Juniper

Lavender

Lichen

Lilac

Lilly

Mallow

Marigold

Mint

Mistletoe

Moss

Mushroom

Nettle

Nightshade

Oat

Olive

Orchid

Parsley

Periwinkle

Pine

Poppy

Primrose

Privet

Raspberry

Reed

Reedmace

Rose

Rush

Rye

Saffron

Sage

Sedge

Seed

Snowdrop

Spindle

Strawberry

Tangerine

Tansy

Teasel

Thistle

Thrift

Thyme

Violet

Weed

Wheat

Woodruff

Yarrow

Rocks and earth

Agate

Amber

Amethyst

Arch

Basalt

Bounder

Cave

Chalk

Coal

Copper

Dirt

Dust

Flint

Garnet

Gold

Granite

Hill

Iron

Jagged

Jet

Mountain

Mud

Peak

Pebble

Pinnacle

Pit

Quartz

Ridge

Rock

Rubble

Ruby

Rust(y)

Sand

Sapphire

Sediment

Silt

Silver

Slate

Soil

Spire

Stone

Trench

Zircon

Water Formations

Bay

Cove

Creek

Delta

Lake

Marsh

Ocean

Pool

Puddle

River

Sea

Water

Weather and such

Autumn

Avalanche

Balmy

Blaze

Blizzard

Breeze

Burnt

Chill

Cinder

Cloud

Cold

Dew

Drift

Drizzle

Drought

Dry

Ember

Fall

Fire

Flame

Flood

Fog

Freeze

Frost

Frozen

Gale

Gust

Hail

Ice

Icicle

Lightening

Mist

Muggy

Rain

Scorch

Singe

Sky

Sleet

Sloe

Smoke

Snow

Snowflake

Soot

Sorrel

Spark

Spring

Steam

Storm

Summer

Sun

Thunder

Water

Wave

Wet

Wind

Winter

Celestial??

Comet

Dawn

Dusk

Evening

Midnight

Moon

Morning

Night

Noon

Twilight

Cat Features, Traits, and Misc.

Azure

Beige

Big

Black

Blonde

Blotch(ed)

Blue

Bounce

Bright

Brindle

Broken

Bronze

Brown

Bumble

Burgundy

Call

Carmine

Claw

Cobalt

Cream

Crimson

Cry

Curl(y)

Dapple

Dark

Dot(ted)

Dusky

Ebony

Echo

Fallen

Fleck(ed)

Fluffy

Freckle

Ginger

Golden

Gray

Green

Heavy

Kink

Knot(ted)

Light

Little

Lost

Loud

Marbled

Mew

Milk

Mottle

Mumble

Ochre

Odd

One

Orange

Pale

Patch(ed)

Pounce

Prickle

Ragged

Red

Ripple

Rough

Rugged

Russet

Scarlet

Shade

Shaggy

Sharp

Shimmer

Shining

Small

Smudge

Soft

Song

Speckle

Spike

Splash

Spot(ted)

Streak

Stripe(d)

Strong

Stump(y)

Sweet

Tall

Talon

Tangle

Tatter(ed)

Tawny

Tiny

Tough

Tumble

Twist

Violet

Whisker

Whisper

White

Wild

Wooly

Yellow

#cryptidclaw's warriors au #?#Im tempted to use these in the au #some characters deserve some more fun names hehe #rise of change #warrior cats #warrior cats design #warriors #warriors names #warriors naming #warriors prefixes

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irafuwas · 10 months

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The Enemy Summary: Lilia did not call the child "Silver" because of the lunar gleam of his hair or the starlight in his eyes. No, he chose the name out of spite. Content Warnings: Depictions of violence against a child, strangulation, blood, expletives, book 7 spoilers Pairings: None Length: 3.8k (Header artwork from here)

You can either read it after the cut or on AO3!

The princess’s death struck the nation like a meteor. The Knight of Dawn had killed her, contemptuously, brazenly, at what was meant to be a peace conference. Before the fae could even draw their swords, he and his troops had scattered like a bevy of doves into the golden light of daybreak. Most of the congregation rushed to gather around their sovereign’s limp body, but not Lilia. He stood at the window, staring at the backs of the retreating soldiers, transfixed by the reflection of the sun blazing in their iron armor, a yellow blot in a sea of white fire. It looked to him like an evil eye.

Dazed by the hot stupor of his great injury, Lilia hunted down the man and killed him. And then he killed the man’s wife, and then the chambermaids and the kitchen staff and the guardsmen and the stewards. He executed them impulsively; their bodies fell before him like heavy ragdolls slumping to the ground.

The glint of his blade was a bright smudge in the darkness of the castle that night. It moved through the air like an emerald wraith – at times languidly, at times striking faster than an adder. For those who’d sought refuge in the pitch-black shadows of the underground passageways, its viridity was the last thing – the only thing – they saw before it pierced them.

His path was methodical.

He stalked from room to room, listening for stifled breaths and choked back sobs, tearing apart every quivering shadow and wrenching open every closed door. He found the pageboys cowering together in one of the storerooms, their small faces shining white with a vicious fear. He told them to run, and they did. They fled crudely, tripping over the hardstone floor and entangling their wiry colt limbs into each other as they stumbled down the halls.

He waited until they left before moving on to the final room. He’d overlooked it earlier; the door was concealed within the tall bookcases that lined the knight’s bedchambers, and he’d only noticed it after one of the maids had left it ajar as she fled. He flung open the door apathetically and marched inside, scanning the room for any sign of life. A wooden object in the corner caught his eye, and a sharp unease pooled in his stomach once he realized it was a cradle.

