ooo take a nap in the forest ooOOo let the nature claim your soul oo nothing can go wrong ever, just trust me

Moorland Research Notes

I usually let these sit in my drafts because they're kinda messy, but no one actually knows anything about moorland, including myself shortly before starting this deep dive. So I'm just going to post this in the hopes that it's useful in some way

This post is about moorland in the UK, I have not done any research into moorland in other places, and then I focused more specifically on lowland heath.

Feel free to use this information for anything you so desire, and check out the sources I put at the bottom of this list if you'd like to learn more. I really hope this helps out WindClan Fans in particular

I do plan to condense what I've learned and chosen into a "Welcome to BB!WindClan!" type post at some point, but this is a REALLY broad post on what moorland is.

What is moorland?

Moorland is a broad term that lumps together several completely unique biomes, most of which are partially or completely reliant on the management of human beings. They are defined by low-growing flora and acidic soils, which makes them difficult for non-specialist plants to grow in.

These can be sorted further into upland or lowland, dry or wet.

Because many types of moorland are dominated by heathers, they are also called heathlands. Though the terms Moor and Heath are sometimes used interchangeably (and this is where a lot of confusion comes from), usually, Moor refers to upland/wet, and Heath refers to lowland/dry.

I have to stress a that LOT of the confusion is coming from this. Heather will grow in both, and the terms get used interchangeably, but an upland/wet moor is FUNDAMENTALLY different from a lowland/dry heath, down to the very soil.

Most specialists will open up an explanation by defining how they're using the Moor/Heath distinction, and will stick to those terms, but just keep in mind that in casual language, ALL of these biomes get called moors, and places without any heather will get called heath.

They can also touch. There are locations where upland moor slopes into lowland heath, or upland heath kisses lowland moor, and there can be very special species that exist in the transitional space between these areas. This too is yuri.

It is not a prairie. It is not a savanna. Please for the love of god stop portraying moorland as prairies and savannas

lots of purple. why he ourple? heathers and purple moorgrass.

Common heather is also called ling, flowery bell heathers are sometimes called erica, and gorse can be called whin or furze

Maritime heath, dune heath, blanket bog, upland moor, transitional upland heath... these are all frequently lumped under the same term even though they are very different.

How are moorlands managed?

Above 700 meters of altitude and in harsh weather conditions, you get montane heath. Near coastlines, you can find maritime heath. These are the only two that are completely "natural" and require no human management.

In wet moors, the elements will beat the vegetation down into peat. Above the peat is turf, the top layer which grows the visible flora. Peat = below, Turf = above. Peat has historically been used as a fuel, and if that bottom layer catches fire, IT IS DISASTROUS.

Because of this, most upland moors (which are usually wet and PACKED with peat) are managed primarily through grazing. There are even breeds of sheep and cattle who have been specially bred to thrive in upland moors-- such as the iconic highland cow. (Though overgrazing can be a problem, too.)

Sheep are used to graze back the heather (sometimes called ling), and in good modern practice, goats are brought out along with the flock to eat pioneering shrubs and saplings. Pigs are also used to control bracken and combat ex-pine plantations with scattered needles, because of their ability to churn soil.

However, controlled burns are still done in some circumstances and when required (LIKE BEFORE A HEATWAVE). Because of the serious danger, it's considered inferior to good grazing management. It's done carefully, in controlled patches, both to not set the underlayer of peat on fire and to make sure there is differently-aged patches of flora in one area to support different species of animals.

If peat catches on fire, it will burn for days or weeks... and can even smoulder underground after you THINK it's been put out.

In DRY LOWland heath, proper burning is common. Gorse and heather grows strong, woody, and flammable, and the thin layer of peat below can combine to devastating results when a wildfire does eventually break out. Large swaths of dry heather and gorse is an ecological powderkeg, even if it was only growing on mineral soil.

Worse, the older heather gets, the woodier it becomes. Woody heather can cause high-temperature fires that absolutely devastates new growth, leading to a slower recovery and causing a controlled burn to become uncontrolled real fast.

Burns are typically conducted in winter, when it's cold, and grazing animals are deployed in summer.

Cutting is also important in lowland management, literally cutting out squares of turf to expose the ground. This is good for mason bees, specifically.

Moorland. Is. Flammable. Fire risk = HIGH.

If you do not manage the moorland, the moorland will manage YOU. with FIRE.

Do NOT set the peat layer on fire. Whatever you do, do NOT let the peat get set on fire. PEAT FIRE BAD.

The controlled burning of moorland is "swaling", or a "muirburn."

Pigs and goats have special abilities when used in grazing management

Pigs are a tactical nuke

Sheep will graze heather a lot harder than cattle, causing grassy "sward". They should be kept away from it in winter.

MOORLAND IS NOT GRASSLAND. Sward BAD.

Cattle will graze moorgrass a lot harder than sheep and bite back any sheep-induced sward, but trample the soil with their heavy hooves.

Bones tell me about the funny cat environments

Victoria Holmes (the original writer of Warrior Cats, for those who have just walked in, still in your bathrobe and perhaps comically eating some sort of breakfast bagel, on a cat giving a detailed ecological lecture to a bunch of other cats) has spoken about how she based the environment of the Forest Territories on New Forest, Hampshire UK.

[ID: New Forest's heathland on a misty morning. It's dominated by common heather with a few sparse trees, and a New Forest Pony grazing alone.]

That means that WindClan's moor was a lowland heath, characterized by sandy soils with excellent drainage. This is consistent with the thin layer of peat, deeper layers of sandy soil and clay (as encountered by tunnelers), and lush vegetation that's seen in DOTC and Tallstar's Revenge.

If that's not enough evidence, it's also described after its destruction in these terms;

New Forest boasts some of the widest swaths of well-managed lowland heath in the entire UK. It's been managed collectively for hundreds of years, and exists in tandem with bogs and old-growth forest for miles. The heath is just as important as the trees, here!

In TNP, the forest is tragically bulldozed to create suburbs. While they were at it, they also bulldozed the geography of Great Britain because, suddenly, there is a MOUNTAIN in Southeastern England; a region notoriously flatter than the Onceler's ass

So once the Clan cats get to the Lake territories, we could be dealing with a completely different biome. They might have gone from dry, lowland heath, to wet, upland moor.

