As someone who loves snakes, I really love Snake. Of course that also means I really love his snakes, and as someone who’s always been kind of a biology nerd, I thought to try my hand at classifying them. This was honestly really fun to do, and I hope some of you enjoy it!
…. says Keats.
Starting with my personal favorite, Emily is without a doubt a kingsnake, and if we want to go further she’s most likely a red milk snake. The distinctive pattern, bands of yellow and black on red, are actually a trademark of many kingsnake species. This clever disguise is used to mimic the venomous coral snake, keeping predators away.
Some fun kingsnake lore, these constrictors got their name because they hunt and consume other snakes when given the opportunity. They even hunt rattlesnakes, and have a high immunity to their venom.
Next we have Oscar, who is most definitely a red-tailed green ratsnake. Don’t be fooled by the name, their tails are typically not red, but a light brown. Oscar was also very easy to identify, the tail and the cute blue tongue really gave it away.
Interestingly, this species is known for having quite the attitude when kept in captivity, which I find translates well into Oscar’s cheeky personality. These snakes are also exceptional hunters, waiting in treetops to strike birds in mid-flight.
My second favorite noodle, Donne, is a tiny little thing called a blind snake. At first I thought he might be a worm snake, but the length and lack of eyes made me reconsider (blind snakes have very small rudimentary eyes that are barely visible, especially from a distance). These little cuties are harmless, and indeed small enough to sit on the human ear, at only 8 cm long (they can grow up to 16 cm, but not usually).
This dazzling noodle here is a corn snake, but not just a corn snake. Goethe is partially albino! If the striking fluorescent orange coloring and pretty pink eyes weren’t enough, he’s got a lovely pattern that certainly screams “creamsicle” to me.
Unlike Oscar, corn snakes make lovely pets with even temperaments, second only to ball pythons (though I guess I’m a little biased).
Unlike Goethe, Keats is completely albino… which made pinpointing him a little difficult. It also doesn’t help that he has no patterning whatsoever. So, going by the shape of his face and his total size, I’d say Keats is most likely an albino gopher snake.
This one was a little tricky, despite his pattern it was difficult to pinpoint what Wordsworth could possibly be. After mulling it over, I realized he’s a corn snake. Though the pattern might look a little different, it follows the same rule, and the head and pupil shape match.
A good rule of thumb, if the pupil is round and the head is small, it’s most likely a constrictor. Venomous snakes tend to have slit pupils and skinny necks (and big fat heads). This helps identifying to some degree.
Wilde is a big ol’ snake most people know, a boa constrictor. As far as they go, he’s certainly tiny, but his face and body shape are near identical (the pear shaped head is pretty indicative of large constrictors).
Despite being fairly small for a boa, Wilde is still a hefty snake, and would probably weigh upwards of 20-27 kg. That’s a lot to hold on your shoulders!
Unlike the rest of Snake’s snakes, Webster stands out in that he’s the only venomous one here. His pattern, bright yellow eyes, and slit pupils all indicate that he’s a copperhead. Another difference between venomous and non-venomous snakes, the fangs are only prominent in venomous snakes (non-venomous snakes don’t need to pump venom, so their teeth are smaller and hook-shaped). Despite being a pit viper, copperhead’s venom has a low potency, and the snake themselves are considered none aggressive.
Despite searching through almost every arc and skimming through the ovas, the only panels I’ve found of Bronte were of absolutely no help… I can’t even fathom what he might be. He is… a mystery.
ugh the girl squad this seasons haven't been good friends to sana at all!! vilde is so fake!!! noora is so fake!!! snakes!!!! ugh i can't stand sara and the pepsi max squad. they are such snakes.
*looks at sara & the girls* ugh girls. (as in sara & the pepsi max squad) fake fake fake.
OMG ISAK IS SEXIST. OMG. WHY DOESN'T ANYONE CALL HIM OUT????? O M G !!!!
@tapel0rd has inspired me to look more into Jojo’s bizarre adventure. There is certainly a huge amount to catch up and i don’t think i’m going to make it (or even attempt to read the whole thing). but “Diamond is unbreakable” is quite enjoyable.