When he peered inside it, a baby with eyes the color of the aurora peered back up at him. He had seen those eyes before, staring down at him triumphantly as a sword plunged through his sister’s chest, staring up at him from the pale face of a corpse lying in a pool of blood in the adjacent room. And now those same eyes blinked at him dully, as though he were the source of all the light in the world.

He didn’t know the Knight of Dawn had already sired an heir. No one did. He placed a weary hand on the cradle and rocked it absentmindedly as he thought. He easily could’ve walked away, could’ve turned around and left that rotting pit behind him and reemerged into the night’s black embrace, could’ve gone on to live the rest of his life wallowing in the murky waters of his deep grief. And he should have. But he knew, with a firm surety that scared even him, that his grieving peoples would soon come to claim the boy - long before the first light of dawn could reach down its shining hands and begin to soothe their wounded nation.

Lilia’s hesitation possessed him. His gaze flew between the cradle and the door and back to the cradle again. He reached down and gripped the baby’s throat. He stood there, dazed, unable to tell if he was fighting the urge to complete the act or the urge to let go. The muscles of his forearm bulged and tensed, writhing like pale snakes underneath his skin. When the child smiled at him, he ripped his arm away as though he’d been electrocuted.

After a final moment of trepidation, he plunged his arms back into the cradle. His hands had torn that castle asunder mere moments ago, and now they trembled quietly as they pressed the heavy head into the warmth of his chest.

The night held its breath as he left that place. The only witnesses to his transgression, the somber oak trees surrounding that land and the black-eyed creatures concealed in their lofty boughs, watched him silently. He tried to ignore their expectant gazes, but they dug into his skin like daggers as he raced back to camp with the child in his arms.

Later, when he stood with Baul in the heavy heat of their tent and confessed what he’d done - and what he had failed to do - the man nearly exploded.

His barrel chest swelled in contempt. His face flushed hot with a venomous rage. He loomed over Lilia as massive as a grizzly bear, his thin lips pulled back into a snarl, the whites of his eyes blazing like spotlights out of his ashen face.

“Are you fucking insane!?” he roared. “That… That thing is that bastard’s son! It’s the enemy!”

“Baul, I can’t kill a baby,” Lilia croaked.

Baul scoffed. “So you can slaughter a whole castle full of people, but a baby’s too much for the Great General Vanrouge, huh?”

Lilia looked away, and Baul continued, aggrieved, “Fine. If you won’t do it, then I will.” He tightened his grip around his halberd, and the wooden staff groaned in his hand. He dipped the axe head towards the baby sleeping in Lilia’s arms.

“No!” Lilia yelled, taking a step back. “Please, just… just give me some time… A decade. Give me a decade, and then I’ll do it, I’ll kill him.” He licked the cold sweat running down his lips, his eyes flicking between the glowering man and the axe hovering before him. The cold metal shimmered threateningly in the dim candlelight.

“Sure you will,” Baul spat, retracting his weapon. “Sure you fucking will.” He stormed out of the tent, muttering angrily as he threw back the tarp with a growl. The stifling air evaporated with his departure, and Lilia took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked down at the child and sighed.

When Lilia returned to the castle town, he discovered that Baul had revealed his great failure to the rest of the world. In the wake of their general’s betrayal, he and the other guardsmen had ransacked Lilia’s room in the barracks, carelessly strewing his meagre belongings before the castle as though they were garbage. Lilia found the blanket from his cot entangled in the branches of one of the courtyard trees, fluttering sadly in the gentle spring wind. He dislodged it and wrapped it around his body, using it as a makeshift sling for the child.

None of the guards, not even Baul, came out to speak with him. They didn’t need to – he already knew their judgement was final. He stooped over as he gathered the rest of his items, weighed down not by the tiny infant strapped to his back, but by the enormity of his decision, of his failure. Here was the home he’d spent the last three hundred years of his life defending, here was the honor and prestige he’d finally won for himself after centuries of flawless servitude and thankless atrocities, the only family and friends he had ever known – would ever know. He understood that he was a traitor, a fool, but his inanity was far overshadowed by his revulsion at what they demanded from him.

He looked up at the castle one last time, craning his head back, trying to memorize every jagged stone and turret and tower, trying to memorize the curve of the windows, the green of the flags flapping weakly in the breeze and the faded grey of the ancient masonry. He stood there until the strained muscles in his neck begged him to stop. And then he turned around and left.

His legs carried him unbidden to the edge of the forest surrounding the castle town, where he found a small house hidden in its verdant shadows. The walls were rotted, and the roof lay sunken under a tangled mass of vines and moss. He couldn’t tell whether humans or fae or wild beasts had last lived there; he only knew he was too tired and too apathetic to continue his search elsewhere.

The first night in that house, they slept on the floor. The child dozed soundly, but Lilia could not sleep. He stared at the stars peeking through the holes in the roof, counting each pin prick of light until his eyes burned. As the black-blue sky began to fade, he realized with a start that he didn’t know what the boy’s name was. He raked his exhausted brain for something – anything – he could call him over the next ten years. The answer struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Silver. It wasn’t a name; it was an utterance. Two syllables that weighed heavy in his mouth like poison - air that passed between his lips and nothing more. It was a word he’d hiss on nights when the mist lay heavy over the forest and his mind would sink into the quicksand of old memories he wished desperately to forget, when he’d dream of his sister’s face, pale and drained of blood, her mouth frozen open in a scream that would never come out. The Silver Owl had tainted his heart the darkest black, and this was his chance to finally rid himself of their scourge forever.

From then on, Lilia kept the boy at a distance. He fed him and bathed him and clothed him mechanically, moving most days like a puppet on strings. He tolerated being called “Father”, but staunchly refused any concessions beyond that. His anger was a bulwark against the child’s affections.