However, descriptions of the new territory are scarce, to put it lightly. In spite of the Lake Territory being the setting for the past 20 years, WindClan's land is rarely shown. When we do get a glimpse of it, like in Crowfeather's Trial, we only get told about the presence of certain species such as gorse. Because of there being no tunneling, we don't know what's exactly below the surface, either.

Occasionally though we are made aware of the presence of "moorgrass" (possibly Molinia Caerulea) and the smell of peat, pointing towards it probably being upland moor. The bigger question is actually where all the sheep are? There should be a lot of sheep here, but instead, there only seems to be horses.

Aaaaand lastly before I close out on canon material, Lungwort.

Lungwort is a herb that becomes a plot device in A Vision of Shadows. ShadowClan becomes sick with a variant of greencough, and it is said that Lungwort would be its only cure. However, it "only grows in WindClan" and the leader, Onestar, has refused to let them have this medicine.

But lungwort doesn't grow on moorland. ESPECIALLY not wet, upland moor, which we might maybe possibly be dealing with now.

Lungwort is a FOREST plant, it needs the absolute opposite conditions of a moorland. It requires moist but well-drained ground, FERTILE soil, and full or partial shade. There's no way that WindClan has it and ShadowClan doesn't, OR its neighbor ThunderClan, in the WOODS, who Onestar has no power over.

It would also poison a cat but honestly 75% of the plants they use in canon would also do that, so, whatever.

What they SHOULD have gone for is great mullein which prefers full sun and well-drained soils, so it could feasibly be found best in some parts of WindClan, regardless of which sort of moor or heath primarily makes up their territory.

What sorts of plants are found in moorlands?

In moorlands, you'll find plants that can withstand poor soil quality and full sun. In upland moors, they also have to be hardy in frequent heavy rains and high winds. Because it has conditions that so few plants are able to handle, moorland is chock-full of specialists and unique species that aren't found anywhere else!

Historically, moorland could not be used for agriculture exactly because of this. With the invention of artificial fertilizers and introduction of (invasive) pines from America, moorland is under serious threat. Even if it's just next to a pine plantation, the trees will attempt to spread.

COMMON HEATHER, also called Ling, is the big bad boy associated with most moorland, and used for a bajillion different things. First of all, it was used in construction for thatching. Second of all, it can be used as a yellow dye, especially on wool. Third, honey made from heather pollen is as thick as jelly. It's found on all sorts of moorland, and is an extremely hardy species.

BELL HEATHER, sometimes called Erica, is more commonly associated with lowland heaths. It's one of the best flowers for pollinators in the entire world, and attracts tons of insects.

GORSE, also called Whin or Furze, smells overwhelmingly like coconut. It is also covered in wicked thorns. It's highly flammable and can burn ridiculously hot, making it excellent to collect as kindle.

PURPLE MOORGRASS is associated with upland moor, but will grow basically anywhere nothing else could. It's scary hardy, surviving in acidic soil down to a PH of 2 (THAT IS THE SAME LEVEL AS YOUR STOMACH JUICE), and can grow as tall as 4 feet (and even taller, apparently, next to its bestie girls heather and gorse).

In heath, tormentil, milkwort, and heath bedstraw are indicator herbs, and wavy hair-grass, bristle bent, and vernal grasses are found here and there.

PLEASE remember that moorland is not grassland. When grasses go from sparse to common, it's a very bad sign. It means the soil is losing its acidity, and converting into a different biome.

Bramble, bracken, nettles, perennial ryegrass, and broadleaf plantain are some of the species that can indicate that a heath is becoming a grassland. A few patches or examples are fine, but if they're eating into the gorse/heather/moorgrass, it's time to call in some management.

There's also the fascinating, parasitic plant called dodder. Dodder likes to twirl around heather before suffocating it to death. Cool plant! I don't know where else to mention dodder. I just think it's neat.

Threats to Moorland

I mentioned the problems in passing through this whole post, but to restate, these are some of the major problems that moorland faces.

AFFORESTATION: When trees are added.

[ID: A sitka spruce plantation on upland moor in Scotland, followed by a clip of Markiplier who condemns it in no uncertain terms.]

American pines, such as the douglas fir and sitka spruce don't belong here. These are commercial plantations and they exist to make money, but are touted as "eco friendly" because uneducated rubes think 1 Tree = 1 Ecology Point. They provide diddly or squat to native wildlife, destroy valuable moorland which can negatively impact carbon capture, and let fools pat themselves on the back for doing nothing but put government money into a logging company's pocket.

(there are also only 3 native conifers to Great Britain-- the scotch pine, the common juniper, and the yew. All others are introduced.)

But even worse than being a wooden blight, these are wooden blights that spread. If there's a plantation nearby, it WILL begin to encroach on the surrounding moorland, and the traditional sheep and cattle will not eat the saplings. GOATS are being added to herds in modern grazing management to combat this new problem.

The native birches (silver and downy) plus the scotch pine will also move in when moorland is not managed! They are pioneer species, which success the moor into secondary woodland.

OVERBURNING: When moorland is burned too much.

Even if you don't set the peat on fire and cause an even bigger problem, too much burning is bad for the biome as well. This is often done to serve hunters, who want to perpetually keep common heather in the youngest state possible to support grouse populations... and grouse populations alone.

Properly managed moorland will be burned in sections, NOT all at once, so that there's a healthy mix of plants in different ages to provide shelter and food to the animals that live in the environment. Too much burning will decimate the insect population, and prevent peat buildup.

("Hold on Elder Bones, why is peat good?" Carbon capture and soil acidity! It's super efficient at combating global warming, and peaty soils will prevent the moor from quickly succeeding into a grassland.)

NUTRIENT ENRICHMENT: De-acidifying the soil and making the soil welcoming to other species

Specifically from dog and horse droppings, but also from the addition of fertilizers. The biggest thing that can be a problem here is how conservationists try to balance public access to these spaces with the "recreation pressure" from having too many visitors.