I honestly luv drawing the stands! they are so awesome (i enjoy them bit more than the main human casts) their designs are simply amazing!!! i can’t get enough of drawing Killer Queen <3
I never used Mithra in Persona 3 or 4 because of it’s awful design but I fused one in Persona 5 who ended up being my MVP for a little whole so… I wanted to be nice to him and give him a better posture I guess. I feel like this is the first Mithra fanart from any SMT game…?
Tried out some different settings that in an attempt to make quicker, looser pics, and it worked fairly well until the snake of all things threw me for a loop. If the shape was a little off in one area it made the whole thing look off. Any non-snake related pictures should go quicker though!
A/N: This fic takes place right after the sheriff’s office scene and Papa Jones leaving Jughead. It was requested by @tsmiimitchie . I hope I did it justice, hun! <3 Thank you very much!
“Yeah. I believe you, dad.”
Jughead’s words flowed from his mouth
without much subsistence, while he bobbed his head weakly. He could
still feel his dad’s cold hands messily cupping his face, then the
drag of his fingers down the sides of his head as if he was trying to
remember every feature of his son. The Jones had one common feature –
their eyes clinging to hope. His father did try, he did, or at least
the teen let himself believe he was. His dad waited for his son’s
approval before giving a faint smile and then his boots clunked
against the pavement as he turned away. Jughead could feel his chest
tighten, his heart begin to chip, his body hunching forward somewhat
in attempt to keep himself from falling completely apart. The tears
were beginning to pool in his eyes, but before he turned to face his
friend and girlfriend, he wiped them away.
Feeling sadness, abandonment were
something Jughead Jones was used to. The phone calls with his mother
weren’t enough to make up for the fact she packed up, along with
Jellybean, and moved in with his grandmother. The question that
weighed on his mind was why didn’t she try harder? Why didn’t she try
to keep their father from going down the liquor-comforting path? But
once he learned about his father’s side job, after being fired from
the construction gig, he couldn’t hold it against his mother.
Jellybean needed stability, especially since she was still in a
fragile age. Jughead was always wise beyond his years. He was ahead
in classes and got bored easily. The teachers would gush to his
mother about how brilliant he was, but his behavior was always
questionable. Attempting to burn down a school wasn’t something
parents would share with friends over tea.
Once the boy seemed to pull himself
together in that moment, Jughead shuffled towards Betty’s direction.
She was immediately by his side without missing a beat. Her warm
hand, such a contrast to what he felt a few seconds ago, was pressed
against affectionately against his cheek. The boy’s hand touched the
middle of her back, ushering her slowly away from the sheriff’s
office. The two teens meandered away from the mess, Betty’s arm
tangled around his. They loosely intertwined their fingers as they
continued down the path.
No words were spoken until they were a
safe distance away from the building where Jughead was being accused
of murder. It was ridiculous, Jughead thought, that the law
enforcement believed he was capable of taking another life. The
sheriff tried to paint a fictitious picture, motive, as to why
Jughead was an ideal suspect in the case. The teen’s head couldn’t
wrap around it. He had rage tendencies, but his family was drifting
apart, he thought they were justified. Betty didn’t allow him to
defend himself to her - she believed him. It was something he
was in desperate need of. Someone who didn’t pass judgment on him
because of his stupid file and where he grew up. Everyone in town
knew his dad as the drunk. The last thing the teen wanted was that
stigma floating over him like a dark cloud. He’d be damned if he was
going to pay for his father’s sins.
“Juggie…” Betty’s voice was small
and cautious. They had been walking for awhile, with no real
destination in mind, just holding hands and keeping each other close.
The raven-haired boy’s head was hanging downward and finally lifted
when he heard her speak. Their eyes locked with one another and they
held the gaze for a moment. The girl stood in front of him and held
the side of his face, watching him lean into her comforting touch.
Her smile wasn’t forced, but he could see she was fighting back a
frown. Her red lips were stuck between showcasing felicity and utter
woe. He turned his head and planted a sweet, tender kiss on her
wrist. The over exaggerated smack of his lips echoed, but he kept his
lips lingering against her soft skin, bumping his nose playfully
against her palm. A tiny, breathy laugh left her chest as she pushed
his face back towards her, raising her eyebrows as if silently saying
on like half of my otacon drawings ive put in references to monster musume with the burning hope that someone someday will come forward and recognize them but, time after time, no one does… im betrayed.
