#scute mob

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Scute Mob

"Survival rule 781: There are always more scute bugs." —Zurdi, goblin shortcutter

Artist: Zoltan Boros & Gabor Szikszai TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[art-of-mtg]

Scute Mob (Zendikar) - Zoltan Boros & Gabor Szikszai

[unnonexistence]

the problem with magic the gathering is i want to make a new deck

[morethanmemory]

Imagine being his right hand while he's still a mob boss and he helps you put on the skeleton paint <3

They'd probably get to choose the colors of the paint, too, as he'd want his right hand to be easily distinguishable from the rest of the goons

Pairing: Doctor Phosphorus/Reader

Warnings: None; Some suggestive touching heheh ;)

Notes: anon this is lowkey so cute !! i'm a lil obsessed so a short blurb about it for you >:3c dragon reader makes a comeback in this au!

---

"You're kidding, right? I'll look like a walking Halloween decoration," you deadpan, fiddling with the lid of the neon green face paint as a frown tugs at your lips.

He scoffs as he takes the jar of glow-in-the dark paint from your fingers and unscrews the top.

"You already look like a Renaissance fair prop, so what's the big deal?" he retorts, tittering as he gestures at the sturdy horns atop your head. Your eyes narrow as you fix him with an unamused glower, but undeterred, he strides forward. As he takes another step closer, Phosphorus dips his fingers into the paint jar before waggling them at your face. The luminescent paint glitters on his fingertips under the dim lights of his office, sizzling against his fiery skin as the sparkling rivulets roll down his palm. Another step and he's leaning over you, pressing you up against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk.

"C'mon," he urges gently. The simple plea rumbles in the back of his throat, deep and warm, and briefly, you're tempted to give in to his stupid, gaudy idea and let him paint you his. The soft purr of his voice makes your knees weak, and the sharp scent of radiation has your head spinning with its own stupid idea. The thought's crossed your mind more than once. Fleeting moments of curiosity when you've wondered what it'd be like to taste him. You could do it now if you wanted to. It'd be easy. Get on the tips of your toes, close the little space left between the two of you. But it's a bad idea—Phosphorus and you. He's as brash as he is flashy; you're hotheaded and stubborn to a fault. You'd both be playing with fire, and when neither of you can burn beneath the flames, you'll be stuck in hell forever.

In a poor attempt to bury the nagging desire to yank him down by his tie and kiss him stupid, you bat his hand away, but he's faster. With a swift swipe of his thumb, Phosphorus smudges the tip of your nose with a dab of paint, snickering as you scrunch up your face.

For a split second, he feels whatever is left of his heart stutter in his chest as you splutter and scowl. The twitch of your nose, the pinch of your brow, the pout of your lips, the shimmer of your scales—you're surprisingly adorable for a beast with hellfire in your veins. Despite himself, Phosphorus reaches up to brush his knuckles along your cheek, smearing green paint along the sharp scutes. In the silence of his office, with you silhouetted by Gotham's skyline and the stars above as his only witness, Phosphorus lets himself pretend—even if just for a moment—that this is something else, something more.

But your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging his hand away, and he's dragged back into the world of endless, empty parties and drugs that never really numb the pain. Shallow and vapid is the life he leads now, but, at least, there's you at the end of every day.

And that means more to him than he'd like to admit.

His hand drops to his side, and Phosphorus chuckles quietly, praying his nerves don't bleed into his words. "What, not a fan of the brand?"

You shrug as your hands slide up to his chest with the crumbling intent to push him away. Your touch lingers a little longer than it should just to feel the warmth of his radiation seep into your palms through the fine wools of his dark suit.

"Sorry, boss," you apologize, half-hearted at most. Gently, you pat his chest. "Neon green's not really my color."

You haven't pulled away; he hasn't stepped back.

"Then," he begins coyly, grinning even if (or, perhaps, because) you can't see it, "what is?"

You don't expect him to take your answer seriously, to take you seriously—not for something as frivolous as this anyway. Sure, as his right hand, there are matters he takes your word for in a heartbeat. Phosphorus doesn't forget the faces of the rats you've sniffed out in his ranks. Still, you didn't think he'd ever actually remember your favorite color.

But, the next night, there it is, just sitting in his hand—a small jar of phosphorescent paint in the shade you love most.

"Do I have to?" you whine, arms crossed as you slouch against the back of the leather couch. The frown tugging your lips downward belies the fluttering butterflies in your stomach. He remembered your favorite color. The logical part of your mind (the part that's hopelessly in denial) says it means nothing, but your heart knows otherwise—and it's screaming in protest.

He reaches toward you, and you turn your head, sticking up your nose. You don't trust yourself to look at him when the lines between the two of you start blurring. It happens more often than not these days.