SOURCES

I have had to do SO MUCH READING. OH my god, this was not easy research, please appreciate this big, beautiful list of resources I am giving to you

GREAT BRITISH LIFE: A really good intro to heathland (This article was written by Katie Piercy from the Cheshire Wildlife Trust)

WILDLIFE TRUST: Heathland and Moorland, Moorland, Lowland Heath, Cheshire Heath, Bell Heather, The Roaches

BUGLIFE: Upland heath as it relates to insect populations (website contains insect-centric guides to many unique UK biomes)

NEW FOREST: Heathland information and history

NATIONAL TRUST: Bickerton Hill and the Restoration Work

WIKIPEDIA: The Roaches, Yorkshire Dales, Heath, Moorland (listen kids, wikipedia is always a great place to start. Just make sure to double-check the claims you see there.)

COUNTRY LIFE: A flowery article that describes the North York Moors (this one's just really pleasant!)

AN ACTUAL LOWLAND HEATH ECOLOGIST: Dr. Sophie Lake's Presentation for the NPMS (This is the most detailed and proper source on this list, if you want to learn some serious info, PLEASE check this one out)

Spider in a desert village at night in Minecraft.

The village is called Sandspear Oasis.

Welcome to Sandspear Oasis, a hidden gem nestled amidst the rolling dunes of Minecraft's vast desert biome. This quaint village is an unexpected burst of life in the arid wilderness, a testament to the resilience and ingenuity of its inhabitants.

The architecture of Sandspear Oasis is a marvel, with buildings crafted from sunbaked clay and sandstone, their flat roofs perfect for catching the rare desert rain. Intricate blue and turquoise tiles add a splash of color, reflecting the vibrant spirit of the villagers.

At the heart of the village is the life-giving well, around which the community's daily life revolves. Lush greenery, a rare sight in the desert, surrounds this vital water source, and here, villagers grow their crops – mainly cacti and melons, perfectly adapted to the harsh climate.

One of the most striking features of Sandspear Oasis is its innovative irrigation system, a network of small canals that distribute water from the well to the entire village. This system is a testament to the villagers' ingenuity in harnessing and maximizing their limited resources.

The villagers themselves are a hearty and welcoming bunch, skilled in crafting and trading. They are particularly known for their exquisite glasswork and intricate tapestries, which depict the history and legends of Sandspear Oasis.

As night falls, the village transforms. Lanterns hanging from the buildings bathe the streets in a warm glow, and the air fills with the sound of villagers sharing stories and music under the starlit sky.

Adventurers who stumble upon Sandspear Oasis will find not only a refuge from the scorching desert sun but also a vibrant community brimming with culture, innovation, and a deep connection to the unforgiving land they call home.

Was reminded I made this last year for something GISH

Unity, a land that holds every land biome, I entered the region in ths east and entered the bay held by the hook, I visited fox isle known for the shells and drift wood that collects, quite fascinating indeed. The people built homes of sand reeds and grasses, they were angled in a way that cut through wind no matter the direction and was weaved so tight not a drop of water could find its way through.  I entered my boat and found myself on Heart of All Isle beautiful stones and sea glass cover its shore. The people there made jewelry and we traded twine and hemp for a few of these magnificent pieces. We rested for a meal then set off to the claw, we rested for the night. In the morning we climbed along the stoney surface of the claw and made our way to the salt ridge, on the way we met those that live on the claw, they had brilliant armors and weapons made from the slate beaches, we traded a Canon for a axe and had beautiful carvings of the Moon and the sun, and then the Sida dunes, it became hard to climb through the sand white as snow and as soft as silk. We were told by our guide the legends say the sand was once diamonds burnt by a star. We found the locals of the dunes they haf sleds that distributed them so they wouldn't sink in the sands, and great sails that caught them winds and carried them. They brought us to out next destination, the Dusty hills. The sand over the years had blown its way into the grassy hills there we found people who had made houses of sand and mud and grasses grew atop solidify the homes to the earth and protecting its top. We spent the night and were fed fowl and rabbits, we landed them grain to grow and taught them the artistry of bread. The temperature temperature began to drop and we made it to frost forest no people lived here and we only made a stop to change order garments then we headed across the rivers and into Unity peaks. Their were flurries in the hair and you could still smell the salt on the air. We spent two nights by the Unity Lake, small crystals lay in wake of the lake. But we were told by those of the Dusty Hills to not touch the crystals for they hold a curse for those who go after them l, we respected the people who shared their meal with us and did not go for the lake. We went around the lake and found a small tribe in the outer edges of the peaks we didn't stop but we did give our greetings and they told us of the grape ponds and they were beautiful,  crystal clears pools that of sapphires. We spent the night there and were visited by the tribe they showed us how the grasses in the water could be harvested with a branch and when smoked and dried were delicious and full of healing properties.  The next day we stopped in the Moss Roll and we met a wonderful people who let us join their celebration of colours. They gave us jewelry and painted our skin. The people gave us a tea of herbs and local fungi and by the time the celebration was over what felt like minutes had been a week and one of our people and married one of theirs and he decided to stay. We went on our way and found the Shroom Tangle which which stood five to twenty meter tall mushrooms, we found where people had shaved at the stalks and we realized this is what had been in the tea. We packed up shavings and made our camp by the shore. We made our way back to our boats, traveling along the shore, only stopping twice, we were able to say hello to those of the dunes. We set sail out of the bay visiting the eye isle and the pedal pools, small bays that had caught many a lost boat and raft. Then we made our way S.W. away from the beautiful diverse land that was Unity. 

