#triangular alien

[whattriangle]

Triangular alien.in.person meee

[smile-files]

erm. what is this thing☝️

[garblegarden]

I imagine palindromes having diatom art framed on their walls and stuff

they would LOVE diatoms! especially the triangular ones

[sergioguymanproust]

More common than you think. In desert towns ,lonely freeways, abandoned roads and ghost towns. We like to speak of waves of sightings,but the truth is that they have never stopped visiting us,never! Oregon , Washington, California, Nevada ,the reason has been a simple one ,folks that’s where our military bases with intercontinental ballistic weapons are located. They might have closed some but the roads and highways are not places to hitchhike. Well, the only kind of people walking along those lonesome roads are extraterrestrial beings who disguise themselves as humans.There’s been hundreds of abductions in the Western United States for years. Shamans who often visit sacred sites of Native American brothers and sisters and elders that have been killed by the government for disclosing knowledge of aliens and their landing sites, which are mapped by the military and wish for the common folks not to be in the know. Is indeed a very real present danger. Every year about a million Americans go missing,about 40% happens in the South And Northwest states.Words by Sergio GuymanProust.

[illimitablespaces]

If you gently pull back the ears on a cat, they vaguely resemble an alien.

[erotetica]

Is the etymology of 'Don't say I never gave you anything' really the 'I know'/#freebates of One Tree FUCKING Hill??

I'll give gd Mount Mindolluin popularization, but I swear to fuckmcmac that's a septuagenarian passive aggression, at least. AT LEAST.

ENSHITTIFICATION IS DRAGGING THIS OUT OBSCENELY, TOO, BUT IF THERE'S A MISSING LINK OF A PROVERB LINKING HAMLET AND/OR PARADISE LOST 2 THIS STUPID,,,,GUILT TRIP,,,NEITHER I NOR REDDIT NOR GOOGLE NGRAM DATA WERE TOLD. WE'RE JUST BITCHES ASKING.

I'M LOSING MY MIND BUT interest 1st. so fucking. this. is how I win. or whatever

[gallusrostromegalus]

Might I inquire as to what, precisely, a Mustain't is? (Aside from a string of letters I hesitate to Google in that order.)

In October 2014 I went on a road-trip to the Driest Place In America.

I was having a rough year, very depressed from having dropped out of college for the third time. I decided a road trip was in order to re-set my brain and get a little distance. Being that it was October, and therefore all the campgrounds in the American Southwest were filled with people who have the good sense to camp in reasonable temperatures, I elected to take my parent's minivan so I could car-camp anywhere suitably isolated, and looked up some of the southwest's geographic extremes- the highest place I could drive to (Pikes Peak), the lowest place (Badwater Basin), and for fun, the Dryest Place in the continental US, which turned out to be the Pinacate Volcanic field just west of Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. It gets rain maybe twice a century and has no standing water, despite being less than 100 miles from the gulf of California.

It's a startlingly beautiful and alien place. The ground is a deep chocolate brown to black volcanic sand, and in mid October, the rabbit brush is turning bright yellow as it shifts to autumn, the organ pipe cacti are a dark green and stand, partially concealed in the brush at exactly human height. The air is alive with birds and insects and bats at night. The stargazing is like looking into the eyes of God.

You get there by driving down a little dirt road called "El Camino Del Diablo", or "The Devil's Road".

I drove out about three hours from Glendale, AZ to get there, arriving at sunset, and felt a profound sense of peace. I stargazed, listening to the bats hunt and sing, and slept peacefully for the first time in months.

I stayed out there for three days, sketching and painting the landscape, taking strolls through this almost alien landscape, and enjoying the light and sound and total absence of human intrusion besides myself.

On the fourth night, it was a new moon, and I awoke in the middle of the night. Something was amiss, and it took me a while to realize it was because I could NOT hear the bats. I was sleeping inside the van with the rear windows rolled halfway down rather than trying to set up the tent, so I when I sat up, I looked out of the van's reflective windows to discover what at first appeared to be A Horse.

It was something between pale gray and bright white in the starlight, standing maybe a dozen feet from the van, sniffing curiously. It made sense- I was in the middle of mustang country and there was quite a bit of foliage in the area for it and it did look like a truly wild horse- lumpy where the bones were jutting out, dusty about the hooves and face.

I was instantly seized by the sort of paralytic fear Sleep paralysis is made of. I couldn't move. It wasn't quite looking at me because it couldn't quite see through the windshield into the shadowy into the shadowy interior, but I had the distinct impression that if I looked away, it would know, and get me.

I already had problems with horses. My beloved Aunt Helen's Prize mare tried to kill me on two separate occasions, and the year before I had to carry my sister-in-law backwards out of a slot canyon whilst reciting the Saint Crispin's Day Speech as loudly as possible to keep a mustang from trampling us to death.

This is approximately what it should have looked like:

Instead, it was... off. like trying to draw a horse from memory.

The waist tapered in.

The legs were slightly too long or the torso slightly too short, probably both.

The ears were Triangular.

The head wasn't quite right- Too narrow and the jaw wasn't heavy enough.

The tail was too long and arced unnaturally away from the body.

The neck arched.

The nostrils were too high and close

The mouth too long.

Whatever this is, a Mustang it Ain't.