Only during the winter would Lilia let the boy sleep next to him. The small body would shiver offensively at his side, interrupting his faded dreams, and he would groan and tuck the thin creature against himself before falling back into an uncomfortable sleep. He would push the child away as soon as he awoke the next morning, repulsed, as though the thing clinging to him were a disease.

It wasn’t just the boy’s neediness that vexed him. Lilia hated everything about him, hated his shy half-smile and his crescent-eyed laugh, hated how the walls around his heart he’d spent so many long years carefully constructing would groan under the terrible weight of the boy’s love. But what disturbed Lilia the most was his eyes. Many of the valley residents were dumbstruck by them – they’d murmur how, on the night of his birth, Nature surely must have plucked the northern lights from the sky and pressed their iridescent glow into his supple skin. But Lilia only saw evil in their lunar beauty. And he watched, incredulously, as the boy grew older, stronger, the infantile roundness of his face hardening around the angle of his jaw, watched the back straighten, the eyes narrow, the smile broaden, watched the child melt away and the visage of his sister’s murderer slowly and steadily emerge in its place. Some days he felt suffocated, like every inch of that small cottage was tyrannized by the boy’s meagre presence. The only thing that stilled his hand was the child’s youth. He could not kill him yet.

The days were long, but the years whipped past him like a tempest. The hot coals of his anger gradually cooled to a tepid warmth, and Lilia at last conceded to the child’s innocence. He wore the clumsily made daisy crowns and ate the burnt and misshapen cookies, he no longer denied the pleas for one more race across the meadow and one more story, accepted the tiny hand that groped across the bed for his own on cold nights when their breath hung above them like fog.

A year before his tenth birthday, Lilia began taking the boy with him on his evening walks. As they padded through the darkness of the hushed forest, Lilia would teach him the names of all the wildflowers and the trees, of the prying creatures observing them from the black shadows, of every star and moon and planet that peered down at their upturned faces. One night, emboldened by his newfound knowledge, the child thrust a single, bony finger into the air and betrayed where the North Star had concealed itself in an ocean of shimmering lights. Lilia looked up. But his gaze did not follow the line of the boy’s indication, beyond to the heavenly body shining above. No, his eyes rested on that tiny, outstretched hand. In that moment, Lilia finally understood that he loved the child.

The realization that he had surrendered his heart to his oppressor, to his enemy – to the hand that’d been gripped around his throat for the past ten years and had torn his beating heart right out of his chest – paralyzed him. (Oh, but what is a decade of pure torment to eyes of liquid moonlight! What is a man – shriveled up and broken, stupefied by his hatred and rendered ignorant by his grief – in the face of pure love!)

He tried, in vain, to suppress his burgeoning feelings with the heavy mass of his anger, but his love would burst open the fortifications of his heart time and time again, threatening to drown him in its raging waters. He fought back against it the same way he had been the past decade - with his ignorance. But as the child’s tenth birthday rapidly approached, he found that for the first time, he no longer took solace in counting down the days.

Lilia awoke the child shortly after midnight. He tugged on the boy’s arms until he finally sat up, grumbling as he rubbed at his tired eyes, only dimly aware of the world around him. Lilia sighed. He dressed the boy impatiently, his fingers trembling as he fussed with the lacing on the small tunic. While he worked, his eyes darted between his sword hanging on a nearby wall and the child sitting slumped over in front of him. He decided against taking it.

He led the child outside into the balmy spring air. The heat prickled at his skin. He inhaled deeply, forcing out the tension gripping his body as he exhaled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl let out a plaintive call, and a nightingale began its serenade in reply. The moon was a shining pearl overhead. Lilia could not bring himself to look at her face, didn’t dare defile her perfect visage with his great shame. He turned and stepped down the dirt path leading away from their home, and the boy followed.

The forest watched disdainfully as the man and the young child walked deeper and deeper into its bowels. Once, the boy asked where they were going, but Lilia did not answer. He felt too shy to speak again, and they spent the rest of the journey weighed down by a pregnant silence.

When they came to a glade, Lilia finally stopped. He turned around slowly, like a cornered beast reluctant to face its hunter.

The boy’s eyes – the enemy’s eyes – reflected the moonlight. The evil shone dimly in their argent depths.

Lilia lunged at him like a panther.

“Fath-!”

They slammed into the ground with the force of a hurricane. The boy cried out as his back struck the earth, pain shooting up his body like shards of ice. He lay there stunned. He could not understand what had just hit him. It had looked like a black storm, impenetrable and overwhelming. His mind blankly refused to reveal its identity to him. But he knew it could not have been his father that struck him, and he knew it could not be his father now pressing those cold hands around his throat and staring down at him with eyes the color of blood.

Not once in his life had the boy ever known fear. He had always ignored it, looked past it, content with the knowledge that his father would always be there to protect him from its ploys. Anything that scared him, anything that invited unease into his stomach or agitation into his heart, was dispelled in the comfort of the man’s steady presence. But now his father was the thing itself. An animal panic gripped his body, his eyes blew wide open like a spooked horse.

They wrestled. He tried wrenching the arms away from his throat, but the bony limbs felt like rods of iron under his hands. He clawed and pounded at the man’s chest, his mind racing as tried to remember every movement, every self-defense technique his father had ever taught him. When the whirlpool of his thoughts stilled for a split second, he ripped from its calm waters the lone memory he’d been desperately searching for. The boy hooked one hand over his father’s wrist and gripped the other one higher up his arm, around his elbow. He kicked a leg free and swung his foot over his father’s ankle. The hands tightened around his throat. The world blackened before him; his lungs begged for oxygen. Using the last bit of his strength, he bucked his hips and rolled over, bringing Lilia underneath him. The hands at last released their grip; he was free.