I feel that the creatures of the volcanic deserts (AKA obsidian deserts) are a group that is hardly known by the outside world. You get a lot of talk about the beasts that live in jungles, or the monsters that live in the vast labyrinth of the Underworld, but not a lot of people mention these creatures. I would be interested in knowing how many people are even aware they exist! I feel if I asked anyone what a Shockscale or Flab Rat was, they would think I was either talking about a magic thing or an insult. Volcanic deserts are rare biomes, but there are other uncommon ones that people seem pretty knowledgeable of! So why don't people talk about them? Well, one theory is that volcanic deserts frequently get confused with other volcanic deserts, by that I mean dry land plus volcano. So when folk hear about them, they are confused which is which. Or in some cases, they may go visit it to see what the excitement is about and just find an arid piece of land by a lazy smoldering mountain. Not really all that interesting. Or it could be that people don't think deserts have anything in them, as that often happens with regular ones! I have surprised a lot of people whenever I prattle on about all the creatures that live in deserts, as they assume it is a barren wasteland! So perhaps they feel the same for volcanic deserts. These are legitimate theories, but I would like to submit my own! I would say that no one really talks about the flora and fauna of volcanic deserts because those ecosystems are absolutely awful to visit and nobody in their right mind would ever set root in one! Grating sand! Razor stone! Nonstop wind and lightening! It is a nightmare! Every sane explorer would turn back the second they watched a dune explode into a black shower of bladed chunks and crackling energy! They would see the utter misery this landscape brings and think "why not try the next one?" Sadly, not all who explore are levelheaded, and not all who seek knowledge are smart. By the way, have you guessed where I am writing this entry? I got to have something to do while I cower in this obsidian tube and wait for the apocalypse to ease up outside.   My gripes aside, it is a darn shame that these creatures get overlooked. This biome, harsh and cruel it may be, has created some incredible species and the world deserves to know their presence! By writing this down and informing others, I also do the service of granting this knowledge so others don't have to suffer like I did! In most cases, I would encourage my readers to go out and see these incredible sights themselves, but here I am fine with them reading it in a book and looking at all the pretty pictures. So, with that, get a nice drink, find someplace cozy and not full of sand to sit, and read on! This entry is on a rather peculiar beast of these horrible lands: the Shockscale Urchin! The Shockscale Urchin (or just Shockscale) is a terrestrial version of those spiny little balls you find in the ocean, preferring the sandy places that have a whole lot of fire and lightening. Like sea urchins, they do look like a moving mound, though they are decked out in scales instead of spines. This image is possible because the underside of the urchin is where their feet are, hidden under all those beautiful scales. Down below is also where its mouth is, so its topside is really a featureless looking pile of scales. This simplicity, however, has its beauty, which can be seen in its magnificent scales! Mixes of purple and black on these sturdy, metallic scales! While many are small, they grow larger and thicker as they move down and away from the body. Anchored in special muscles, these outer scales sweep out from the body and form structures that seem more fitting for birds! Metallic wings and a fanning tail are formed from these scales and controlled by muscles.  Despite their appearance, they cannot fly, as they are too heavy and not built for such an action. They don't so much flap but sweep and flow as the Shockscale moves and dances. With such beautiful and hardy scales, one would most certainly want one as a souvenir! Finding such a memento would seem rather thrilling, and easy too! If you are ever in a volcanic desert (first of all, have you listened to nothing I have said?) and wander the dunes, you would find some of these scales left in the sand. In some cases, you may watch a Shockscale crawl along and shed some of these scales as they navigate the chaotic terrain. At first glance, you would think yourself lucky! Here is a pretty trinket, let me just reach down and grab it! If you find yourself in this situation, pray that you have a smarter friend nearby ready to tackle you away from this enticing treasure. Hopefully you aren't wondering why I would say this, because I feel the name of this species should give a whole lot away.

