broken beak

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the tundra. Near them, on the snow,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And broken beak, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Club Penguin, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level glaciers stretch far away.

RIP Club Penguin

2

Happy #Fossil Friday!

A few weeks ago at the LA County Natural History Museum, I snapped a shot of one of the most beautiful specimens I have ever seen—the Edmontosaurus skull up top. “But Josh,” you ask, “Why that specimen instead of the one below? It’s got like half of its beak broken off!” To which I answer, “Exactly.” The skull on top has preserved intact a large portion of the keratinous beak that would have covered its bones in life. Beaks deteriorate faster than bone, and are only preserved in extremely rare conditions; only a handfull have ever been found. You’ll notice that the Oxford skull beneath (credit), while a beautiful skull in its own right, has a much slimmer beak. This is because the keratin beak sheath was completely lost to rot and deterioration, leaving only the supporting bone beneath. It changes the shape of the mouth quite a bit, doesn’t it? As a paleo-artist I get excited by specimens like the half-beaked Edmontosaurus because soft tissue preservation offers a rare window into what the animal would have looked like before it was skeletonized by fossilization, as a living, breathing creature. Some of these glimpses are surprising—such as feathered fossils of meat-eating dinosaurs in China, or another Edmontosaurus fossil that shows it had a soft crest on top of its head. Finds like these change the way we portray prehistoric creatures in art, and sharpen the images of the animals held in our imaginations.

nature.com
Prehistoric Native Americans farmed macaws in 'feather factories'
Birds were spiritual emblems in pueblos of the southwestern United States and northern Mexico.

To ancient peoples of the American Southwest, a macaw’s brilliant feathers weren’t just adornments. They were status symbols and spiritual emblems — so precious, in fact, that macaws were kept in captivity and deliberately plucked of their plumage, new evidence suggests.

Macaw skeletons from three prehistoric pueblos in New Mexico bear signs of feather harvesting, according to analysis presented on 31 March at a meeting of the Society for American Archaeology in Vancouver, Canada. But the skeletons also hint that the macaws’ handlers went to great lengths to care for their demanding charges. “People were doing their utmost to keep them alive,” says Randee Fladeboe, an archaeologist at the University of Florida in Gainesville who analysed the macaw bones.

Archaeologists studying the ancient Native Americans called the Puebloans and nearby groups have found macaw bones and feathers dating from ad 300 to ad 1450 at sites ranging from Utah in the American Southwest to Chihuahua in Mexico. It is likely that many of these birds were imported; there is scanty evidence of macaw breeding, except at one Mexican site, and many macaws are tropical. The highly prized scarlet macaw (Ara macao), for example, lives at least 500 kilometres to the southeast.

Fladeboe examined the wing bones of 17 scarlet and military macaws (Ara militaris) from three pueblos. Fifteen of the birds had small bumps marring the upper surfaces of their wing bones.

A macaw’s flight feathers are rooted in the bone, so pulling them out can cause bleeding and infection, Fladeboe says. Multiple infections, or a combination of infection and malnutrition, lead to bumps like those on the skeletons. Macaws do sometimes yank out their own feathers, but the ancient bones show traces of multiple feather loss along their entire lengths and on both right and left wings. To Fladeboe, it seems unlikely that 15 of the 17 macaws she studied would strip themselves so methodically.

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Small, deprived North of England town Gothic

-The football team block off all the roads isolating you from the outside for months. You do not know how long the game has lasted for, and you have not seen an outsider in years. Even now you can hear eldritch chants from your window. It is 0-0.

-There are no shops anymore, except those decorated with strange hieroglyphic signs reading ‘Poundland’. You go outside. There are seventeen £1 shops and one 99p store on your street alone. Each night they get closer. You fear for your life. You fear for your soul. You fear they will come and take you away, and sell you for one pound. This would not surprise you at all. At this point, nothing can surprise you. “£1 please.”

-There are more pigeons than people. Your family are pigeons. You are a pigeon. You open your mouth to speak but only muffled coos come out. You scream. More pigeons come flying out from your broken beak, until they outnumber mankind altogether.

-It is bin day. It has always been bin day for as long as you can remember. When was it not bin day? It is bin day. It has always been bin day.

-The sky is grey and cloud-infested. You have never seen sunlight in your short, pitiful life. You may die without ever seeing light. Part of you thinks this might be a blessing. You fear what you do not know. You fear everything.

-Every building on your street is boarded up, something akin to a plague house from the 1600s. You hear moans coming from inside and walk quickly away, cursing David Cameron’s NHS cuts that mean you are forced to revert to the Old Ways. Or perhaps the Old Ways never truly went away. You go home and your grandmother who is 192 and lived through the War has a cold. It is time. You reach for the boards and a hammer.

-Wild plastic bags roam the streets, claiming children as their own and carrying them away to strange places. When they come home, they have a sheen to their skin. They are never the same afterwards.