"Uh, yeah," he smirks, shuffling closer. "I didn't break into an arts and crafts store for no reason."

The cushions sag under the sudden shift of his weight, and you can feel his soft breaths tickle the back of your neck, making your scales rustle. You laugh under your breath, eyes trained on the intricate wooden molding trimming the ceiling of his office, and you try desperately to snuff out the simmering warmth in the pit of your belly.

"Oh, so that was you?" You spare him a quick glance over your shoulder. "The Carol's Crafts arson on the Upper East Side?"

"Actually, it was Gary."

You can't stop the bright laughter that bubbles up past your lips. Trust Gary, of all of Phosphorus's dim-witted lackeys, to be the one to set a store ablaze all for a few cans of glow-in-the-dark paint.

"Well, then, send him my thanks," you tell Phosphorus as a small smile curls your lips. You're turning back to face him before you can stop yourself, and you don't say a word when he moves close enough for your knees to touch.

"I'll make sure to get him a gift basket."

Phosphorus inches nearer, his thigh pressing against yours, and he holds up the jar between the two of you.

"Now, I don't know about you," he drawls, low and larky, "but—me, personally—I wouldn't want all of Gary's hard work to be in vain."

With a roll of your eyes, you reluctantly take the paint from his hand and unscrew the cap.

"Just so you know," you scoff, smiling despite the hint of annoyance lacing your words, "I'm only doing this for Gary."

A whispery laugh leaves him as he dips his fingers into the paint.

"Whatever you say."

The embers of something you'd long forgotten smolder to life in your chest, and you don't even realize you're holding your breath until it escapes you in a sharp gasp as cold paint and warm fingertips touch your cheek.

He chuckles, leaning in and crowding you against the couch. "Relax."

Phosphorus is walking death, but when he cups your jaw in his hand and strokes your silver scales with his thumb, you think you'd welcome the end with open arms. Your eyes flutter shut. You don't see how his hand trembles.

He's never told you this—and he probably never will—but every single time he touches you just a little too long, he's terrified. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of his office echoes through the room in a taunting, torturous melody as his fingers slowly glide over the planes of your face. Tick. The radiation should have seared your skin. Tock. By now, it should have ripped through your flesh. The clock strikes the quarter-hour with crystalline chimes; every single cell in your body should have been incinerated. He waits for the horrified shrieks of unimaginable pain each time. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. They never come.

Instead, your soft sighs and quiet giggles tinkle through the air as you squirm away from his ticklish touch.

"Stay still," he grunts, dragging his finger down the bridge of your nose.

But you can't stop laughing, shoulders shaking, as the contrasting sensations of cool paint and scorching skin make your scales tingle. "This paint smells like shit."

The pad of his index finger swirls over the button of your nose, and he bites back a smile when you wrinkle it. If he squints just right, Phosphorus thinks he can see something real through all the cheap thrills of this hollow life, and it's there in the twinkle of your eyes.

ACHOO!

Dragon fire skitters down his hand when you sneeze, and he flinches away, streaking the colorful paint across your face and up one scaly ear.

"Seriously?!" he cries shrilly, but there's no real bite to his words. "Did you just sneeze all over me?"

"S-Sorry, sorry!" you stammer between wheezing laughs, handing him a tissue. "I c-couldn't help it!"

You can't make out much of his indignant muttering as he wipes his hand clean before flinging the soiled tissue into the waste bin behind him, but you're certain he's not singing your praises. You're about to apologize again, but the words die on the tip of your tongue when his fingers gently grab your jaw, tilting your head back until your eyes meet his hollow sockets.

You wait for his usual scathing sarcasm, but he stays silent. Without a word, Phosphorus takes another tissue from the box and gently dabs at the paint in your hair. His tender affection is unexpected, unfamiliar, and yet, you lean into his touch anyway. "I can do this myself, y'know," you murmur in poor protest. It's not very convincing when you do nothing to stop him.

"I know." He brushes away the flecks of paint that litter the shell of your ear. "But..."

Whatever he's about to say catches in his throat.

You peer up at him through your lashes. "But?"

You can't see it, but you swear he's smiling. Really smiling.

"Nothing," he mutters. "Just don't want you fucking up my handiwork again."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you apologize dramatically. "I had no idea Picasso had blessed me with his presence."

He groans, cringing. "Don't compare me to him."

"Why not? You hate Cubism or something?"

"The whack job was an asshole," Phosphorus bristles. For a moment, you think you catch a glimpse of the old him. Alexander Sartorius isn't a man you know very well, but he's always there just beneath the radiation. Sometimes, he breaks through the deadly flames, humming along to Bach or quoting Dante's Inferno (usually at your expense). You tuck away the tidbit that Alexander hates Picasso in the back of your mind.