  Just like the landscape, which is constantly ravaged by violent storms, the Shockscale harnesses the power of lightening! Special organs within their bodies are capable of producing some series shocks, which means they don't have to rely on absorbing lightening like the Elmis Spire. This means that they cannot run out of this energy, as long as they have the strength to use these organs! By putting them at full charge, the Shockscale is capable of creating a shock that will knock you off your roots and fry your leaves! This effect is powered up because they are coated in these metallic scales, making it so much easier for them to zap you! Thankfully, though, this can only happen if you touch or step on one, right? Good news for them and bad news for us, the answer is: No! The amazing thing about the Shockscale is that they are able to weaponize this electricity in a rather ingenious way! The scales they shed are not lost by accident, they drop them on purpose! That is because these scales are really conductive and practically pull the electricity in. If the Shockscale releases its energy near these fallen scales, the lightening will jump from its body to these lost pieces! That means if you grab a scale while one of these urchins are nearby, there is a chance they will fry you! Like I said, these dropped scales are not by accident, the Shockscale actually uses them! These creatures tend to have territories they stick to, and here they do their hunting. They will sweep their "wings" in a circle and leave a ring of fallen scales. Moving to the center, they will bury themselves in the black sand and wait. When prey blunders through this practically invisible circle, the Shockscale will start zapping! Caught between the source and the energy-hungry scales, the electricity will flow through you while it makes its journey! The power of this shock is enough to drop a full grown human, as it messes with your nervous system and muscles. If you watch prey get caught in this shock trap, you will see them suddenly convulse and drop to the ground. They will twitch and writhe as the energy flows through them, as falling over unfortunately causes one to absorb even more of this shock. In most cases, the prey is killed by this powerful effect, and the Shockscale will emerge to claim its meal. The urchin will crawl atop its prey and use its hidden mouth to devour them. While Shockscales tend to fry smaller creatures, they are quite opportunistic. Anything that wanders into their territory is fair game, and the hungrier they are, the more likely they are to take risks. Even if huge creatures stomp through their circle, they will still shock them despite the fact they know it won't kill them. This is more of a deterrent, as the Shockscale would prefer not to get stepped on. I imagine this sudden way to go is part of the reason this ecosystem is believed to be cursed. How else would you explain someone suddenly convulsing and then dropping dead? Demonic possession? A smiting from the gods? Or perhaps a hungry echinoderm...     In most cases, the Shockscale uses its scales to create this deadly perimeter for both offense and defense. Here it can lay in safety as it waits for food to arrive. However, there are some instances where the Shockscale will use its scales in a different pattern. When traveling, the urchin will be without its special circle. In this state, a predator may try to attack them, assuming the creature is without its usual defense. Since its takes time and precision to properly set up its trap, the Shockscale will be caught off guard. In some cases, it might just hunker down and rely on its own electric body for defense. Some have seen, however, times when the Shockscale "flees," which is odd because they don't move that fast. The urchin will try to run for its life, but the predator will have no trouble keeping up. Obviously, the beast will not jump right in and take a bite, as the urchin will just fry them. Most attackers would tend to hang back and wait for a vulnerable moment. Stalking behind the fleeing Shockscale, they will wait for the right moment to strike and then suddenly drop dead. Turns out, the Shockscale wasn't running. When they "retreat," they are actually dropping scales behind them as they move. They know that their abilities work by proximity, and most predators won't get close enough to zap. So by leaving a breadcrumb trail of scales, they are setting up a devious trap. The predator will be lured forward with the idea that they have the advantage, causing them to walk atop this line of scales. By releasing its energy, the lightening will chain itself through these scales and fry the attacker. Pretty clever! With this defense, there isn't much that can really mess with this species! The only predation I have witnessed so far was by a pack of Flab Rats, whose rubbery hides offer protection from most shocks. Even then, they have to be sure the Shockscale is dead before they take a bite! All the insulation in the world doesn't matter if you jam the lightening bolt into your mouth! Same goes for knives, you little monsters. Though they are quite dangerous, there is elegance to found in these incredible creatures! The beautiful wings are for more than just dropping scales, they actually use them for dance! When mating season comes around, the males will begin to wander the dunes. They do not seek a spot to congregate, rather they seem to move in different directions. I have heard that they are influenced by the sun, moon and stars, using them to guide their way, but I have not fully confirmed that. As they wander, they will let their wings out to the full span and spin around. There is some kind of pattern and design to this dance, as they thrash back and forth or twirl, but no one has truly decoded it. What we do know is that this moving ballet leaves behind something quite gorgeous! Their movements and wings create patterns in the obsidian sand, and their trail is formed from this delicate art! If you are walking the dunes during the breeding season, you will see entire swathes of the landscape turned into a magnificent canvas! These artistic trails are for the females, who are also moving about. When a female crawls over these paths, they can feel and detect its pattern. It seems they can learn a lot about the male from the art he leaves behind, and this will decide if he is worthy or not. If the design is lacking, she will move on, but if it is a masterpiece, she will follow it. Since she is not slowed by the need for dance, she will soon catch up with the twirling male and the two will undergo the next step of courtship. The trail he left behind was meant to get her in the door, now this part is how he gets her to stay! Together, the two shall dance and spin around each other, with the male seeking to impress and the female silently judging. The male must perform the right moves and hit the right timing to have a chance with her. If he bungles it, she will leave and search elsewhere. If he succeeds, the two will mate and part ways. She will go off to lay her eggs deep within the dunes, while he will continue his dance and search for other females. The thing that always gets me with this particular way for attracting mates is how delicate the whole process is. They are doing all this communication through sand art, despite the fact this landscape is ravaged by storms at an almost constant rate. A powerful gust of wind will easily erase all traces of this act, so how do they make it work? One solid theory is that Shockscales breed during seasons when the storms are at their slowest (which I think means they come every six minutes rather than five). This gives them longer times to let their art survive and catch attention, before it is blown away and they have to start over. Others say that the Shockscales also leave scented scales or pheromone along their trail, which the female can still follow if the patterns are erased. Whatever the reason, they somehow make it work! Though the Shockscales are not mentioned a lot by everyday folk, just like a lot of fauna from volcanic deserts, there is something about them that has made it to many shores. In many places, you can hear superstitions and creepy tales about a land covered in darkness and ravaged by the wrath of the gods. This place is almost like purgatory, covered in lava and black blades. What makes this place even creepier are the "symbols" and "runes" left by some unknown culture. Those who have entered this inhospitable land have mentioned grand designs etched into the dunes, patterns and symbols that are alien to many eyes and tongues. All of this, and yet not a single soul is seen! Despite this, the patterns are blown away, but then suddenly remade! How can this be?! Is there some kind of civilization hidden within this terrible world, writing these alien words in the sand? Or is it the result of spirits and demons, roaming the world of fire and lightening? Perhaps it is something more confusing and frightening. You see, these patterns can reach such amazing sizes and intricacy, yet you would struggle to fully appreciate it on the ground. A mural carved into the landscape can only be viewed in one way: from above! Are these symbols made for or by angels? Are they the markings of entities high above our heads? What do they stand for? What do they mean? There are many tales and theories about these bizarre patterns, and I have heard them all! Truly bewildering stuff! I have had people talk my ears off about these crazy conspiracies, and all I can think during these lectures is: "Is this what its like?" The real bummer of it all is that whenever I join in and add my theories, everyone gets all sour. They spin an endless yarn about symbols of angels and the writing of the gods, but then I offer the translation of "Heeeeey, ladies! Wanna dance?" and suddenly I'm the nut job. Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian   ----------------------------------------------------- A creature design brainstormed between my friend @james-silvercat and me! I can't remember how we started on this, but at some point we were talking about my volcanic deserts and shingle urchins! Wound up being a really cool creature and a really cool design!  

A Warmer Refuge

CHAPTER 4: Tender and Untouched

Masterlist HERE

A/N: Hey everyone! I have more parts coming soon so follow if you’re interested!

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

Words: 3K

Warnings: Just fluff and a bit of angst

Description: You finally open up to the Mandalorian a bit, who seems to be far more interested in your life than you anticipated.

I don’t remember how or when I fell asleep, but I did drift in and out of consciousness enough times to paint a picture of what happened over the next few hours. Despite being exhausted, the cold initially kept me from falling asleep. Although I’m sure it truly wasn’t that frigid, I’d spent my whole life on sun-kissed dunes, far away from these rugged mountains. I lay there, using my rucksack as a pillow, curled up in a desperate bid to retain some warmth. Then, at some point, I felt a blanket of some kind drape over me, quelling my shivers. Later, I flickered into consciousness for a brief second to recognize the warmth and scent of fire, burning a few feet away from me. Finally, one last time, I briefly stirred again far later. I had turned over and was facing away from the entrance to the cave and the fire, its warmth washing over my back. Above the low crackle of the fire, I could hear the rain had faded, only contributing a gentle patter outside. This enabled me to now hear something else; the Mandalorian’s breathing. He gently cleared his throat with a clarity I hadn’t heard before. And then I realized why. He wasn’t wearing his helmet. And, when I listened further, I realized it was because he was eating. I was so exhausted I barely had the energy to stay awake and listen, but just the idea that he was right there, so close to me (even if a few feet away). He felt comfortable enough – maybe even trusting of me – to remove it. This thought sent a final jolt of glee through my heart, and then my eyes gave in, and I fell back to sleep.