I watched it from the back seat as it sniffed around the front of the van, curious with about the side mirrors. It moved around the van, nibbling experimentally on the front door handle. It came up to the side windows, sniffing like a dog, and it's breath didn't fog up the glass.

Finally, it came up to the rear window, which was rolled halfway down to let the fall night air in. Not even half a pane of glass and two feet of air between us, and I could clearly see it's bright blue eyes.

Horses have Elongated pupils to give them a wide field of vision, and eyes that rotate sideways in their sockets so the pupil remains parallel to the ground. Rather creepy to watch, especially the ones with blue eyes.

A real horse that was curious about the interior of the van would have come up to the window more or less sideways, and looked at me with something like this:

Instead, the damn thing walked up and faced the back window head on, staring back at me with this:

I'm not sure how long we watched each other like that, eyes locked. My eyes burned. I couldn't blink. My mouth was dry. I couldn't swallow. My throat began to ache. I couldn't make a sound. My skin began to twitch, like I was severely dehydrated. I couldn't move. My lungs burned. I couldn't move. I couldn't move. I couldn't move. I couldn't move.

Something was touching the side of my hand on the seat next to me. It's my water bottle.

The realization must have broken the terrible paralysis in the lower parts of my brain first, because by the time I consciously realized I could move again, I was already flinging my water bottle out the window at it.

The top was open, and splashed out the window at the Mustain't.

I've never heard such a scream out of an animal. Something halfway between the sound of unquenchable rage vibrating in someone's chest and the way rabbits cry out to God when the dogs catch them.

It jumped back, pivoting away from the van, snarling at the water bottle. I don't think you're supposed to be able to see All of a horse's teeth at once, no matter how angry it is.

I watched it run into the night for some distance, it's pale body visible against the black sand and the dark gray shadow of the ancient volcanic cone it was headed for.

When the blood stopped pounding in my ears, I could hear the bats again.

I debated leaving right then, but I didn't want to get out of the van with that thing in the area, nor litter by leaving the water bottle out there. I also had the awful idea that if I left now, it might somehow be able to follow me home. I ended up staying up three hours to watch the sunrise, shaking and trying to figure out if I'd woken up from a vivid dream, if my meds had stopped working, or if that had really happened. I didn't dare move until I actually felt the temperature rise, before stepping out of the van to grab the bottle. I had my camera ready- I was still using a DSLR back then- to take pictures of the hoofprints, to show how close it had gotten to the van.

No hoofprints.

Beetle tracks in the soft sand around the van, and the clear foot-and-wing prints of a bird that had hopped around then taken off. But no hoofprints.

I went over the entire campsite with the tent broom, to make sure I removed every scrap of evidence I had ever been there, including my footprints, grabbed my water bottle, and drove the three hours back back to Glendale, then decided to do seven more hours of driving to Moab, Utah just to put more than 500 miles, the state line and at least nine things that could be considered "running water" between me and the Mustain't.

-

I still have that water bottle. It has a dent in the bottom from hitting something, but that could have happened at any time. Strange thing though. I can't drink that bottle dry. I'll have it on me, drink whatever I've put in there- water, juice, iced coffee- and eventually feel like I've drunk the whole think and that it's empty. But I open it up and it's still at least a quarter full. I drink that. I get thirsty. I open it up again. ...and there's always a mouthful left.

Not sure what the side effects of drinking from a bottle cursed by a Mustain't to always have some left are, but it lives in the Emergency Breakdown Kit in my car now, just in case I meet another one.

---

(I'm a disabled artist and make my living telling stories, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi or Pre-order the Family Lore book on Patreon)

[alienssstufff]

aliens stages

[HYUNA] all her canon art has triangular features like Till, I made them slightly softer here. I also wanted to make the colour of her eyes this glassy far-away look to counter Luka’s

[LUKA] Messy, lots of waves (and a halo shine) to counter Hyuna’s shapes. He got bedroom eyes that look like headlights he’s kind of intimidating that way. There’s a bit of purple gradient for his condition.

[TILL] POINTY. The intense glare in his eyes are his best feature. The red pupils a homage to Round 2 and Round 6.

[IVAN] a neatly kept squareee, his canon design has such a defined jawline. Has a star shine reference to the sky from Black Sorrow. I like the little rhinestone sequins they put on him in that one photoshoot. His eyes remind me of cameras.

[SUA] she’s the first alnst I’ve ever drawn actually. Moon shine to match Ivan’s they are similar in a way but not. Roundest face with the prettiest eyes imo.

[MIZI] Wavy hair like jellyfish and the tinge of purple highlights . Epitome of 🥹 emoji. Her canon design has really long lashes.

[unsolicited-opinions]

3/16/25 Reality Check: Mahmoud Khalil

1. Mahmoud Khalil is a spokesperson, organizer, and leader of CUAD.

2. CUAD is not a peace activist organization. It has repeatedly endorsed Hamas, violence towards Jews, and the destruction of Western civilization.

- CUAD endorsed Khymani James saying "Zionists do not deserve to live."

- Said CUAD: "We support liberation by any means necessary, including armed resistance."

- CUAD says it is "fighting for the total eradication of Western civilization" which must "continue to escalate until the empire crumbles," citing the violent takeover of a prison in Bangladesh by Islamists as a model of escalation. It endorsed Casey Goonan's attempt to firebomb federal buildings in Oakland, CA and Goonan setting fires at UC Berkeley.