-The Council announce they are cutting lifespan to 60, and then you will be sold off to organ harvesters. This is a just cause. You will make a difference. Your life will have had meaning. 

-You are surrounded by hundreds of identical children in varying uniforms. You do not think you have ever seen these children in school. You do not think schools exist, or do not remember schools existing. There are always children surrounding you, and they are always identical. They do not seem to age. Age is a meaningless concept.

-You get the bus into town, thanking the bus driver when you get off. You always remember to thank the bus driver. It is dangerous not to. You still bear the scars from last time you forgot. At night they throb and keep you awake, reminding you how lucky you were to come away from that alive.

-The football team hover in a strange ephemeral netherworld, a purgatory between promotion and relegation, looping between the two with Ourobourosian paradoxity. 

-The football ground is built on a swamp. It has claimed 17 lives today alone. Brackish water fills your lungs when you set foot inside. Make that 18 then.

-It is Christmas. Your neighbours houses are brightly lit enough to be seen from space. One of them sets up a vast inflatable Santa. You can hear the Santa laughing when you pass by, and remember that Santa is an anagram of Satan. 

-There is a busker in town. Nobody has given him any money. His case is full of disused currencies. He has been playing for a long time.

-A fair occupies the local park 13 months of every year. People who go in are not normally seen again. You think you might direct your relatives there in order to get rid of them.

Rough day but I love my cat

This will be long, and I’m sorry. I’m just really verbose.

Yesterday, we heard some crows making a huge fuss outside, and we figured it was crow fledging season. Later on, one was still around, and still making a fuss. My husband went outside to see if there was a fledge or something and found an injured crow hiding in our bushes. We couldn’t tell how bad due to the shadows, so we left a cup of water and some seed (we didn’t have any corn). Later, we saw it walk along our patio over to the covered area and huddle against the house. It was obviously unable to fly. I suggested we pull out my old HUGE rat cage and give it some shelter there, but still under our patio, until today when the government offices and such would be open. We have three cats and didn’t think bringing a wild bird inside would be good. For the cats or the bird.

So that’s what we did. And we saw just how bad it was. One wing was almost torn off and the lower beak was broken and hanging by a thread. But it was alert, and tried to get away. The other wing flapped strongly as I (with gloves) gently picked it up and put it in the cage. It’s feet and talons also had a good grip to them, even through my cut proof gloves.

Some vet tech friends of ours texted the vet to advice. The consensus was to wait until today and to call the local wildlife center.

I checked this morning when I left (at 4:30am) and it was alert and blinking at me and had moved across the cage. So I went to work. I called the center around 7:30 as they advised to take it to the 24hr county vet who would triage, evaluate, and then transfer it to a local crow rehabilitation person.

I was upset that I didn’t know that sooner but I couldn’t have known. My vet tech friends didn’t know. The vet himself didn’t know. No one knew that the emergency vet clinic also dealt with wildlife.

I had an eye appointment after work but it was fast and I did some rather illegal speeding to get home. I grabbed a carrier, stuffed some towels, and looked outside to the cage.

To find I was too late. By a while. It was already cold and stiff.

I took it to my yard and put it out of sight at the base of a tree. So at least something would benefit.

And now I’m a mess. And it’s starting to rain. And my cat who is TERRIFIED of thunder is plastered to my side. She turns and licks my arm every so often, but mostly just purrs.

And now I hear the crow calling. Just one. And I want to tell it I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I tried. I really tried.

New Monster Hunter Hunters

Alright, so you’re new to the community and all that, and I welcome you to it with open arms.
You may not be the best, you may kind of suck, but hey, that doesn’t matter!
When I got my first Monster Hunter game (it was 3 Ultimate), I was HORRID at it
Great Jaggi was a challenge, Azuros wrecked my ass, Royal Ludroths made me their bitch, and don’t even get me started on Barroth and Qurupeco

But, here I am now
I played through 4U, and I beat the single player for MHGen
And then I actually went back to 3U, and all those quests that I failed so often?
I can beat them with relative ease

I’m now the Great Jaggi’s Challenge
Azuros is finally the easy teddy bear people said he was
Royal Ludroths are MY bitch
Da-na-na-na can’t touch this, Barroth
And Qurupeco is gonna have trouble singing with a broken beak thing

I’m not trying to brag, I’m just trying to say
Don’t give up
Keep playing 
NEVER give up, just keep practicing 
Learn how a monster moves
Always eats meals

And
Never
Give
Up

I believe in you!
Draco, the Loner Glaive (My 4U hunter) believes in you
Neptune, the Aerial Warrior (My Gen hunter) believes in you

Never give up!!


HAPPY HUNTING!!