When I woke up it was dark, and I was still turned away from the fire. As I sat up and looked over, I saw that the fire was only a glowing ember and… he wasn’t there. My heart froze, and I felt a rush in my head as I sat up more frantically. His stuff was still there, as was mine. The rain was still dimly pattering down outside, echoing slightly in this small cave. I stood up; the blanket that had been wrapped around me falling to the ground. When I looked down at it, I realized it was not a blanket, but his cape. My heart began to pound as I scanned the cave. Outside, it was too black to see anything further than a foot or two from the entrance of the cave. I approached it, barely noticing the stinging of my wounded leg. My eyes were yet to adjust, and the darkness seemed all-consuming and never-ending. I felt it caught in my throat – I wanted to yell out to him. I felt myself begin to panic. I fought with myself and my better judgment, before taking a step out of the mouth of the cave. The rain dripped down my arms, and I drew in a shaky breath for courage. But just as I took another step, I saw something in the distance. Something shiny, reflecting the extraordinarily dim glow of the dying fire behind me. As it grew closer, I began to make out a figure; I sighed in relief, almost collapsing right there. The Mandalorian marched towards me, blaster in hand. I was yet to see him with his weapon drawn, a strange thing considering it was such an integral part of his job. He stopped about ten feet away from me, still holding his blaster at his side. He seemed to be looking at me like he was expecting an answer. “I – you scared me,” was all I managed to stutter out. “I woke up and you were gone.” He stood there for a moment, and I thought he was going to disregard what I said like he usually did. “There was a noise, I went to go investigate.” I wasn’t sure what to do. In truth, I was just so relieved to see him there I wanted to bask in it for another moment. We just stood there staring at each other. It was funny, how he was only gone for a brief moment, and yet he had almost given me a heart attack. It made me realize how much I had been relying on him; on a foreign planet, far from civilization, in the middle of the night – he was the only thing protecting me. “Come on,” he said, securing his blaster back in its holster. “You’ll freeze in the rain.”

After reviving the fire, the Mandalorian sat down in the same spot as before, while I shuffled my pile of stuff a little closer to the fire so I could properly dry off. I had quickly discovered that my clothes, which were the same ones I had worn on Yak’ish Temeen, were not made for wetter biomes. Even though it had been hours since my first stint in the rain they had still been wet and were even more so now. Part of me knew I’d have trouble keeping warm in wet clothes, but there was no way I was going to try and have that conversation with the Mandalorian. So, instead, I rolled up my sleeves to wring them out and get some of the fire’s warmth on my skin. “What’s that?” The Mandalorian interrupted my thoughtless mind with his abrupt question. I looked up to see him gesturing to my left arm, in particular to my tattoo. It was a thick red band that circled my bicep, except for a one-inch gap at the front. “It’s cultural,” I tried to explain. “When we come of age, we get this tattoo. To show all other Grat’anarians that we are old enough to leave our carousel, or herd our cattle, or to get – ”. I realized then I didn’t want to finish that sentence. It was a can of worms I wasn’t ready to open. But my hesitance had come too late. “To get what?” There was an earnest tone to this question. I regarded him for a moment; how he looked genuinely interested in me. “To get married,” I admitted. “Were you…,” he trailed off, and I felt myself grow hot in the cheeks. “Oh! No! I mean… I could’ve, obviously, but I wasn’t…” I paused. “I couldn’t leave my family.” “Is that… what happens,” he asked. “When you get married?” I shrugged, looking down at my dirty, scraped hands. “Not necessarily. But when we marry it’s generally between different carousels, so one would have to move and the other would stay.” There was a moment of silence. “Why couldn’t you leave your family?” He had a cautious tone, clearly unsure of whether I’d be happy answering that question. “My brother and I were raised by my grandparents,” I began. “He was much younger than me and, when my grandmother became sick, I knew I couldn’t leave them. Our income depended on my grandfather traveling to Yemi’natar, but he needed someone with him. So, I started going.” I glanced up at him, and he was looking at me. It felt like he was trying to read me, to figure out what I really meant. I wasn’t sure what to do with that, so I kept talking. “The gap, here,” I gestured to the tattoo, “was supposed to be filled when I got married. It would hold a crest that belonged to… to my spouse’s family. They would get mine and I would get theirs. It’s meant to be a symbol of gratitude to your new in-laws; like a thank-you to them for raising your spouse.” I stared at the tattoo, which all of a sudden struck me as empty. “I’ll never get to fill it now.” The Mandalorian cleared his throat. “What… what happened back there? If you have refugee status for entering Kistern…” I sighed. I hadn’t talked about it. Not out of reserve or grief, but because I hadn’t had anyone to talk to. For the past year I’d been alone, barely surviving on scavenged scraps and favors owed by old acquaintances of my family. But, in truth, the general population of Yak’ish Temeen held, at best, very little regard for Grat’anarians, even though we were one the only true natives to the planet. “Grat’anarians were never favored by other species that settled on Yak’ish Temeen. We have a strong connection to the land, and we know how to not just survive but thrive on it. Some, particularly the –”. I let out a shaky breath. “… particularly the Pelosans never liked us. The Empire had promised them our land in exchange for their allegiance. But when the Empire fell, the Pelosans decided to take matters into their own hands.” I shuddered, trying to suppress the memories. “We were never fighters like they were. And worse, we never expected it.” “What about the New Republic?” I scoffed; it was a childish question. “What about them? There’s been so much disarray in the past few years, they didn’t know or care about what was happening on a small, isolated planet on the edge of the galaxy until it was too late.” It was hard to hide the contempt in my voice. Truthfully, I knew little about the politics of the galaxy, but I didn’t care to. All that mattered in my mind was that there was no one to help when we needed it, and now I was here because of it. The Mandalorian shuffled uncomfortably and looked away, and I realized I may have been too scornful. I tried to smile at him softly, to lessen the sting of my words, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. What else was there to say? Except… “What about you?” I asked. He looked back up at me, as if confused, so I clarified. “What are you planning to do on Kistern?” He stared into the fire. “I’m hoping to find someone… find information, about something.” I was a little disheartened at his lack of transparency, although I wasn’t entirely sure what I expected from him. I felt sad, truthfully, at the sound of his voice. It was so… well, scared. Maybe that word was too strong, but there was something that twinged in his voice, a sound reminiscent of a feeling I knew all too well; loss. If he had told me outright that he had lost a lot in his life, I certainly wouldn’t have been surprised. I’m sure you don’t become a bounty hunter for the enjoyment. But, in some way, the less he said the more he said. It was his reservation, the ache of guilt or grief that resonated in his voice, that I recognized. I had felt it every second of my life for almost a year. “I hope you find it,” was all I managed to muster. In my peripheral vision I noticed him look back up at me as I looked down at the ground. It was a trifling talent I had always possessed, and I could see, with remarkable clarity, the exact way he was currently staring at me despite the fact I wasn’t looking at him. He was watching me, and although I couldn’t see what was happening under that helmet, I could’ve sworn I felt his eyes travel up and down me, lingering on my face as if scanning it for an ulterior meaning. My heart thumped loudly at the thought – the idea that he was watching me. That I was interesting enough to be observed in this way. The last year of my life I’d been forgotten, shed from society. Actually, if I was being truthful, I’d felt that way my whole life. Quiet, and of little to no importance. It wasn’t because of anything anyone had ever done; in fact, that was the exact reason why I had felt so lost. It was the same reason I had slaved for hours over those stupid little trinkets my grandmother had given me – I was so desperate to prove my worth. And now I was, as far as I knew, the last of my people still alive. For a whole year I’d lived with that survivor’s guilt, of how ordinary and unimportant I was, and I wondered why it couldn’t have been someone else smarter or braver sitting here where I am now. It didn’t matter that I had that tattoo – I still felt like a child. A tear slid down my cheek silently, and I frantically wiped it off with my sleeve. But it was too late. I couldn’t hold it back. The pain, the guilt, the grief, the exhaustion. Although my face remained straight, a desperate bid to retain some integrity, I couldn’t help crying wordlessly. My vision blurred; I could no longer tell if he was looking at me. Apparently, he was. “I lost everyone,” he said quietly, and I responded by quickly attempting to regain my composure. He was staring into the fire distantly. “Not just my Creed, but… but my real family, too. Many years ago.” He seemed to sigh silently. “And then, just when I thought I found another family, I lost them too.” It was hard not to quiver at the sound of his voice. So disheartened, aching with longing. “Who was… who was your new family?” He looked down at his hands, as I had before. “They were more of… an unlikely friend.” He chuckled slightly, as if recalling a memory of a fonder time. The sound was so warm and comforting, I couldn’t help but smile too. “I could use a friend,” I admitted. I bit my tongue after, wondering if I’d overstepped an invisible line between us. I remembered suddenly what his hand had felt like, warm under mine – tender and untouched. “Me too,” he said.

