Absolutely Speedran This One (how The Hell Are Feathers Less Of A Pain In The Neck Than A Front-facing

Not exactly a photo but not miles off.

Uuuuh, idk who to tag, I just draw dinos, aliens and gay people

I'm bored so tag game!

make yourself with this picrew.

npt: @mirrorcatcreditcard @eveland822 @stellaeerrantes

those who I've not tagged but want to do it can join as well I just want some engagement

Good blog

Cheers!!

You have built your dwellings upon the bones of those you damned, your cities upon the mass graves of countless beings, and your countries in the burnt and scarred remains of what was once their homes.

Every last breath, every lineage cut short, every forest, fen and fallow torn asunder feeds it; with every wisp of smoke, every incremental creep of a warming world, and with every drop falling from retreating glaciers it grows. A beast of fire and ice, choking ash and swelling seas, the roaring core of the earth surging forwards and the heartless cold of the endless reaches above plummeting down in its infernal halo.

This is not the gentle, loving death that carries souls softly into that good night, nor is it the wrath and rage of a mere god of war. It is the great equaliser, the callous harvestman scything wheat, wildflower and weed alike so that a new world may grow in its place. And when the slate is cleared, when the Earth’s lungs cough out the last of the soot and the ballard of life rises into a new chorus, you will be forgotten, the king of kings whose shattered ruins are razed by roots and rot, the mocking hand crushed beneath a universe it thought it could command, and its ruins buried not beneath that barren sands of a world that couldn’t live without it but the joyous songs of a planet unshackled from your iron grasp.

Jäegers

The jägers are a clade of terrestrial, predatory fantails native to Crescentia, although some species (primarily jaegerdrossel) can be found in Omnedomum. The most basal jägers are the aforementioned jagerdrossel, thrush-like predators that supplement their diet of large invertebrates with songbirds and small lizards. More derived are the harrierhens, filling niches akin to Terran foxes, but most cases maintaining the ability to fly, with one species having reached the tropical rainforests of Omnedomum and with others filling the niche of apex predator on many islands in the T-SIC (Trans-Straits Island Chain). Despite their continued success, their diversity in recent millennia has decreased due to competition with the more robust larklynx. Finally are the typical jägers, including groups such as the phoros, jägerhirsch and mohawks, the latter two having evolved keratinous spurs amongst for intraspecies fights amongst males. These birds are medium to large pursuit hunters, chasing flocks of fanfowl, rheapidura and other ground birds, typically avoiding the sturdier iguanas.

The lunar harrierhen is the most basal representative of an extremely successful group of jägers, the fowks. These nocturnal predators hunt a variety of lizards, birds and large invertebrates. The lunar harrierhen in particular is native to much of southern crescentia, being especially prevalent in the fog forests in the eastern side of the Boss range, stalking the forest floors from the setting of the sun till it flutters up to rest in the canopy come the break of dawn.

The konigsjager is another denizens of these woodlands. Unlike most other jagerhirsch, this titanic avian is not a swift pursuit predator, but a powerful ambush hunter, specialising in the large iguanas dwelling amidst the fog. These giants have only recently claimed their title, having evolved from a fairly typical lithe jäger less than 2 million years ago, dwelling to its great size in the absence of the predatory iguanas to the north and a population crash of the local macropredatory larklynx following an outbreak of a transmissible cancer similar to that which decimated the Tasmanian devils of earth.

A rare visitor to these cramped forests, the fire-crested mohawk is a classic example of a typical jäger. Patrolling the highland grasslands and open woodland of the Boss range, they form fission-fusion packs to pursue the swift grazing birds that feed upon the herbs, grasses and heaths. During spring the males group into leks and compete for females attention, singing and flashing their bright red crests and, if a winner cannot be decided by looks alone, coming to blows with talons and spurs.

The western scaly-shouldered jagerdrossel is a member of a species complex encircling the Boss range. Fairly large for a jagerdrossel, these birds hunt songbirds and large invertebrates amongst the undergrowth and branches, pursuing their prey on foot or chasing them in rapid bursts of flight, subduing prey with swift pecks from a hooked bill and stabs from an enlarged second toe.

>:3

A world of ghosts

Deep beneath sun and soil they lie, compressed between strata like a flower pressed within a book. Mineral echoes of beings that had perished in time immemorial, mimics of stone crafted in remembrance of the majesty each colosal femur and the intricate filaments of each tiny feather, eulogies to the gods of old who’s true remains have long since been reduced to nothingness, every treasure telling the story of a life long extinguished.

Upon the soil where they rest, the living still sing of those left behind. Menacing thorns and colossal fruits tell tales of ancient behemoths whose bellows and roars once filled now empty forests, viscous horns and nimble hooves speak of predators that now hunt only in nightmares, pointless flowers mourn silent wings with tapestries of colour and abstract portraits.