He shot away from his father like a bullet. He scrambled to his feet and feverishly gulped in the warm spring air until his lungs burned. He took a trembling step forward, trying to flee, but Lilia was upon him in an instant. The man wrapped his arms around the heaving chest and threw the child back to the ground, crashing into him as they fell. The boy writhed frantically in the cage of his father’s arms, almost slipping free, but Lilia shoved him flat on his back with a snarl. He crawled atop the boy, straddling him once more.

The child fought back feebly. His hands pawed against Lilia’s arms, his face, anything solid his trembling fingers could grab onto. Lilia swatted away the flailing limbs, trapping the boy’s arms in one hand and seizing his throat with the other. The child’s screams contorted into a panicked screech as white stars exploded before his eyes. He kicked up his legs and thrust his knees into Lilia’s back, but the man was immovable, his arms and legs pinning him down as heavy as pythons.

Lilia’s hand tightened around the thin neck; the child’s heartbeat pounded against his palm like a thunderstorm. The boy’s flesh melted underneath his fingertips as soft as dough. He squeezed until the eyes began to burst from their sockets, until blood seeped into their auroral haze and foam spilled from his half-parted lips.

The seconds passed by in an eternity. At last, the child’s body stilled, his gasps terminating with a final, strangled sob. Lilia released the neck slowly, marveling at the purple-black splotches blooming across the skin, the imprint of his hand stark against the ivory flesh. He closed his eyes and panted, exhausted.

He sat there, waiting. For a decade he had envisioned this moment, had clung to it like a promise of salvation, had dreamed of the pure relief that would wash over his body and befree him from the prison of his immovable grief. He waited, but it did not come. The enemy was gone, yes. But with it fled the black shadow of Lilia’s anger that had obscured the child from him all his life. He looked down. His eyes flew open in shock. For the first time in a decade, the first time since he peered down into that cradle all those years ago, he finally saw the boy. He finally saw Silver.

“Silver!” he gasped, recoiling, as though the name burned him. He threw himself off the body and crawled away from it on his hands and knees. He pulled himself up against a tree and doubled over as he began to vomit. It felt like this was the pure poison of his rage leaving him - like a decade of repressed anger was erupting from his body all at once, pouring out of his throat and his nose in a scalding torrent of acrid bile, burning his eyes, his lips, his tongue. He stood there heaving until his knees gave way, collapsing into the ground with a mutilated groan. As he rubbed his raw throat, he suddenly remembered the boy.

He whipped his head around in a panic and found Silver lying motionless where he’d left him. Lilia staggered over to him. The few meters between them seemed to stretch on for miles, and he tripped and stumbled as he clawed his way across that great divide, falling to his knees once he finally reached him. He cradled the limp body in his trembling arms. He kissed the boy’s eyes, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips slipping weakly across the wet mess of tears and blood. He pressed his face into the silken hair, filthy with dirt and grime from the forest floor, breathed in his soft lavender scent, drowned in the milky white flesh, ice cold against his own feverous skin. He nuzzled his face into the crook of the boy’s neck, choking back a sob as he felt a faint pulse throbbing weakly under him.

Silver’s mind reentered the world conscious only of the sharp pain in his throat and his father’s white face hovering above him. He stared at his father, and for the first time in his short life, the man did not look away. The eyes that had long haunted Lilia, had aggrieved him and insulted him, finally revealed to him their beauty. They were bloodshot and swollen, the skin underneath enflamed with irritation, but they were more resplendent to him than any gemstone.

Silver swallowed weakly and opened his mouth to talk, but Lilia shushed him with a shake of his head. As he gazed at the boy, a faint memory flashed before his eyes – he remembered the heavy head pressed into his chest, the limp neck resting in his hand, the wet mouth opened in a gasp, the shining eyes boring into him silently. Lilia shivered violently. Yes, it was just like that night, all those years ago. The days-old babe he’d stolen from that cradle was in his arms once more, born anew before him.

As he embraced the child, he decided that he would try to do better, to be better. He would try, falteringly, with the desperation of a marked man begging for a pardon, to rectify the decade of his ignorance.

He would try until it no longer hurt him to speak his son’s name.

#lilia vanrouge #twst silver #twst #twisted wonderland #twst spoilers #sorry if this is cringE im not using to writing evil stuff dfkgjdfg #when i said i been brainrotting about ch 4 this is what i meant #also tried writing in past tense for this which i dont like to do cause its gross but i did it #obligatory no i do not condone or aim to glorify any of this

128 notes · View notes

is-the-snake-video-cute · 1 year

Note

I feel like this has been answered, but I can't find it so:

You've mentioned terms like colubrid, viper, elapid - are these, like, types? Genuses? What distinguishes them?

Those are the major snake families! There are pretty major differences between all of them. The big five snake families are colubrids, vipers, elapids, boas, and pythons. Not every snake is in those families, but understanding them goes a long way!

Colubrids are the biggest snake family, and they're what you think of when you think of generic snakes. They're usually non-venomous, and those that are venomous are rear-fanged and tend to have weak venom. They tend to have slender body plans and round pupils, but they're a diverse group and there are exceptions to every rule. Kingsnakes, ratsnakes, watersnakes, grass snakes, gartersnakes - they're all colubrids!

Boas are a family of primitive constrictors, closely related to pythons. They're all non-venomous, nocturnal constrictors. They don't all have heat pits, but when they do, they're set in between the scales on the lips. They have vestigial pelvic girdles. Boa constrictors, rainbow boas, tree boas - all of these are members of the boa family!