- This week, CUAD proudly painted the triangular target on the residence of Columbia's interim president Katrina Armstrong and threatened her. The same target has been painted on many US synogogues...by people who dishonestly claim their beef is with Israel, not Jews.

3. Khalil has not been "disappeared," his location is quite public.

4. Khalil does not need to have been convicted of a crime to be deported. Endorsing terrorism is more than legally sufficient grounds for deporting a green card holder.

§1227(a) states:

Any alien (including an alien crewman) in and admitted to the United States shall, upon the order of the Attorney General, be removed if the alien is within one or more of the following classes of deportable aliens...

And section 1227(a)(4)(B) states:

Any alien who is described in subparagraph (B) or (F) of section 1182(a)(3) of this title is deportable.

Section §1182(a)(3)(B)(i)(VII) extends deportability to any alien who:

...endorses or espouses terrorist activity or persuades others to endorse or espouse terrorist activity or support a terrorist organization

This is not a first amendment issue.

5. It is 100% valid to demand due process for Khalil and oppose any attempts by the Trump administration to skip, subver, or deny die process. Due process must always take place. Without it, we delegitimize our legal system and erode civil rights for all. I'm very glad Khalil is getting his due process.

6. Trump is using antisemitism as an excuse to attack individuals and institutions he opposes.

Trump is also using antisemitism in this way as a political wedge and to deepen the left's growing antisemitism. Hence the "Shalom Mahmoud" social media posts from the White House.

It's working because the leftist antisemites are about as gullible and intellectually lazy as their mirror-image opposites on the right, the MAGA/QAnon/Jan 6 crowd.

Leftist fears about Trump's desire and efforts to turn the US into a Turkey-style autocracy are valid and I share them- but it would have been 100% legal for Biden to enforce these laws. I dearly wish he had done so.

Trump's doing it immediately projects vibes of wrongdoing, worsened by his godawful philosemitic messaging.

[whattriangle]

It was a request

Still burned out and i heit this movie

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1900 Victorian in Overbrook, KS hasn't sold and was reduced $5k in Feb. to $415k. It's been on the market 220 days. The 5bd, 4ba, 4,796 sq ft home has some very odd choices that could be the problem. Pay particular attention to the upgrades they did.

Instead of a main entrance hall, walk directly into the sitting room.

The center hall is off the living room. There's an original fireplace and lovely inlaid floors.

Then, the 2nd reception room off of the sitting room.

I don't know what's going on in here, but it's clear that they removed some walls. So, they put up some support columns and made a small dining area, and another very large, open sitting room.

I love the antique Hoosier cabinet in the kitchen- wonder if it conveys. The cabinets aren't too bad- they match the rest of the wood in the house, but this can't be the original footprint and it's a little strange.

The ovens were put into what looks like was a closet under the stairs.

This is kind of nice. I like the backsplash tile.

Linen closet under the stairs.

The odd room with the dining area isn't the formal dining room, b/c this is it.

They've got an odd room back here. Nice original door. Don't like their choice of flooring, and I don't know what they did to this floor plan, but it's so disjointed. The window on the left is now blocked off.

They've got a large primary bedroom upstairs.

But, look what they did to this bath. There's no way that they didn't open this wall up. Two skylights in the ceiling.

They also made a walk-in closet.

A secondary bedroom.

Look at the tile mural in this remodeled bath. Is that a space alien by the toilet?

They also put in a laundry chute.

They picked a pretty etched glass window for this door, but it's sort of sloppily inserted.

And, this is the finished attic.

There's another level. Most likely the servant's quarters.

I don't know what made them put those triangular holes in the wall.

Is that bookcase holding up the chimney?

These posts look like they're holding up the ceiling.

They also have a little bath up here.

Large rotting deck on the back of the house.

Big fenced-in yard. .32 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/401-Cedar-St-Overbrook-KS-66524/113211585_zpid/

[fqntasies]

Prize - Feyd Rautha x Reader

Summary: The Na-Baron is set to fight in the arena once more; yet his opponent's reveal is a shock to you and perhaps the other Harkonnen as well. Upon his impending victory, your husband claims you as his prize, ravenous, of course.

Disclaimer: connected to my other fics of feyd. I dont write my stories as chapters, but rather time-jumps to various moments in the reader & feyd's story (considering that I write you both as connected through dreams since childhood, betrothed, etc.)

Word Count: 1,988

This was to be the second fight you would witness of the Na-Baron's, a momentous celebratory event that filled arena's and sparked a sense of frenzy among the inhabitants of Giedi Prime. The first you had witnessed took place just months before your wedding ceremony; in part a testimony of the Na-Baron's prowess and strength, a claim perhaps to your hand, if you were to view it as such. The spectacle had left you breathless then, and you were certain this time such a reaction would be warranted as well. If nothing else, the racing of your heart and the thunderous chorus of the crowds stood attest to it. They were like beasts among the stands, delirious for their prince, and loyal to their homeworld above all else, chants in the air.