Chapter 34- Masked Marauders

Previous Chapter

Once again, this was all written during the first week or two of hermitcraft season 7, so none of these mega bases of the jungle hermits have been built, and unfortunately Ren hadn’t moved into the mesa yet. If he had, I’d definitely put him in since i know Ecto loves Ren! 

Speaking of Ecto, have a wee bit of Ecto angst. I feel the need to say, mostly to ease my own anxiety, that in no way to I believe any of this that I write- this is all part of the story and exclusively their minesona. Ecto is an amazing and awesome person that deserves love and good friends, and I hope none of this causes issues. But I also know we all love angst here. 

Ecto belongs to @cooler-cactus-block   (sorry the ‘at’ system won’t show up your current one)

Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland​

This isn’t the first time Ecto has gotten lost on her own. Suddenly losing sight of Scar and the others didn’t bother her. She just kept going in the direction that they were before, following the sun towards the northwest. Just like she would in her desert.

Her home. What was her home. Has the blizzard stopped? How deep is everything she ever loved, everything she ever lived for, buried? How much has survived? The desert had been Ecto’s home her whole life. It was a place for surviving, a land so different from anywhere else. Where no trees grew, where dunes replaced hills and sand replaced dirt. It was a unique place for a unique person. A person that didn’t fit in other places, that people always thought of as strange. 

Through the dense leaves, Ecto hears a noise. It sounds like a zombie, but higher pitched. A baby zombie? Those little things are fast, ankle biters with a vengeance from beyond the grave. Ecto pulls out her sword, sunlight reflecting off the enchanted iron blade in speckles that shafted through the dense canopy. The groaning is getting closer, but it’s not the only noise out there. 

She also hears a soft hush, and a chuckle being swallowed back down. She’s really started to hate this feeling, of being watched all the time. The next grumble of the high pitched zombie noise, Ecto takes off towards it. She’s done sitting and being spied on. “Face me you coward!” 

Ecto bursts through the greenery, wielding her sword to fight off the zombie. Instead, her entire body near escapes the pull of gravity when she’s the one surprised instead. A massive bird, with a yellow feathered face and red plumage jumps back at her. “Pesky bird!” 

Another, much smaller blue parrot echos the larger one, before returning to the zombie noises it’s been mimicking. Once Ecto has regained her sense of sanity, she realizes that she’s not looking at two birds. She’s looking at one bird and a human with a bird mask, blonde hair peeking out from behind the yellow and grey. While the two birds are giggling at their jumpscare, Ecto recognizes that voice. “Grian?” 

Grian pulls up his mask, wiping away the tears at his eyes. He’s embraced the Jungle Bandit lifestyle, using leaves, flowers, and feathers to make a more practical version of his hippie attire. He’s a part of the jungle, swinging from vines and foraging from the land. At least until he gets started on his first megabuild. “Ecto, is that you? What are you guys doin’ back so soon?” 

“I lost Scar.” Ecto pulls herself up from the ground, wincing as her wound stretches against the movement of her body. Blu got her good, but she’s not going to let any of her aches stop her. Scar’s bandages definitely are helping hold her together. What she wouldn’t give for some cactus to chew on though. 