Pythons are primitive, non-venomous constrictors, distinguished from boas by a few extra teeth and an extra bone in their jaws. They all have heat pits (except woma and black-headed pythons!), and their heat pits are set into the scales on their lips. Ball pythons, retics, Burmese pythons, rock pythons, and all non-venomous snakes in Australia are part of the python family!

Vipers are a family of venomous snakes. They have large venom glands, hinged fangs, and tend to have stocky body plans. They tend to be nocturnal and have very few teeth. They tend to have hemotoxic venom - their venom is generally much less quickly lethal than elapid venom. Many (but not all) have a single set of heat pits in their cheeks. Rattlesnakes, European adders, and all pit vipers are vipers!

Elapids are a family of venomous snakes with primarily neurotoxic venom. Their bites tend to be more quickly lethal than viper bites. They have body plans very similar to colubrids, and have round pupils. Many have hoods. Cobras, mambas, coral snakes, and all Australian venomous snakes are elapids!

#not a rating #snake families #snake biology

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myers-meadow · 2 months

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Dance of Fate: Gaunter O'Dimm x reader

Title: Dance of fate

Pairing: Gaunter O'Dimm x reader

Summary: On Valentine's Day, you receive a mysterious message from Gaunter, who invites you to spend the evening together. A date, he promises. Yet, there's quite a bit he didn't promise you. What motivations could a man like him have for taking such interest in a mortal?

Warnings: none.

Wordcount: 744

For @gauntermetaverse, who inspired this after the very, very kind gift that still haunts my dreams <3.

divider by saradika-graphics.

His words echo in your head. Even when the meaning of them seems straightforward, you know you have to take them apart and not take anything at face value. Who knows what adder is hiding in the grass when it comes to him. And this was... special. An invitation for a date, on Valentine's Day. Despite the nervousness in the pit of your stomach, how could you ever refuse?

The evening came. Questions about what tonight could have in store for you make way for a new reality as you blink and find yourself somewhere you don't know. Magically transported to another place, or perhaps to another plane of existence altogether. Your feet rest on grass, wind caresses your cheeks and pulls at your hair. To your right, there is a cliff of stone, and underneath it; a coast. The sea turns orange and red as the sun sinks below the horizon. In the distance you see other cliffs, white, regal and still, as if haphazardly carved from marble. A few seagulls screech in the air above. You can't place where you are, but somehow it feels like something from your childhood, hauntingly familiar. Would this be where you'd finally meet the man who has quietly dwelled in your heart for so long?

"How nice of you to join me." He speaks gently, but still it makes you startle. Looking inland, you see him, hands clasped, standing a few metres away. Beside him, lays a checkered blanket. He's prepared an actual date, you think with surprise. Somehow you didn't think he'd follow those mortal conventions, of having a picnic date.

"Thank you for the invitation," you counter, stepping closer to him.

"Shall we?" he gestures to the blanket and sits down, legs crossed. Somewhere behind him is a basket (did he just conjure it up?), he reaches in and retrieves a bottle of wine and two glasses. You sink down next to him. The blanket is rough as you lean on your palms. The sensation grounds you. Is this place real? You pluck a few blades of grass and examine them closer. They seem real enough. Fall apart between your fingers as you tear off piece by piece, before discarding it and turning your intention back to the man in front of you.

"Where is this place?"

"Somewhere I thought you'd like. I said it'd be somewhere quiet, did I not?"

"I imagined your realm to be more... hm, sinister?"

Gaunter laughs. He sets the glasses down, it's a little wobbly on the blanket, so you reach out to hold them steady. He uncorks the bottle with a satisfying pop. Wine pours in the glasses, a deep red. Each taking one of the glasses, they clink together in a silent toast, and you take a sip. The sourness quickly makes way for a deep velvet aftertaste. A moment passes. The atmosphere is calm, yet you get the sense Gaunter, who took you here, has barely hidden intentions hidden beneath the amicable surface. You shift to a more comfortable position and look out over the sea.

"I was rather surprised by your message. What made you think to invite me? Especially on a day like Valentine's?"

"It seemed only fitting to have a proper moment, just the two of us. Don't you agree?" He takes a moment. A glimmer in his eye makes you pause. "After all, it was you who took such a liking to me, in a way."

You hum, your fingers again reaching to pluck at the grass.

He easily picks up on your discomfort. "Nothing to be embarrassed about! I'm flattered."

"Of course you are," you huff, yet you can't suppress a grin.

He takes another sip of wine, swirling it around in his glass as he regards you. His gaze pierces soul-deep. "My invitation has more than one reason, frankly. First; I just wanted to meet you, in person. To offer you a glint of the very real powers I possess, of the possibilities I could turn into reality. And second; I'd like to tempt you."

You cock your head to the side, to tell him to keep going.

He sets down his glass, fingers walking their way over to your knee, tapping it lightly. "Who would I be not to try and make a deal with someone as delightful as you? What do you say? Any life-long wishes I could make true for you? Surely you've considered it before."

#gaunter o'dimm #gaunter o'dimm x reader #gaunter o'dimm x you #gaunter odimm #the witcher 3 fanfiction #the witcher 3 wild hunt #gaunter odimm x reader #gaunter odimm x you #the witcher 3 #witcher 3 #tw3 #meadow's writing #writing hasnt come easy the past months... it feels like my writing style is changing. very interesting!#there are a few other little pieces I've started for O'Dimm and I hope to finish those sometime soon too!#but sadly i cant promise anything; for writing is a fickle beast and we are not always good friends ;;

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automotivealchemy · 14 days

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Dodge Adder Sport Coupe Concept

What if... Dodge made a Miata fighter for it's "snake pit" line of sports cars and supercars. To not take away from the muscle car line, this would be a fun affordable line of cars aside from the supercars of course. Starting with the Adder as the two door coupe with an inline turbo 4 cylinder motor, with an automatic as well as optional manual transmissions. Being a rear wheel drive platform, it would be fun to drive and have some impeccable handling. It would theoretically be offered as a convertible as well as hard top.