This particular occasion already felt separate. Opponents were typically drugged enemy houses or military prisoners let loose in the triangular space, as was custom. But not today. You had seen odd glances among the servants, and even whispers from other members of the Harkonnen house along passing corridors. Something had been changed in the lineup. But what? Had a prisoner been injured? Escaped before the fight? When you look to your handmaidens, they give nothing away but reassuring nods, pale skulls angling towards where the battle will commence after but a moment.

You could not deduce; instead aware of the light breeze that clips at the base of your neck, and the blinding light that reigns above. It casts sharp shadows over your party, jutting from the edge of the alcove's decorative ceiling.

You stand from your seat to walk the few paces to the edge of the balcony, the dark silk of your gown sliding across your thighs like rivets of water. It is just a few paces, but you feel as though you have stepped into a new world as the sun lathes you in it's blanket of heat. You press your palms against the stone that greets you, and eyes turn down, fixed at the doors to the far north of the arena. The ring on your finger sparkles brilliantly in the day, and for a moment, the roars around you are deafening.

Then, silence... and there he is.

You see that pale visage stark against the darkness behind him, hands gripping twin blades, and you are rapt with attention. Feyd's shoulders heave with his heavy breaths, armor only enhancing his form. You knew if you were to stand up close, his eyes would be endless black pools, ravenous for the blood that was to spill before him, striking against the milky softness of his skin. He was his own animal. Foreignly alien, and yet yours all the same. Husband.

You blush as his eyes find yours abruptly, and he stalks from the entryway, steps bringing him towards you in the sand, even as he is leagues below. Your mind drifts to just hours before, where the Na-Baron had caged you among ebony blankets in your shared chambers, leaving no escape from the broadness of him in the cool of the morning. Ghosts of his tongue and mouth have you heaving a breath; licking your lips as though parched. You knew you would dream of him again tonight, even as his arms would trap you like a vice in the safety of sleep. It thrilled and frightened you alike.

Feyd lifts his blade in oath above his head, like a promise to the heavens, and you nod in reply as that sharp edge glints in the light. This blood he spills for you. Always for you. As he would for any who dared to come between.

When he turns, he rolls his shoulders languidly with a tilt of his head. Ready to strike. And you shift to look towards the very same gates he had come through moments ago. That's when you pause - a breath catching in surprise.

The harpies - you were sure of it; their angled forms were roped about each other, a strangling mess of light limbs as they were dragged by burly guards towards the center of the sands. An offering before their dark prince. Proposed like some strange kind of sacrificial lamb.

Suddenly you knew - this was what had made everyone so surprised.

Feyd has turned again, his face now determined, set. You can see it in the sharpness of his jaw, like he vibrates with a new kind of rage. It's his declaration of his love. He will destroy the things that sought to destroy them and their bond; greedy creatures who cared not for the destiny set before their master. Only seeking flesh and carnal sustenance.

At one point, members of the Harkonnen house had thought to leash the Na-Baron with the harpy creatures; perhaps thinking such temptations could control him, avenues orchestrated by the Baron himself, or Rabban, though you assumed the former. But they had failed to see the lengths to which Feyd was devoted to you, had never known the dreams you both had shared since before your very meeting.

This was what he offered to you. Power and promise. Heady in the air, and ripe with opportunity.

---

When they were lifeless upon the sands, you meet your husband's gaze again. There is red painting his body like stars in the milkyway; and a gash covers his chest where one of the harpies had caught him in her claws. He sways a bit, almost drunkenly; and a bloodied grin paints handsome features as he picks up a pace towards you, black cloak carrying behind him like a billowing shadow. You know where he is headed, as his form disappears beneath. It sets your heart to a stampede, goosebumps prickling along the flesh of your arms, and you are swift to dart from the cover of your ladies.

He hunts you, a hulking form somewhere below, closer and closer.

You envision the Na-Baron stalking through the main doors as you flit between sunlight and shadows, a rasp low in his chest as he parts his lips to taste the air, bloodlust and craving. A needy hunger. It makes your legs feel unstable as you blindly chase between archways, imagining the ghost of your prince behind you at your neck. Would he grab you, you wonder...? Would such hands that had slaughtered moments ago trap you now? The horror. The wonder. Your fingers grasp fistfuls of your gown, bare feet pressing against the cool of the marble under your padded steps.

You huddle swiftly behind a wall to catch your breath, angling your jaw to listen as you puff air in and out of your lungs.

"I know your here, princess."

You startle in silence, running cold - gosh - that voice. It was a weak point for you, Feyd had learned swiftly (as had you). A dangerous piece of knowledge, used more often than not as a way to keep you in your shared bed, wanton and delirious as he sought you out. You knew he carried a dare in his words now. Try to run, little rabbit. Try and see.

You want him to catch you, you think. Though perhaps not yet. Your mind fights for what to do - envisions him around you, and you battle the fog of your machinations in a fleeting moment - dashing towards a new hall at the opposite side of the room.

His laugh is low and drawn out as you fly from him, turning into a growl. You are nearly through a new door when he has you - twisting your fighting form and pulling you with him into the unfamiliar space, strong fingers gripping at your waist.

Then he is claiming your mouth with his, pulling you down with him and into his lap, arms trapping you like you were meant to be there - precisely so - all tongue and taste; the two of you stumbling against a wall. You moan - preen against him, fitting to his hold like a puzzle piece that was perfectly matched.