"And you're not?" you shoot back with an impish smirk. He pinches your cheek.

"You are aware that I can always fire you, right?" he threatens lightly, wiping up the last stray splotches of paint from your temple.

"Doesn't mean you will," you reply with a simple shrug—stubborn and smug as always. He shouldn't like it as much as he does. Phosphorus brushes off your little, uppity remark with a click of his tongue before reaching for the paint once more.

This time, Phosphorus works with precision. Yet, despite his newfound determination, his touches remain oddly tender. He evens out the curves of the skeletal face, superimposed on your own, with the smallest scratch of his fingertips around the apples of your cheeks. His digits slide gently down your jaw to fill in the missing pieces of the mandible. He traces the Cupid's bow of your lips with his thumb in a stroke so slow that a shiver runs down your spine. He prays you can't hear the thundering of his old heart.

Phosphorus mumbles a flimsy excuse that you—too lost in the feeling of his free hand running down the arch of your back—don't really hear. You're too far away. You're moving too much. He needs you to come closer.

You let him pull you into his lap, fighting down a soft sigh. He lets your thighs straddle his hips, biting back a quiet moan. So, this is what it's like to hold a fallen star.

He drags his paint-tipped fingers down and over your lips. The finishing touch.

And yet.

He tucks a finger under your chin.

Your name falls from his lips in a wisp of a breath, and you know, without a doubt, that the battle your mind wages against your heart is a losing one with every tick of the grandfather clock.

His lips brush against yours in a ghost of a touch.

The heavy wooden doors to his office slam open, followed by a cacophony of hollering cronies, and your quiet world of stolen touches and words unspoken shatters like glass. A sea of bright green skeletal faces flood into the room just as the two of you jump apart. Their words all blend together as you try to orient yourself, but as the haze in your head clears, you manage to make out enough. Ice Lounge. A big party, an important party. Phosphorus is late.

So, you let them usher both of you out and into the elevator. Phosphorus berates the idiots for not knocking. Gary compliments you on the hue of the skull painted over your scales (you thank him for the arson).

The few centimeters between Phosphorus and you might as well be a chasm. Still, your eyes meet across the distance. Neon green, you think, is growing on you.

[glorioustragedykid]

Crab - Found on the Mangrove biome, drops a giant claw that can be used to place blocks far away.

Armadillo - Found on the Savannah biome, drops a scute that can be used to craft wolf armor.

Penguin - Found on the Stony Shores biome, helps your boat travel faster.

[es46]

Prompted by associates, a quick sketch of a monster based on this image,

Called Xosucha, this fanged wyvern is an amphibious creature typically found in desert waterways such as oases, as well as estuaries and marshland. It is a herbivore well-adapted to feeding on both terrestrial and aquatic plants, scooping up mouthfuls of vegetation and relying on a specialised gut to digest them. Comparable to the likes of Barroth or Daimyo Hermitaur, it is usually well protected enough by its armoured scutes. But just in case, it nurtures a coating of moss on its back for camouflage, allowing it to lay low in the water to avoid the likes of Plesioth or Rakna-Kadaki. Should Xosucha be exposed, it reveals its secret weapon; secretions of a noxious fluid spew from around its eyes and the scutes on its back, inducing a Stench effect. This is where the neopterans come in. Named Leyims, they are nymphs who are attracted to unique odours. The secretions of Xosucha attract them in numbers, and they feed upon its moss-laden back, as well as drinking excess salt from the fanged wyvern's tear glands. In exchange for reliable food and shelter, the Leyims will rush to Xosucha's defence if its attacked, mobbing aggressors and spreading a strange powder from their wings that seems to induce the Confusion effect.

[kozykricket]

so in minecrafts latest youtube video, they basically. confirmed my suspicions of how content thats being worked on is only really added if it can be strategically efficiently bundled with other stuff by that i mean, they said they saw a team member working on a little wolf variants project, and thought it worked really nice to fit together with wolf armor as the 1.20.5 team was working on primarily refining armadillos and wolf armor. so ... if armadillos hadn't won, they 1) wouldnt have an excuse to add wolf armor (even though realistically it could be just, made of typical materials or of turtle scutes) 2) wouldnt have had a convenient reason to spend time on implementing wolf variants into the actual game (i would assume its quite the Thing to get something out of being a personal project and into "yeah okay that'll be in The Best Selling Game for years to come, no turning back" its kinda... im conflicted on how i feel about that

i dunno, its just how things are. which also reminds me of a xilefian (dev) quote about how like (paraphrased but) "If you think you're losing out on tons of content by just seeing a mob lose in a vote, you wouldn't last a day actually being AT mojang" (implying that theres constantly just. echoes of little projects and ideas constantly going on and being worked on) so, again, the conclusion is that mojang is certainly not lazy, but simply corporate and corporate means strategic means safe means careful means- you get the point

[bucketofminnow]

mob vote on oct. 13th

the crab will bring crab claws, which allow players to "place blocks further away" and spawns in mangrove swamps

the armadillo, which drops scutes that can be used to craft armor for wolves, and spawns in savannahs

the penguin, which will help boats move faster (somehow?) and spawns in stony shore biomes

[favoritemtgcard]

Scute Mob!! Scuuuuuuuuuuute!!