#autos #cars #automotive #classic car #coupe #sports cars #dodge concept #dodge #american muscle car #muscle car #hemi #classic cars

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organchordsandlightning · 1 year

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Speckled Band Part 3

"Can I be of assistance?" "Your presence might be invaluable." "Then I shall certainly come." "It is very kind of you."

extremely soft over this dialogue. watson is his partner, and holmes is still like ‘look, you can wait in the hotel if you want’

"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession.

as someone with a hobby knowledge of the history of toxicology, it really is fascinating to see this as written in 1892. at this point, we have an okay-ish knowledge of what household things are poisonous (at the very least, the UK at this time was much better about banning stuff like arsenic in candy than the US) but we’re still about ... like, thirty-forty years out from being able to reliably identify non-plant-based poisons (like arsenic, etc etc) in the human body after death. a lot of poisonings got away with it because, frankly, a lot of people were getting accidentally poisoned all the time anyway, and if you couldn’t identify arsenic or what-have-you in a corpse ... no case!

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vise upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.

"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

“It is a nice household” mixed with watson’s “MY GOD!? A CHILD!?” is so funny

I do love that Watson is writing these stories down for publication, but he’s freely admitting to burglary here

How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

god I’m remembering how well-done this scene is in Granada, and you can really feel the tension here

I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing.

oh holmes is SCARED scared “you won’t inject my body with an undetectable non-plant-based poison you son of a bitch”

"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another.

such a good reveal

Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience."

(a) snakish lmao (b) this brings up an interesting legal question of whether holmes is guilty of murder. while I don’t think this falls under the legal definition of murder (no pre-intent) or manslaughter (frankly, it’s more self-defense than anything - you see a snake hissing at you, you gotta hit that bad boy with a cane, that it went back to its master and bit him is none of your business as far as you’re concerned) however, i did look up to see that the felony murder rule was still in place in the UK at that time (called constructive malice) -- essentially saying that the courts could attribute malice aforethought (’i’m gonna go kill that guy) to you if a death was caused during the commission of another felony (say .... burglary) EDITED WITH FURTHER LEGAL THOUGHTS -- HELEN INVITED THEM INSIDE THE HOUSE, I DON’T THINK IT COUNTS AS BURGLARY ANYMORE, SHERLOCK HOLMES IS MURDER-FREE

#letters from watson #god I'm digging up my forensics and criminology degrees today

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rhosmeinir · 7 months

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Fictober 2023 #15

Prompt #15 - "Fine, explain it to me."

Fanfiction: Good Omens

Rating: T

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, self harm

Pairing: Ineffable Husbands/Aziracrow

Other Notes: In which Crowley has had enough. 1202 words. Written with gratitude to this tweet for inspiration!

A storm was gathering over Dartmoor. Anyone with any sense was indoors, and the moor-dwellers were generally among that type; they knew too well the dangers of being caught out in bad weather, when even the most wizened among them could become lost and wrong-footed in haze or fog and end up in a bog featherbed, never to wake again. Even the ponies had sought shelter, sensing something unnatural about this particular storm.

Only Crowley stalked the blasted heath, the wind that whipped the heather raking its vicious fingers through his hair. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, clothing tattered and torn by both weather and disregard. He’d retreated to the moor some time ago from London —he no longer knew how long, what was the point of time, anyway?— when the city and its people and its untidy Whickber street bookshop had become unbearable. Crowley had thought it might be a good place to hide, to think, to gather himself, to figure out how to go on. He had been correct about all but the last.

Dartmoor’s isolation had given Crowley plenty of space and quiet to examine his thoughts, his feelings, his life. The moor was beautiful, he thought even now, as the wind lashed the first stinging drops against his face: it kept not secrets, told no lies, and offered its bounty without pretention. Heather, gorse, scrub trees, and even the ancient oaks of Wistman’s Wood simply were: they required no acknowledgement, and did not care if outsiders could not see their beauty. Lichen and moor grass endured in defiance of and in partnership with the weather, and the adders that curled up in the refuge of tors knew only peace and safe haven.

It was beautiful, but to him, Crowley had finally concluded, there was no point. No point to his thoughts, his feelings, his life. Could you even call it a life, at this point? There was nothing left to do, no orders to carry out. No wars left to fight: he was an exile from everywhere he might’ve ever considered fighting for. There was no one left to care about, or to care about him, if anyone ever had. Nothing left to create, nothing to destroy, but the one thing over which he had control.

Crowley halted next to the destination of his intent. Sunk into the ground was a ring of rough-cut stones, surrounding what looked at first like a pool of water. But it was more than that: an ancient well, its origins vanished in prehistory. More recently, it had been adopted by one of the moor’s early churches, and to this day, the local priest stopped by regularly to bless it. A deep, endless, pit of Holy Water. As Crowley stared down at the water, its surface rippling in the drizzle, he thought how fitting it was that it appeared so innocuous. A suitably banal end.

He looked up at the sky, and sighed. With a faint rustle, Crowley freed his wings, allowing their black-feathered mass to spread out behind him. It was always a relief, and he figured he might as well enjoy a last few unrestricted breaths. Long fingers reached up to curl around the thin silver scarf, and pulled it from his throat. Crowley dropped it to the ground beside the well. He didn’t expect that anyone would ever come looking for him, much less track him here, but if they did it would at least answer their questions. The demon folded his wings tightly against his back, and without hesitation, stepped into the well.