The slide of his tongue on yours is wet and heavy - and in the haze of kisses you see his eyes heavy lidded, watching, following a growl and the nip of his black teeth. It has you sighing again, mewling like some wanton thing, and the silk of your skirts are gripped in his hand at your hip, which cranes to push you against him. The other angles your neck, tipping your mouth deeper into his, and you think for a moment there is no where else you could go. No where quite like this where you belong so completely. His touch is so warm, and broad - iron too, you are aware that even if you attempted a form of escape, he would have you again in an instant.

"- My prince."

His eyes flash at your breathy words. You two had danced this game before - pretending it was your first meeting, feigning some kind of unaware strangers scenario, though you were both well aware of the visions that plagued each other's sleep for years.

He couldn't ignore the calling of your soul even if he tried.

"My lady." He sounds debauched as he cranes to attach a hot mouth to the spot below your ear, and you arch further into him, brows knitting together at the sensation; fighting for control. You make that sound again - the gentle whine that makes his eyes nearly roll back in his skull, and he chases it with another lathe of his tongue, and a warning rumble in his chest.

Don't tempt me - he taunts.

You have half a mind to mark him the same.

"You're not leaving this time, sweet one. I still haven't even gotten your name." His words proceed a suck at your bottom lip, and you angle to taste him in the fog that covers your mind. You almost don't understand the words in your haze; but the smile you taste in his kisses brings you back, and you pull away enough to face him, lips detaching from his own with a wet gleam.

"But my lord - you know I am engaged." the rumble he makes is another warning, hips against your own as his hands hold you there.

"Then I shall cut him down like all the rest." There is a pride and a jealousy that glimmers in the Na-Baron's eyes, even in this pretend world the two of you have crafted, and it takes you a moment to snap out of your heady admiration of him, chasing after his tongue with your own as you lean back in. Heads turn this way, and that, the heat of your breaths and the wetness of your kisses filling the silence of the space you've chosen.

Feyd groans - followed by a gentle tilt of your head, and his lips are by your ear, his hand in your hair, a commanding hold - though you know he'd never hurt you.

"I quite think you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, little one?" You pant softly in response, only able to suffice a delicate nod in his embrace, overcome with your desire for him. And that's all he needs to hear, sliding his tongue against yours once more before he's hoisting you in his arms, the fabric of your dress bundling by his hold, baring the soft tenderness of your thighs. It has the muscles in his neck craning with a ragged groan, eyes trailing to meet yours with barely restrained tension. A man at his breaking point.

His swift strides have you clinging tightly to him, nose against his neck, pressed just under his ear. The wafting aroma of his cologne and the sweat and blood of the arena are filling your senses. You know he brings you to your chambers; the grip of his hands and the speed of his steps tell you as much; it makes you taste your lip between your teeth, pressing just so against him.

His prize.

[draconesmundi]

What’s your take on the idea that a “realistic” large flying dragon should have a short tail so as to lessen drag? Long tailed Pterosaurs and early birds were all fairly small. Birds have short tails, as did the largest Pterosaurs. Bats are variable but they’re small.

So when we say 'my take' are we meaning...

My Take As a Scientist

This is sound logic! In every large flying animal (we're talking Azhdarchid pterosaurs such as Quetzalcoatlus, or giant Cathartiformes birds like big vultures or Argentavis) the tails are short.

Image from www.prehistoric-wildlife.com

We just know this as a fact; every flying animal over a certain size has a small tail, and from our own experiments creating aircraft we can safely assume this is to reduce drag.

Image from NASA

Our long-bodied planes all have horizontal and vertical stabilizers on the end of the tail - the horizontal ones act as an extra earofoil to generate lift - similar to the tail feathers of birds. Our long bodied planes lack the dexterity of fighting planes, who are triangular (so the 'wing' extends down the full body, no tail) or have much shorter tails compared to the long bodied planes.

Image from Aviationfile.com

Planes have the added benefit of being lifted by jets rather than powered muscles. To make a dragon or monster a similar size to a plane, it would need equally novel ways to propel itself, and then it's tail would need to be short, ideally with horizontal flukes (think whale tail) so the tail could provide lift to perhaps counteract the drag. A creature of this size would not have nippy, fast flight; even thermal currents would be difficult for it to soar on (which is how large vultures manage to fly most of the time). Sure the dragon could get from A to B but it could not maneuver or hunt like a hawk or falcon while doing so. And it's tail? Kinda short.

Link to some cool dragonlike aliens designed by Cydork with short tails.

My Take As A Dragon Designer

As a dragon enjoyer I think dragons should have long tails - it ties them back to being majestic serpents from cosmology. Behind every legend that's "a dragon was slain here" is a "loathesome wyrme spat poison in a ditch" and behind that is a "ancient serpent symbol of dark and scary waters". Dragons should have the tails because they are fun.

So how do we make fun snakey dragon tails work when we know that logically, physically and biologically we need less tail to reduce drag while flying?

We could accept the dragon has short and powerful flights like a galliform (chickens, pheasants, peacocks) - peacocks can fly (not long distances like an albatross, but enough to be in the sky and get from A to B) while having 60% of it's length be long, dramatic tail feathers. Tail feathers are lighter than a meaty tail, but from an artistic perspective you can get a good wing-to-tail ratio for your dragon designs.