2

finished nyctosaur redesign for the good dinosaur

now with NO TEETH, a full coat of pycnofibres, vestigial hands, rounded leg-connecting wings, and tiny feet for walking

to compromise on a crest and to make him creepier, because he was pretty crepy in the movie, i gave him a broken crest as well as a broken beak and battle scars, because the dark moments of the movie were the only parts i really enjoyed,,

Kids Who Have it Easy at Home

It hurts to be vibrant;

To be terminally curious,

To be fatally willing to strike the match that will burn it all down in the name of adventure.

It’s a spiritual sort of teething:

A repeated tearing and re-stitching of the self,

A constant reconstruction of the rules.

Morals are picked up and, like roadblocks, pushed further and further from the self.

When the world will not permit chaos,

The perpetually dissatisfied will not permit the world.

From this denial of reality springs toxic desire,

And from desire grows a suffocating mania:

Everything must be blinding,

Everything must be set ablaze.

Peril flourishes in the stomachs of broken children with beaks always searching for flickers of danger.

And in the night, as they drift on chemical winds,

Beating gossamer wings of darkness,

The hunt begins for one last tragedy to swallow whole before bedtime.

Mummy’s Here

Originally posted by hardyness

The workshop was…well…cramped to say the least. A couple of occamy’s were set to hatch any minute now and Newt was bustling around making sure that they would be fed and loved the moment their tiny faces emerged from their silvery eggs. It was mayhem.

Coming back with an empty bucket after having fed the Graphorns, I gently swung open the workshop door just in time to see a couple of books topple from the shelves. I sighed and began to shoo away Dougal who had been attempting to climb up the stairs and out the case to find Newt.

“I know the Occamy’s are going to hatch soon and I know you’re excited but you can’t just leave whenever you feel like it to find Newt.” I told Dougal while gently reaching out to pick up the Demiguise. “Besides, he’ll be home soon and then you can voice your concerns.”

The Demiguise did not seem happy at the idea of waiting for Newt to come home, but let me him outside the workshop and put him right next to the Occamy nest. I returned to the workshop and began to pick up the books that the creature had knocked over. After finishing with the books, I began to rearrange some of the plants growing and watered them for good measure. I then washed the bucket out so it wouldn’t smell and was just about the leave the workshop to go check on Dougal when I heard the pattering of feet coming down the stairs. I turned and smiled as Newt appeared from the steps with a big bag of things.

“Food?”

“Just some extra things to restock our potions pantry and also some extra things for the Occamy’s.” He replied as he began to unpack the bag and put the ingredients into their respective spots.

“Dougal was in here earlier,” I told him and he raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, was he now?”

“Yes. He’s very concerned about the Occamy’s and wants you to go stand watching them with him until they hatch.” I laughed, “I would go check on him, but now that you’re here I’m going to go play with the Bowtruckles.”

“Oh always leaving me with the hard jobs I see,” Newt grinned as he stepped out of the workshop behind me and headed towards the Occamy’s. I heard him loudly talking to Dougal about when he thought that the Occamy’s were going to hatch. I rolled my eyes as I stood in front of the Bowtruckles.

“Hello everyone!” I told all the little stick creatures and a few waved back at me. I giggled and began to pick a few of them up and watch them walk on my fingers before returning to their tree. I entertained myself with this for a while, but eventually got distracted by the Fwooper and began to pet its bright pink head. “Hello pretty bird,” I told it as I scratched its head. It shook me off, apparently not in the mood for petting so I began to just wander around different enclosures, saying hello to all the animals.

“Y/N! Come quick!” I heard Newt’s voice echo throughout the case, and I turned and ran towards the Occamy’s.

“What’s wrong? What do you need?” I asked breathily while looking at Newt holding an egg.

“C’mere,” He almost whispered, completely entranced by the egg. I walked around to stand behind him and saw a little crack in the egg. I crouched down besides him and looked at the egg intently as I had never seen an Occamy hatch before. A few more cracks begin to appear on the egg and suddenly a little beak had broken out of the egg.

“This is amazing,” I gasped softly; Newt smiled and nodded while still looking at the egg. The egg broke even more and a little Occamy head poked out of it and looked at the both of us.

“Don’t worry little one, Mummy’s here.” Newt told the baby softly as he allowed it to wrap itself around his arm and he gently set it back in the nest. I peered into the nest, this was the first little Occamy baby to hatch and it began to make soft little noises.

“If you’re it’s Mummy, does that mean I’m its dad?” I asked jokingly as I turned to look back at him, Newt grinned at me.

Peering into the nest he again spoke softly, “Don’t worry Mummy’s here little one.” He looked at me with a smile and said, “And Daddy’s here too.”