Crowley plunged into the water, exhaling forcibly as it closed over his head. To his astonishment, he was not instantly obliterated. Had time stopped? Was this a delayed reaction, due to making the choice himself? In the few split seconds it took for these questions to race through his brain, he realized both that he was not dying, and why. He may have been a demon who had jumped into a pit of Holy Water, but he had been forgiven.

The despair that had brought Crowley to this place turned to rage, and he kicked upwards with all his might. One tremendous gasp later, he clawed his way out of the well, dirt and moss forcing themselves beneath his nails as he grappled with the earth to regain his feet. In all his contemplation on the moor, he had avoided asking questions, throwing them out into the Universe, making his turmoil known. But as he lunged to his feet the demon could hold himself back no longer, and threw back his head and arms with a deranged laugh.

“Fine!” Crowley howled to the Heavens, “Fine, explain it to me, Angel! How am I supposed to live?”

But before he could await an answer, Crowley began to realize that the Holy Water was having another effect, if possible even more unexpected than the first. His wings, black and ragged since the Fall, were transforming. From the roots at his back they flushed first grey, then white along the skin beneath them, then up each quill, shaft, and barb, until each vane began to blush white. Crowley let out a wordless, strangled scream, whipping his wings about as though he might shake the color from them.

A nearby tor beckoned, and Crowley dashed to it. He beat his wings against its stones, mindless of the sickening cracks and pain that accompanied them, until by dint of shattered bones he could draw every bit of his wings to the front of his body. His fingers ripped through the snowy plumage, viciously plucking the feathers until his fingers were raw and bleeding. Until his fingers’ blood mixed with that of his wings, until the ground was thick with soiled plumes, until not a single feather was left on the ruined limbs that had once granted him flight. Until he was sobbing in rage and despair and pain the manic fear of being alive, trembling on the ground in the rain that had how become a soaking deluge.

Somewhere in Heaven, Aziraphale was weeping. When the Supreme Archangel wept, it was a Holy Rain, and it came down on Crowley like the Flood. It soaked him to the skin, and began to mend his hurts. The bones beneath the battered flesh of his wings slowly knitted together, causing his back to arch with both pain and the realization of what was happening.

“No!” Crowley screeched, one hand clawing at the sky as his body contorted with the healing. Then feathers began to sprout, carpeting his renewed wings with plumage thick and lush, white and shining, and in the rain they reflected a many-hued, nebulaic sheen. “AZIRAPHALE!” Crowley screamed. The weight of the wings against his weakened body nearly toppled him over backwards, and with a violent contortion, Crowley flung himself forward. Overbalancing, he landed on his forearms, skidding on the saturated ground.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated to the Earth, in a cracked voice his time, shoulders shaking as the new wings sheltered him from the angel’s tears. The demon’s tears were Holy now too, but did not burn as they rolled down his face.

#fictober23 #fictober #good omens #gomens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #fanfiction #fanfic #crowley-centric #angst

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sezja · 1 year

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Febuwhump Day 8: Panic Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet Triggers/Content warnings: n/a

"...And then I came here," Guydelot concludes, exhausted, hopelessness gnawing a hole in his guts.

He'd thought telling Jehantel everything - their mission, their journey into Gyr Abania, Nourval, their clash with the bandits, the journal, Sanson's struggle with deciding what to do with it... Sanson's abduction - would help him to put it all into perspective; make it all seem a little easier to process, mayhap. Instead, it just feels bigger and worse than before.

Gods, how'd he let Eve talk him into just leaving? He should've gone looking for Sanson; they couldn't have gone far...

"You've done all you can," Jehantel says, laying a gentle hand on Guydelot's shoulders. It's a sop, not nearly enough to wrench him out of his sinking despair. Sanson...

What must they be doing to him? They won't kill him; they need him as a hostage. Sanson's safety hinges on the Adders, on what they choose to do with whatever demands Nourval makes - they'll negotiate, surely. They've got to. Sanson's life depends on it. So they'll negotiate, come to some terms both sides can agree on-

But Nourval won't be satisfied unless the truth comes out, in all its ugly glory.

Sanson'll be furious, after all the time he'd spent wrestling with it, but he'll be alive, so long as the Adders do whatever Nourval asks...

Which they won't.

They can't. It'd spark a war; anyone can see that.

Guydelot buries his face in his hands, breathing hard. Sanson's life hangs precariously, preciously, in the balance - but what is he to the Order, anyway? A Captain demanding an experimental new unit; hadn't Sanson himself once said he was a thorn in their side? A pushy, needling soldier who couldn't take no for an answer. To say nothing of turning a blind eye to Guydelot's questionable methods, where other commanding officers would have seen him reprimanded at least. What's Sanson to them, but disposable?

He hears a sound, low and keening, like a wounded animal. It takes a moment for Guydelot to realize it's him.

What's Sanson to them, he thinks, feeling as though a black pit is opening beneath his feet. What's Sanson to any of them? He's my whole godsdamned world.

And when did that happen? When did Sanson Smyth become so much a part of him? They've known each other less than a year, and he hadn't even been aware of the hyur's existence before they'd met - he's lived twenty-two years without Sanson. He can't fathom how. Doesn't remember what his life was like this time a year ago. As far as his heart's concerned, his life began one day beneath the boughs of the East Shroud, when a furious midlander first turned that familiar glare on him-

And if he fails, if the Twin Adder won't play along with Nourval's demands, then...

Then as far as his heart's concerned, Guydelot's life will end.

"Guydelot!"

He blinks, surprised to hear Jehantel raise his voice. How long has he been ruminating? He shakes his head. His heart's racing, his vision swims.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jehantel leans back, still frowning at him in quiet concern. "You were breathing as though beasts from every hell were chasing you, lad," the old bard says, gently. Quietly. "And my words didn't seem to reach you."