Image source: Haribabu Pasupathy/Wikimedia Commons, found attached to This Article

Alternatively you could go down the route of one of my favourite dragon designs ever and basically make a plane-shaped dragon and stick a swishy tail on the end for fun - the Ikran from James Cameron's Avatar are basically fighter-plane shaped with a thin tail sticking out the back. Realistically that little tail is contributing drag, but aesthetically we're enjoying this very cool dragon design.

Another take is something like the Legiana from Capcom's Monster Hunter games - this dragon has a thin whiplike tail which has extendable flaps - these flaps can form another lifting surface (think horizontal flukes on the plane tail or tail feathers of a bird). Legiana would still experience drag, but the way it can change it's surface area to meet it's aerodynamic needs is something fun you could consider in dragon design.

Of course Avatar and Monster Hunter take place in fantasy worlds with lower gravity (actually stated in the Avatar film about Pandora, and Monster Hunter's low gravity is just a fun theory because all the weapons and monsters are huge and you never suffer fall damage) - this doesn't affect drag but does affect the amount of lift compared to creature body size needed to be airborne!

My Take As Author Of Dracones Mundi Specifically

So this issue does not affect the Dracones Mundi dragons because they fly by levitation magic. This allows me to even allow wingless dragons, such as East Asian dragons, to fly around. As my dragons 'swim' through the air, long tails are permitted as they move like crocodiles, eels, sharks - all things that benefit with added length to their anguilliform-to-subcarangiform locomotion.

(images from my blog @draconesmundi )

To get into the gritty details, my dragons have magical fat throughout their bodies, and these fats produce a magic field that interacts with atmospheric magic, so they are 'swimming' through the atmospheric magic rather than through the air, their bodies pushing and pulling against unseen forces. So their tails aren't dragging as much because they are being used to actively push through the magic to propel the dragon forward.

[the-liars-art]

Konrad and Tarot Cards: Compiled Excerpts

Tarot cards have been a part of his motifs, imageries, and aesthetics since the very beginning of the Horus Heresy publications (featured heavily in two short stories from 2007, and much less so in later stories where he gets more character development) and in his official miniature sculpt. Our primarch the Night Haunter used his deck of cards, a 40k Nostraman version of real tarot cards, for divination. The cards helped him interpret his visions, before the precognition became vivid and clear enough to do without. He used to consult his cards frequently and not in secret.

He and his Nostraman deck could have played a part in the later development of the Emperor's Tarot (though it won't be featured in this post), with the appearance of the card "the Dark King" and such, but Black Library inconsistency says no.

Also if I have a nickel every time Konrad is looking at his cards and one of his good sons walk in, I'd have 2, which isn't a lot but it's fun that it happened twice.

Now, the excerpts galore, in publication order:

Night Haunter turned over the last card and his jawline tightened as the familiar pattern emerged once more. The strategium of his flagship was kept dark, the faint blue light of consoles and hololithic displays islands of light in the darkness. The Primarch of the Night Lords paid no attention to his surroundings, ignoring the pregnant pressure of anticipation that bristled from every member of his bridge crew. A deck of worn cards sat on the softly glowing lectern before him, their edges scuffed and curled from decades of shuffling and dealing. Little more than a parlour game played by the indolent rich of Nostramo Quintus, he had since discovered that variations of these cards had been employed in the hives of Merica and by the tribes of the Franc as a means of divination in the time before Old Night had descended. The cards apparently corresponded to the stratification of society at the time, with the various suits representing warriors, priests, merchants and workers. Ancient belief held that the future could be read in the patterns of cards known as the Lesser Arcanoi, but such traditions were outmoded concepts in this colourless, secular galaxy… Except that no matter how thoroughly he shuffled the cards and dealt them on the polished glass of the lectern, the pattern was always the same. The Moon, the Martyr and the Monster lay in a triangular pattern. The King lay reversed at the feet of the Emperor on one side of the pattern, and on the other, also reversed, was the Dove – a card academics postulated was a symbol of hope. The card he had just dealt sat at the top of the pattern, a card that had changed little over the centuries and the meaning of which, though often misinterpreted, was unmistakable. Death. He heard footsteps and looked up to see Captain Shang approaching, clad in his battle plate and wrapped in his ceremonial black cape of gleaming patagium. His helmet’s flaring wings framed a death mask of an alien skull, its tusked lower jaw thrust beyond his throat. Behind his equerry, Night Haunter could see the gently rotating orb of Nostramo displayed on the viewscreen. Thick clouds of pollutants ringed the grey planet, shot through with emphysemic yellows and leprous browns. The radiation-blasted moon of Tenebor was just visible as a sickly orb emerging from the stained-lung corona of Nostramo’s dying sun.