Artefacts too recall the years near forgotten. Spear points dredged by unsuspecting trawlers recite ballads of those ancient hands napping flints in a sunken world, clays and charcoal adorning cave and crag echo those lost beasts of yore and the equally forgotten hands that depicted them, potsherds and rubble mark the graves of empires once thought immortal.

Countless stories of those that came before surround us in our world of ghosts, a transient beauty, a great tapestry that will stretch from the sweltering forge of its birth to the cleansing flames of its destruction, and a story we all shall one day join.

I’ll bring cookies, biscuits and hot chocolate!!

Open tags cause if you see this you’re probably a moot

tumblr sleepover

ur invited to my tumblr sleepover!!

reblog with ur moots/anyone you find cool to invite them

what're you bringing and what're we gonna do/watch

@astro-can @joannaisimaginairy @hauntedloverr111 @livingponcho @kitab00m101 @tuturthecarvroom @youngjusticerulez @peanutsharks @purplesnowwolf @ask-bea-the-shifter @afrogwhocantdraw @little-ghostgirl-31 @bookishwarriorscientist @nightmareshiftss

im bringing candy and gossip (my school has sm tea) and we're watching mean girls bc im basic

-sam

Tad late, was a bit busy

starting a new chain cause the old one was too long! tagged by @ethereal-bumble-bee <3

tagging @yourinfernaimajesty @annahanover @sweet-thangman @paranoid-radio @andieluvsduckie and @spectrophobiia but the more the merrier!!

on endlings, and despair

Hey, y'all. It's...been a rough couple of weeks. So, I thought--better to light a single candle, right?

If you're familiar with wildlife conservation success stories, then you're likely also familiar with their exact polar opposite. The Northern White Rhino. Conservation's poster child for despair. Our greatest and most high-profile utter failure. We slaughtered them for wealth and status, and applied the brakes too slow. Changed course too late.

We poured everything we had into trying to save them, and we failed.

We lost them. They died. The last surviving male was named Sudan. He died in 2018, elderly and sick. His genetic material is preserved, along with frozen semen from other long-dead males, but only as an exercise in futility. Only two females survive--a mother and daughter, Najin and Fatu.

Both of them are infertile. They still live; but the Northern White Rhinoceros is extinct. Gone forever.

In 2023, an experimental procedure was attempted, a hail-mary desperation play to extract healthy eggs from the surviving females.

It worked.

The extracted eggs were flown to a genetics lab, and artificially fertilized using the sperm of lost Northern males. The frozen semen that we kept, all this time, even after we knew that the only living females were incapable of becoming pregnant.

It worked.

Thirty northern white rhino embryos were created and cryogenically preserved, but with no ability to do anything with them, it was a thin hope at best. In 2024, for the first time, an extremely experimental IVF treatment was attempted on a SOUTHERN white rhino--a related subspecies.

It worked.

The embryo transplanted as part of the experiment had no northern blood--but the pregnancy took. The surgery was safe for the mother. The fetus was healthy. The procedure is viable. Surrogate Southern candidates have already been identified to carry the Northern embryos. Rhinoceros pregnancies are sixteen months long, and the implantation hasn't happened yet. It will take time, before we know. Despair is fast and loud. Hope is slower, softer. Stronger, in the end.

The first round may not take. We'll learn from it. It's what we do. We'll try again. Do better, the next time. Fail again, maybe. Learn more. Try harder.

This will not save the species. Not overnight. The numbers will be very low, with no genetic diversity to speak of. It's a holding action, nothing more.

Nothing less.

One generation won't save a species. But even a single calf will buy us time. Not quite gone, not yet. One more generation. One more endling. One more chance. And if we seize it, we might just get another after that. We're getting damn good at gene editing. At stem-cell research. In the length of a single rhino lifetime, we'll get even better.

For decades, we have been in a holding action with no hope in sight. Researchers, geneticists, environmentalists, wildlife rehabbers. Dedicated and heroic Kenyan rangers have kept the last surviving NWRs under 24/7 armed guard, line-of-sight, eyes-on, never resting, never relaxing their guard. Knowing, all the while, that their vigilance was for nothing. Would save nothing. This is a dead species--an elderly male, two females so closely related that their offspring couldn't interbreed even if they could produce any--and they can't.

Northern white rhino conservation was the most devastatingly hopeless cause in the world.

Two years from now, that dead species may welcome a whole new generation.

It's a holding action, just a holding action, but not "just". There is a monument, at the Ol Pejeta Conservancy, where the last white rhinos have lived and will die. It was created at the point where we knew--not believed, knew--that the species was past all hope. It memorializes, by name there were so few, the last of the northern white rhinos. Most of the markers have brief descriptions--where the endling rhino lived, how it was rescued, how it died.

One marker bears only these words: SUDAN | Last male Northern White Rhino.

If even a single surrogate someday bears a son, we have erased the writing on that plaque forever.

All we can manage is a holding action? Then we hold. We hold hard and fast and long, use our fingernails if we have to. But hold. Even and perhaps especially when we are past all hope.

We never know what miracle we might be buying time for.

Meep morp

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)