Sunday Respite - A Bountiful Bar-full of Fantasy Beers and Liquors
Ah, alcohol. It’s something that I, as a person (rather than an amorphous blog), rarely even touch outside of the realms of tabletop and electronic RPGs. I find its flavour to be sickly, its strength to be grotesque, but its value as a story-telling and world-building tool to far out-weigh its less than palatable taste. The food - and therefore, drink - of a culture can be just as clear of a clue into its intricacies as that of an exhaustive recital of their far-gone history. Or, as I prefer to put it; one good drink is worth ten-thousand words. There, some wisdom with your blog-post.
So here, gathered upon my shelves and cabinets, are the finest ales, wines, liquors, and spirits known to human tongues and hearts. They shine with a certain heavenly glimmer as the sunlight bounces off of their smiling faces and hand-scribed labels. Yet the greatest glow is the warmth they gift from inside your gut. So, please, drink away, or simply peruse for as long as you wish; I have plenty and to spare.
Slick, dark liquor, served in small, dainty bottles of barely 4-inches in height. They are corked with a rubber cylinder with a ring-pull affixed at their top, decorated with the ivory-white silhouette of a cat’s head on the bottle. The fluid itself fizzes and burns the mouth and throat like piping-hot tea, flavoured with the spiced, exotic flair of those outland folk who care to experiment with their foods beyond salt and honey. The more easily intoxicated drinker may find that they are unable to talk for hours after drinking Black-Cat, as their tongue lolls about their mouth like a limp, wet fish.
This drink is apparently sourced from the sap of a mangrove tree in the swampy lowlands. It is collected by the native folk of the region in tubes of bamboo, and sold on as a packaged beverage for good coin in healthy, regular bouts of trade. The drink is a pale-yellow, ichorous, fluid that turns to syrup if left in direct sunlight. It is sweet, almost like honey, and is strong enough to even turn a barrel-chested regular of the most rugged of taverns into a babbling infant after only two, full pipes. The good news is that drinkers always say they awaken the day after with a clear head full of healthy, happy dreams.
The truth is that noone truly understands just where Hagspit is brewed, or if it even is anymore. Whenever it seems that the alehouses in bustling cities and distant hamlets alike run down to their last few stout pint-bottles of the stuff, there is always a full crate of the stuff forgotten at the back of the cellar. It’s not exactly a popular drink either. It’s colouring is a sickly and inconsistent swilling of ocean blues and moldy greens that stain the teeth and putrefy the breath. Apparently though, with enough of the stuff downed in one sitting, you could find yourself getting stung through the heart by a fat, black scorpion and hardly even lose a heartbeat in response. If you ever need to wade knee-deep into a wasp nest or risk a poisoning at a suspect banquet; drink a full pint of Hagspit and tip your barman well.
The Rootwater recipe is as varied between one town and another as the people who drink it. The drink itself is little more than a brewing process where the gaps in the ingredient list are filled-in by whatever is at hand in place of what was more common further down the road. One town may have a specific vegetable root listed, but in the next settlement down, that root may not grow there. So, instead of wasting trade on that root by itself, they replace it with a ground-up beetle shell that is more-or-less the same. That same beetle may be replaced by a rare mineral extract, chemical compound, magical mixture, or entirely secret additive that is only known to that brewer alone, further adding to the mystery of the Rootwater recipe. It wouldn’t be too obscure to hear of turf-wars or violent disputes between rival, neighboring breweries and their respective appreciators alike.
‘Smoke’ is a rather literal name for the entirely unbranded and unlabeled glass hip-flasks sold at snake-oil stands across the nation. Within the curved, polished glass is a half-pint of swirling, smokey, grey air. When un-capped and poured into a glass or open mouth, the smoke pools and slowly begins to liquefy into a silvery fluid after a few, brief moments. ‘Smoke’ is a supposedly luxurious drink that can, at once, ‘heighten your spirits, senses, and stature’ - according to the grinning salesmen that speak ever so highly of each of their products whilst eagerly counting their coin when your back is turned. The reality is not quite as perfect, as the drink is intensely alcoholic. An imbiber will stumble around the streets after a single swig, but the drunkenness only lasts for a mere hour, or even less. A favourite of lunch-break drinkers and those looking to enjoy themselves in the evening, but at no expense of their morning.