Scute Mob

[spiribia]

minecraft armadillo that drops scute that lets you craft armor for your wolf. if you dont win the mob vote its all over for me.

[scraemoo]

propaganda is absolutely allowed here

[bellshazes]

there are very few things in minecraft that are truly dependent on time alone; i don't even mean the unit-rate of AFK farms, but things that are exclusively governed by the passage of in-game time, like sugarcane, nether wart, amethyst, etc. the most obvious of these is mob breeding, and the aging up of some but not all mobs. you can increase your cows by 50% each time you breed every five minutes, no less, ditto other mobs. sure, that counter only increments when the mob is in a loaded chunk, but that's almost always trivial.

turtles are doubly governed by time, seeing as they are constrained to 5-minute breeding intervals like all other breedable mobs AND their eggs hatch according to the immovable stubborn slow grind of random ticks. eggs, however, only have a chance of cracking each in-game day they are loaded, and need to crack multiple times to hatch.

Turtle eggs have a chance of cracking during random ticks. Throughout the vast majority of the day, random ticks have a 1/500 chance of causing the egg to crack. There's a small window in the very early morning hours where random ticks have a 100% chance of cracking eggs. This window is defined as the time between celestial angles 0.65 and 0.69, or 03:36 am and 04:33 am on a 24-hour clock. This window lasts 48 seconds in-game. - MC Turtle Mechanics on GitHub

if you are not loading the chunk during this 48-second window during nighttime, you may not get a guaranteed tick. if you skip the night, you will never get a guaranteed tick. other than refusing to sleep (at least until after 04:33 AM) you can not speed up turtles, only slow them down by sleeping and not being close by.

turtle breeding would be deeply, deeply frustrating and despair-inducing if it mattered at all, whatsoever. functionally, if you're farming eggs for various other farms, you only have to suffer gathering enough grown turtles to breed and harvesting those eggs immediately. if you're farming scutes for turtle master potions or scutes, you can do the same as farming eggs but put a hopper minecart under the sand to catch the scutes when the eggs hatch and the turtles grow up, and you're unlikely to need either turtle helmets or turtle master potions in bulk. either way, just set up your area where you spend a lot of time and let it run in the background after actively breeding them.

turtle egg hatching only becomes optimal when you are doing things that are not turtle egg hatching. the question becomes not how to optimize the farm, but what does maximum optimization look like for farms that cannot be traditionally optimized because they're gated by time? you're unlikely to even encounter waste-as-limiter, such as in some high efficiency, low redstone farms that substitute player inventory for hoppers. you have to understand the farm as a piece of a larger passive system composed of all the other separate things you intend to do, and your own rhythms and goals as a player.

[mystilotls]

Accept the propaganda

TEAM ARMADILLO

Reasons why

Armadillos will be a unique mob to the savanna and add personality to the neglected biome

While llamas are in savannas, they can be obtained anywhere via wandering traders, armadillos would be the savanna's own mob

They're a cutie pie

For those worried, you don't kill them for their scutes (unfortunately, Armadillos have a problem with being killed for their armor )

Spreads awareness for above

Please, I already named him Ranger, and we have matching hats

Oh, and dog armor

[amazing-gates-96]

The voting takes place on October 13th for anyone who doesn't know.

[cornknob]

tell me about y’all’s mob vote opinions.

i still haven’t decided:

crab: drops a claw that allows you to place block (and maybe hit?) further. also he can walk on sand walls!

armadillo: drops scutes, like turtles, and can be used to make dog armor!

penguin: like a dolphin, but makes boats faster instead of swimming. (maybe make ice boating EVEN faster?)

lemme know what you think and why

[finnhc]

The next Minecraft mob vote option has been revealed: The Armadillo!!

This creature will spawn in dry/hot biomes! And will drop scutes that you can use to make dog armor!

Yet another really cute mob that adds something quite useful! Now, having dogs helping you fight could be safer and prevent more casualties!

And possibly like regular armor, maybe we'll be able to apply armor trims to the dog armor to create special designs! Could be neat to make builds themed around custom cultures and what not!