☽ he keeps a moonstone on him as it helps regulate his “feral” nature ☽ never in lazytown at night ☽ only awake in the morning, afternoon, and late afternoon, but never after sundown ☽ tells kids they don’t have to take others’ lives to have fun ☽ hood hides his wolf-like ears ☽ blep ☽ was able to get into lazytown bcos stephanie broke the spell (that prevented werewolves from entering) all around the town ☽ he refuses to eat fresh meat and refuses to kill any living thing, so he eats meat of animals/humans that have already died beforehand (rather, he does not kill to eat) ☽
i am in the woods harvesting moss. handful after handful, lifting up these clumps of wild forest to fill the walls of my cabin.
i am harvesting moss because i will not use fiberglass. i do not want the industry that allows for the creation of fiberglass to exist.
i am harvesting moss because i will not use cellulose, broken down from old newspapers because people are no longer in tribe and no longer share their stories face to face.
i am harvesting moss because i have chosen to make my home in a place that is sixty miles upriver from the nearest post office, where i might conceivably have all these manufactured items shipped in at great cost if i wanted a modern home. but i do not.
i am harvesting moss because it is what the earth offers here for insulation. it carpets the forest in emerald profusion, and despite my efforts, there is still moss in every direction as far as the eye can see.
i am harvesting moss because this is one thing the women in this part of the world have done for time out of mind. their hands, my hands, feeling the moist earth, the sheltering richness, pulling up these tufts of life giving warmth, looking up at the sunlight streaming through the spruce trees… this is what i am meant for. while the red squirrel sits in the treetop tossing spruce cones over her shoulder, building her winter hoard, i pull plants from the earth to line my nest.
i am harvesting moss, because i want to be the best animal i can be. the moss is what is here, not fiberglass, not cellulose. no stores, no money. just green life and the promise of a warm den in winter. just this silence. just this moment. my fingers reach down into another patch of moss, and we are timeless.
You're my best friend, now stop trying to hug me to death!
Our feral wild child nature magus had a little too much to drink one night on the ship, and had accidentally started to choke on some basic rations (a wooden stool) he was eating. Our fighter rushed into action.
Fighter: I roll to Heimlich!
DM: roll athletics
*rolls a 1*
DM: You attempt to help him by going up to grapple him, but he, in his drunken stupor, thinks you are trying to attack him. While choking, he is actively fighting you off with little baby slaps.
Eventually, they save the magus. The fighter feels bad, and tries to help him again.
Fighter: Can I just help him into bed and lock the door so he doesn’t get into any more trouble?
DM: Roll for it.
DM: You bring him down to his cabin, clean him off, tuck him in, hand him his stuffed owlbear plushy, read him a story, and put him to sleep. You are now his best friend.
Around two years ago, photographer Julia Fullerton-Batten encountered one such tale in the book The Girl with No Name. “The book tells the story of Marina Chapman, who as a 5-year old was kidnapped from her home and then left completely alone in a jungle in Columbia,” Fullerton-Batten explained to The Huffington Post. “She survived for five years by co-existing with a band of capuchin monkeys, living a completely feral existence, before being ‘rescued’ and experiencing other misadventures.”
The Wolf lurks in the shadows at the edge of my existence, Outlawed and banished for his feral nature, But ever present and watchful for a chance to possess me, He will come as I need him, with galdr to invoke, Dance, breath and chants are the flesh for his feast, His approach is instant, his instinct released, As his essence takes control it protects and empowers, With one hand I restrain his fury to avoid being devoured, The surge burns intensely within the grip of óðr, Divine madness brings recognition from the Sigföðr, Bargaining a coalition, harmonising Fenrisúlfr and Týr, A man of Óðinn marches forth as an embodiment of the great spear, A weapon in his hands, manifested as gungnir, The úlfheðinn is born, let all enemies know fear.
Only it was … not a wolf? It stood upright, its face covered by a fierce animalistic mask. Its clothes—his clothes—were strange and oppressively dark, a tattered cape covering his broad shoulders, the opposite of the snowy cape she wore over her simple dress. He wasn’t a wolf, but she could sense his feral nature. And in his hand—in his hand was a sword covered in flames, a weapon for an angel … or a devil.
@blutrippe Quite the contrary he loves vampires, he loves how they act and their feral nature and their sharp teeth (especially how fun pulling them out is) he loves how they get when starved of blood he loves how quickly they heal after a good beating. To put it simply he has an extreme fetish for vampires. He’s well known in both the hunter community and the vampire community and is heavily feared in the latter