"It's..." He takes a deep breath, but his voice still shakes. "It's Sanson..."

"Aye, I understand. You fear for him." Jehantel looks away, feeding the fire. "All will be well. 'Tis in the hands of the Order of the Twin Adder, for now."

"Aye," Guydelot repeats. "That's what I'm afraid of."

#guydelot thildonnet #sanson smyth #my writing #febuwhump #febuwhumpday8 #febuwhump2023 #wasn't sure i was gonna get this one done on time BUT I DID

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lesbianturrets · 1 month

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Whats your opinion on spider noir

I bet you don't like him at all /sillay

i want him in an adder pit

#i love him didyouknow im obsessed jwwjtnaanineedhim

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 11 months

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Restoration for Israel

1 But the Lord will have compassion on Jacob and will again choose Israel and will settle them in their own land, and aliens will join them and attach themselves to the house of Jacob. 2 And the nations will take them and bring them to their place, and the house of Israel will possess the nations as male and female slaves in the Lord’s land; they will take captive those who were their captors and rule over those who oppressed them.

Downfall of the King of Babylon

3 When the Lord has given you rest from your pain and turmoil and the hard service with which you were made to serve, 4 you will take up this taunt against the king of Babylon:

How the oppressor has ceased! How his insolence has ceased! 5 The Lord has broken the staff of the wicked, the scepter of rulers, 6 that struck down the peoples in wrath with unceasing blows, that ruled the nations in anger with unrelenting persecution. 7 The whole earth is at rest and quiet; they break forth into singing. 8 The cypresses exult over you, the cedars of Lebanon, saying, “Since you were laid low, no one comes to cut us down.” 9 Sheol beneath is stirred up to meet you when you come; it rouses the shades to greet you, all who were leaders of the earth; it raises from their thrones all who were kings of the nations. 10 All of them will speak and say to you: “You, too, have become as weak as we! You have become like us!” 11 Your pomp is brought down to Sheol, and the sound of your harps; maggots are the bed beneath you, and worms are your covering.

12 How you are fallen from heaven, O Morning Star, son of Dawn! How you are cut down to the ground, you who laid the nations low! 13 You said to yourself, “I will ascend to heaven; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit on the mount of assembly on the heights of Zaphon; 14 I will ascend to the tops of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.” 15 But you are brought down to Sheol, to the depths of the Pit. 16 Those who see you will stare at you and ponder over you: “Is this the man who made the earth tremble, who shook kingdoms, 17 who made the world like a desert and overthrew its cities, who would not let his prisoners go home?” 18 All the kings of the nations lie in glory, each in his own tomb, 19 but you are cast out, away from your grave, like loathsome carrion, clothed with the dead, those pierced by the sword, who go down to the stones of the Pit like a corpse trampled underfoot. 20 You will not be joined with them in burial because you have destroyed your land; you have killed your people.

May the descendants of evildoers nevermore be named! 21 Prepare a place of slaughter for his sons because of the guilt of their father. Let them never rise to possess the earth or cover the face of the world with cities.

22 I will rise up against them, says the Lord of hosts, and will cut off from Babylon name and remnant, offspring and posterity, says the Lord. 23 And I will make it a possession of the screech owl and pools of water, and I will sweep it with the broom of destruction, says the Lord of hosts.

An Oracle concerning Assyria

24 The Lord of hosts has sworn: As I have designed, so shall it be, and as I have planned, so shall it come to pass: 25 I will break the Assyrian in my land and on my mountains trample him under foot; his yoke shall be removed from them and his burden from their shoulders. 26 This is the plan that is planned concerning the whole earth, and this is the hand that is stretched out over all the nations. 27 For the Lord of hosts has planned, and who will annul it? His hand is stretched out, and who will turn it back?

An Oracle concerning Philistia

28 In the year that King Ahaz died this oracle came:

29 Do not rejoice, all you Philistines, that the rod that struck you is broken, for from the root of the snake will come forth an adder, and its fruit will be a flying fiery serpent. 30 In my pastures the poor will graze and the needy lie down in safety, but I will make your root die of famine, and your remnant I will kill. 31 Wail, O gate; cry, O city; melt in fear, O Philistia, all of you! For smoke comes out of the north, and there is no straggler in its ranks.

32 What will one answer the messengers of the nation? “The Lord has founded Zion, and the needy among his people will find refuge in her.” — Isaiah 14 | New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition (NRSVUE) New Revised Standard Version, Updated Edition. Copyright © 2021 National Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America. All rights reserved worldwide. Cross References: Exodus 15:12; Exodus 20:5; Numbers 21:8; 1 Kings 14:10; 2 Kings 16:20; 2 Chronicles 20:6; Ezra 9:8-9; Job 18:16; Job 18:19; Job 21:26; Psalm 29:5; Psalm 47:1; Psalm 125:3; Isaiah 3:14; Isaiah 3:26; Isaiah 5:14; Isaiah 5:25; Isaiah 9:4; Isaiah 10:12; Isaiah 10:14; Isaiah 45:13; Ezekiel 26:20; Ezekiel 32:27; Nahum 3:6; Matthew 11:23; Matthew 23:35; Luke 10:15; Luke 10:18; Luke 12:45; Acts 4:28; Ephesians 2:12; 2 Thessalonians 2:4; Hebrews 11:10; James 2:5

#Israel #restoration #king of Babylon #downfall #God's purpose #Assyria #Philistia #destruction #Isaiah 14 #Book of Isaiah #Old Testament #NRSVUE #New Revised Standard Version Bible Updated Edition #National Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America

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