A/N if you have any fun ideas for a Fantastic Beasts imagine lemme know and shoot me a fun ask and I’ll write it! Have a great day/night! :)

I think it’s amazing that people will get so mad about shit like, THATS STUFF YOU SHOULD GET MAD ABOUT YOU KNOW. Like everyone should get mad about abuse and racism and homophobia. Everyone should get mad about hate crimes. But when you’re a vegan and you’re mad because chickens get their beaks cut off ooooorrrrrr idk that pigs get stomped and kicked and stuffed into cages so small they can’t move or that cows get milked so. fucking. much. that they get delicious cysts in their udders that ends up leaking pus into your cups we get called crazy and get demonized.

No vegan is ever too mad do you fucking understand me. No vegan is ever too mad. If a vegan is upset and yelling and screaming about what’s going on, it’s because there’s a reason. Making fun of vegans for being mad is saying that you think it’s okay for cows to not make it to their fifth birthday because they’re over worked so much when naturally they can live well into their 20s. You’re saying it’s okay for calfs to be locked up in chains so heavy and so tight that they can’t move because then their muscles might get a little too tough to eat.

Right now theirs an animal suffering more than you could know, be it a cow with its tail docked or a chicken with its beak broken off and shoved into a cage, and one day that animal is going to make it onto your plate. You’re going to support the people that did that by taking a bite. Vegans have every right to be mad about it.

Once there were coyotes, cardinals
in the cedar. You could cure amnesia
with the trees of our back-forty. Once
I drowned in a monsoon of frogs—
Grandma said it was a good thing, a promise
for a good crop. Grandma’s perfect tomatoes.
Squash. She taught us to shuck corn, laughing,
never spoke about her childhood
or the faces in gingerbread tins
stacked in the closet.

She was covered in a quilt, the Creek way.
But I don’t know this kind of burial:
vanishing toads, thinning pecan groves,
peach trees choked by palms.
New neighbors tossing clipped grass
over our fence line, griping to the city
of our overgrown fields.

Grandma fell in love with a truck driver,
grew watermelons by the pond
on our Indian allotment,
took us fishing for dragonflies.
When the bulldozers came
with their documents from the city
and a truckload of pipelines,
her shotgun was already loaded.

Under the bent chestnut, the well
where Cosetta’s husband
hid his whiskey—buried beneath roots
her bundle of beads. They tell
the story of our family. Cosetta’s land
flattened to a parking lot.

Grandma potted a cedar sapling
I could take on the road for luck.
She used the bark for heart lesions
doctors couldn’t explain.
To her they were maps, traces of home,
the Milky Way, where she’s going, she said.

After the funeral
I stowed her jewelry in the ground,
promised to return when the rivers rose.

On the grassy plain behind the house
one buffalo remains.

Along the highway’s gravel pits
sunflowers stand in dense rows.
Telephone poles crook into the layered sky.
A crow’s beak broken by a windmill’s blade.
It is then I understand my grandmother:
When they see open land
they only know to take it.

I understand how to walk among hay bales
looking for turtle shells.
How to sing over the groan of the county road
widening to four lanes.
I understand how to keep from looking up:
small planes trail overhead
as I kneel in the Johnson grass
combing away footprints.

Up here, parallel to the median
with a vista of mesas’ weavings,
the sky a belt of blue and white beadwork,
I see our hundred and sixty acres
stamped on God’s forsaken country,
a roof blown off a shed,
beams bent like matchsticks,
a drove of white cows
making their home
in a derailed train car.

—  Leaving Tulsa - Jennifer Elise Foerster
After party (Closed)

(Moved from the initial ask for easy sorting)

@kaaras-adaar

The celebration of the Inquisitor’s birthday had left the fortress in a bit of a mess. The last few days, after celebrating, Kaaras had spent much time cleaning the halls up. He knew Josephine would have been planning something, but not that kind of something!

It was his first birthday celebrated with so many other people. The Valo-Kas made it important, but they were only so few. Here, at Skyhold? Apparently it was a party for everyone. And there had been lots of cake. So much cake. It was amazing.

Tired from another day of cleaning up, he grabbed the railing to the stairs up to his quarters, feet thumping up them heavily, almost dragging as he got up them. The evening had the black dragon shadowing half of his room, and he moved over to the door, pleased to see Whildaer’s safe return.

Sliding the door aside, he squeezed himself out, barely, since the dragon was taking up so much space. “Welcome back,” he smiled, though wincing a little as his stomach made a pained noise. He’d eaten way too much cake in the last few days.

The creature would shift a little bit so Kaaras had some space to move out on. His remaining wing supporting his body from the roof while his legs took a spot wherever they could find to hold him against the edge.

“Too much cake?” he chuckled a little, bringing his head down to very gently nuzzle the man, ensuring to avoid his stomach with his broken beak. “I had heard it was quite the celebration, I’m ashamed that I had ta miss it.” Whildaer chuckled as he tilted his head a little to have the reddish orange eye look the man over. “Ya look tired too? Birthday boy has ta clean up his own party???”