--the short story The Dark King, by Graham McNeill (2007)

‘There is one other thing,’ said Malcador, setting his glass down and rising to his feet. ‘Something I want to show you.’ Malcador crossed the chamber, and took something from a drawer in an old bureau. He walked back to Dorn, and spread that something out on the low table between them. Dorn opened his mouth but no sound issued. Fear gripped him. ‘You recognise these, of course.’ Old cards, worn and fraying, discoloured and liver-spotted with time. One by one, Malcador laid them out. ‘The Lesser Arcanoi, just gaming trinkets really, but used widely before the coming of Old Night for divination. This deck was made on Nostramo Quintus.’ ‘He used them,’ Dorn breathed. ‘Yes, he did. He relied on them. He believed in cartomancy. He dealt his fate out, night after haunted night, and watched how the cards fell.’ ‘Oh, Holy Terra…’ ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Malcador asked, looking up. ‘You are quite pale.’ Dorn nodded. ‘Curze.’ ‘Yes, Curze. Had you forgotten him, or simply blocked him out? You have bickered and sparred with many of your brothers over the years, but only Konrad Curze ever hurt you.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘He nearly killed you.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘On Cheraut, long ago,’ ‘I remember it well enough!’ Malcador looked up at Dorn. The primarch had risen to his feet. ‘Then sit back down and tell me, because I wasn’t there.’ Dorn sat. ‘This is so long ago or like another life. We had brought the Cheraut system to compliance. It was hard fought. The Emperor’s Children, the Night Lords and my Fists, we affected compliance. But Curze didn’t know when to stop. He never knew when to stop.’ ‘And you rebuked him?’ ‘He was an animal. Yes, I rebuked him. Then Fulgrim told me.’ ‘Told you what?’ Dorn closed his eyes. ‘The Phoenician told me what Curze had told him: the fits, the seizures that had plagued Curze since his childhood on Nostramo, the visions. Curze said he had seen the galaxy in flames, the Emperor’s legacy overthrown, legionaries turning on legionaries. It was all lies, an insult to our creed!’ ‘You confronted Curze?’ ‘And he attacked me. He would have killed me, I think. He is insane. That’s why we drove him out, sick of his bloodletting. That’s why he burned his home world and took his Night Lords off into the darkest parts of the stars.’ Malcador nodded, and continued to deal the cards. ‘Rogal, he is what you are truly afraid of, because he is fear incarnate. No other primarch uses terror as a weapon like Curze does. You are not afraid of Horus and his sallow heretics. You are afraid of the fear that sides with him, the night terror that advances alongside the traitors.’ Dorn sat back and breathed out. ‘He has haunted me, I confess. All this time, he has haunted me.’ ‘Because he was right. His visions were true. He saw this Heresy coming in his visions. That is the truth you fear. You wish you had listened.’ Dorn looked down at the cards laid out on the table before him. ‘Do you believe in this divination, Sigillite?’ ‘Let’s see,’ said Malcador, turning the cards over one by one: the Moon, the Martyr and the Monster, the Dark King askew across the Emperor. One other card, the Lightning Tower. Dorn groaned. ‘A bastion, blown out by lightning. A palace brought to ruin by fire. I’ve seen enough.’ ‘The card has many meanings,’ said Malcador. ‘Like the Death card, it is not as obvious as it seems. In the hives of Nord Merica, it symbolised a change in fortune, an overturning of fate. To the tribes of Franc and Tali, it signified knowledge or achievement obtained through sacrifice. A flash of inspiration, if you will, one that tumbles the world you know down, but leaves you with a greater gift.’ ‘The Dark King lies across the Emperor,’ said Dorn, pointing. Malcador sniffed. ‘It’s not exactly a science, my friend.’

--the short story The Lightning Tower, by Dan Abnett (2007)

One brief mention of cards and pre-discovery Night Haunter:

The pale man knew he’d have to appear before many of them tonight – the cards had revealed that much to him. The thousands gathered into this place of sleazy sanctuary would see him for the first time. A necessary indulgence, nothing more. He’d learned from them. Now they would learn from him.

—the novella Prince of Crows, by Aaron Dembski-Bowden (2012)

Then we reach the most recent mentions in the primarch book:

Ledgers and data-slates were piled around his chamber upon the iron table. The mortal Ekra Trez worked quietly in the ­corner of the room. When the darkness came upon Curze, Trez’s psychic talent blunted the horror. At other times he aided his master, autoquill scratching on an accompanying screen as he compiled the data Curze himself had processed. The information was there to see, all aspects of each recruit meticulously recorded: genotype, origin, records of crime, set out in plain language. The men destroying his Legion from within were either confident they would not be discovered, or were so proud of their actions they felt they had nothing to hide. Curze glanced at the spread of worn cards in the middle of the table. Their reading suggested that could be it. They could believe they were doing the right thing. False rectitude was no shield against justice. The door to his chamber opened. ‘Sevatar,’ said Curze, without looking up. [...] ‘We shall see it done after Cheraut. Before then, I have another task to perform. It is time I spoke with my brothers.’ Again he looked at the cards. ‘What will happen is unclear to me, but perhaps all this horror can be forestalled. Perhaps the rumours are inflated, and Nostramo might be saved,’ murmured Curze. ‘Maybe Balthius is alive still, and this situation can be rectified.’

--Chapter 11 of Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, by Guy Haley (2019)

Shang reached up and removed his helmet. His scent hissed into the room more strongly with the escaping air. ‘My lord,’ he said. He licked dry lips, eyes flicking about the scene of ruin. ‘They are getting worse. Your visions.’ Curze nodded his head. His mouth swam with spit that tasted of blood. ‘They are, my son,’ said Curze. ‘Once, they were but images flitting through my mind, presaging events that I must labour over my cards to fully predict. Now they come to me wholly formed, and their violence flows out from me.’ Curze hauled himself up to his feet.

--Chapter 11 of Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, by Guy Haley (2019)

In pride of place, at a table by his side, sat the battered deck of cards he had consulted so many times. He meant their presence to be his last comment on fortune’s cruel grip. But the cards dragged at his attention, forcing him to reappraise them as a tool of his delusion.

--Chapter 13 of Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, by Guy Haley (2019)

Make of the it what you will. Ave Dominux Nox🦇

[suzukiblu]

excerpt from a "Kara actually got to Earth on-schedule and now she's got a baby cousin to raise" AU:

Kara doesn’t understand the aliens’ language, which is fine. She didn’t expect to. She watches them interact and listens as they speak, familiarizing herself with the cadence and pitch and rhythm of their voices and doing her best to pick out individual sounds and patterns. She likes languages well enough. She did pretty well with Daxamite dialects in school last year, anyway. 

The aliens are kind, at least so far. They found her and Kal curled up in the remains of their smashed-up ships in their ruined field and brought them into their home despite the mess. Kara thinks they’re farmers, probably? So probably Laborer Guild, or whatever this planet has instead of Laborers. The House of El is mostly Thinkers, but Kara isn’t worried about that. She’ll figure something out, as soon as she figures out how to communicate with the aliens. Pantomime has not been all that helpful, at least not so far. 

They gave her a warm, unusually sweet drink that might have some kind of milk in it, with soft white pellets in it that are even sweeter. It’s not quite like anything she’s ever tasted before, but she likes it. Kal really liked it, though the aliens seemed to think he shouldn't have too much and gave her a little cup of just milk alone for him instead. Or she thinks it's milk, anyway. 

It's white. And very thick, and almost creamy? Though it tasted good too, when Kara stole a sip to make sure it wouldn’t upset Kal’s stomach if she gave it to him. 

"Pye," the alien that Kara is assuming is female announces in their weirdly simple-sounding language, putting a round plate with a slice of something on it on the table in front of her. Kal reaches for it from her lap with a burble. Kara peers at it too. The slice is triangular, with a crisp crust and an oozy red filling. She wonders why the plate is round, if the "pye" is meant to be sliced and served triangularly. It seems a little disrespectful to the cook–or baker? Or at least the artisan who made the plate, which was clearly painted with very dedicated care–painted by hand, even, not a pre-programmed design reproduced by a machine. That’s very luxurious for Laborers to be offering unexpected guests who just destroyed their field. 

Maybe they’re overcompensating, Kara thinks. Or maybe the aliens are really just that kind. 

Maybe. 

She thinks they’re little flowers, the designs around the edges of the plate. Or at least they look like they could be flowers. They’re flower-like, if nothing else, and all the weird colors of them might just be a stylistic choice. 

They’re pretty. 

She wishes she could show her mother. 

Kara crushes down the grief for the thousandth time and smiles at the aliens. They smile back. 

It helps, almost. 

Almost. 

The “pye” tastes very good.

[bittersweet-jack-of-no-trades]

A world where Stan, newly mistaken for his brother and fumbling for something, anything to show these 'visitors' (cough, cough, marks), grabs the first thing he can get his hands on, which happens to be---

A rat.

Now, Stan's not unfamiliar with rats. He had his fair share of rodent roommates while living in less-than-savory places, and he honestly doesn't mind the little critters too much, as long as they don't steal his food. He's still not quite sure what to do after reaching into a pile of his brother's dirty lab-wear and pulling out an honest-to-God three headed rat. His visitors are, obviously, appropriated horrified but--- they're paying to be horrified, aren't they? What's more mad science-y than crime-against-God animals?

He's got one of his brother's journals, which has a few strange characters, but he doesn't want anything too alien, or anything that can speak enough words to demand a salary. Turns out, there's a lot of odd animals in the woods that aren't quite fantastical, but definitely are not normal. (Isn't that what he is? Not amazing and mystical like his brother, just... weird?)

Turns out, he's also pretty good at handling them. He's got... whatever the chimera-like animal equivalent of a green thumb is. He finds that he likes taking care of them, too: figuring out their diets and enrichment and which species can live with each other and who's solitary and which ones turn bright fuckin' purple during mating season--- he's good at it. The bright and wild sounds of his animals cover up his sounds of distress when he's working on the portal, too--- it's a win-win. He pretends he's just using the animals for profit, and as a distraction, but the way he names them and learns their personalities and cares for them betrays him as the soft-hearted animal caretaker he is.

So when Mabel and Dipper come to stay with their grunkle, it's not the Mystery Shack they visit, but the Mystery Menagerie. Mabel falls in love instantly, and makes friends with every animal. Dipper is a little intimidated, but he likes to draw and write about them all. Stan's a flashy sort of zoo-keeper, but still vehemently denies there's anything otherworldly about his animals: "just how evolution works, kids. Didn't ya go to school?"

And when Ford steps out of the portal, he's greeted by a jungle within his home. He tries to be angry at the mess, but underneath the hay and grass and home-made enrichment toys, there's a level of care he had never seen his brother display. Better to be obsessed with animals than a triangular dream demon, he figures, and can't find it within himself to judge.

They do put the Bill statue, at Mabel's request, in the venomous goat fields (they develop highly acidic saliva to dissolve minerals), and let them go at it like a salt lick. He deserves it.