“Ah, yeah this jungle is really confusing. A whole new world is confusing, period.” Grian sets his mask to the side. “So how did everything go once you guys got back to your world? Did you get to that stronghold you were looking for?” 

“Yeah, we got there. But everything went downhill from there.” Ecto groans, thinking off all the horrible things that have happened. This journey should have ended when they reached Avon’s stronghold. Instead, the worst part just began. “Most of us don’t have a home to go back to anymore. We’ve just been...walking.” 

“Wandering.” Grian hums, noting the forlorn note in Ecto’s voice. He doesn’t want to push her for more information. It sounds like it’s painful just to think about. A fresh wound, physically and emotionally. Grian isn’t very good with sad emotions, but there is something he is good at. Getting people to smile, to feel joy. And he remembers Ecto’s spunky attitude from Area 77. “Hey, do you want to help me prank some of the other hermits? I have some plans but I really need a second hand to help me out.” 

A mischievous glimmer sparks in Ecto’s eyes and soul. “You want me to help you get into trouble?” 

“I want to have fun. And there’s no harm in a little bit of trouble if it’s all good natured fun, right?” Grian picks up his mask, and even offers Ecto one as well. Green, like a cactus. 

And the jungle bandit had a partner in crime. Two pesky birds- and Professor Beak- flitted through the jungle, clambering over low trees and high vines. They return to the small pond that Grian and Scar share. Scar isn’t home, which is exactly what the two were hoping for. Larry already had his mustache, but with two cheeky minds put together he soon also grew a pair of arms to twist said stache. They flee as soon as the job is done, and the snail has gone through a sudden evolution to gain hands. 

Throughout the jungle, the two leave odd signs and statues. Roses growing from trees, markers pointing to nowhere, trees left completely bald. At one point, the two run across a strange structure in the woods. Stone and jungle wood ring the cultic center, where two fires burn at a steady, endless pace. “I have no clue what this is, and I’m afraid we may be snooping around something we shouldn’t be.” 

“You people sure like your cult initiations.” Ecto muses, before escaping the strange altar in the middle of the forest. 

With Scar already well pranked, Grian had to turn his attention to one of the many other inhabitants of the forest. The jungle bandit would strike everyone- even those he just learned are his neighbors. The pair manage to find their way to Stress’s base, devilish grins and cocky giggles reaching through the masks as they near. Professor Beak imitates them, laughing as well. 

“Oh, carrots. Don’t mind if I do.” Grian pulls up the crop, ready to be harvested. He chuckles to himself as he plants one back into the warm, moist soil. “Pesky bird. That’s why you always harvest your crop.” 

“Do husks appear in jungles as well?” Ecto questions through a mouthful of cocoa beans. She only ever had these a few times before, the sweet chocolate melting in her mouth. Grian looks over, surprised to see the tan colored zombie floating his way towards the two.

“No...he must’ve wandered into the jungle from the nearby mesa.” Grian starts to get an idea as he watches the hapless creature, so slow in the water.

Ecto perks up. Mesas mean one thing to her- cacti. “There’s a mesa nearby?” 

Ecto’s already wading through the shallow water, despite not knowing where exactly it is. “Whoa, hold up. Let’s put this lost guy to good use. Then we can check out the Mesa.” 

Grian and Ecto manage to wrangle in the lost husk. Ecto has had years of practice toying with the mindless mummies, and kiting this one was no different. Except instead of baiting it into a cactus trap, she brought it into a lead held by Grian. Together, the two drag the husk into the depths of Stress’s base. 

Grian has more of an idea what to do from there, and the husk as well as Ecto just observe him with open mouths and empty eyes. The husk can’t even think, but Ecto’s thinking about the mesa. It’s not a desert, but it’s close enough. She can’t wait to escape this humid, dense forest. She’s used to being hot, but not this sticky kind of hot. 

Grian steps back, hauling the husk into a hole and silencing him. And right above the husk, Ecto places down Stress’s magenta colored bed. “What is the point of this?” 

“You know how hard it is to sleep with monsters around.” Ecto frowns, but Grian just continues. She has no trouble sleeping with monsters, she’s used to them at this point. “It’s simple, but it’ll definitely frustrate Stress- I can practically hear her grumbling about it now.” 

“Can we go to the mesa?” Ecto isn’t really interested in pranking anymore. It was fun, and Grian is fun, but she wants to see the mesa. The closest thing to her home she’ll have seen since the blizzard. 

Grian catches on, realizing that this is more than just an impatient friend. Ecto tries to keep a face of indifference, but every time she turns away, he can see it. Sadness. Loss. A desire to go somewhere she can’t find. When she thinks he’s not looking, he can see her smile disappear, especially from her eyes. She’s mourning something. “Let’s go to the mesa. I think we’ve had our fun here.” 

The bandits flee the scene of their crime, Grian guiding Ecto eastward, to the mesa. But it’s not long until Ecto is stumbling past him. She can smell the arid land from here. It’s earthy and warm, with a crisp scent of sand and dust. It cuts through the rich scent of detritus the jungle traps in among the humidity, calling her. 

Ecto escapes the clutches of the vines and trees, busting out into the sandy mesa next door. She leaps from a tree branch, rolling across the sand as she lands. The grains stick to her clothes and skin, embracing her with their warmth from the unobstructed sun. Ecto digs her fingers into the orange sand, watching the broken rocks fall between her fingers as she holds them up. Sand has never been such a welcome sight. 

She remembers what can only grow from sand, and snaps her head up. Mesas don’t seem to grow cacti as fervently as deserts do, but she can see a few growing on a mound of sand in the distance. 

Grian isn’t sure he’s ever seen someone so happy to see a mesa biome, or even a cactus. He’s grown so tired of all the cactus his farm has been producing, he’s drowning in the spiny plant. Ecto returns to him, bouncing in her boots and holding one out. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to have them. I forgot how sweet cactus juice is.” 

“You actually eat that stuff?” Grian questions, taking the piece that Ecto is offering him.

“It’s the easiest way to get water in the desert.” Ecto takes a look at the few cacti she was able to acquire. They’re in rough shape, with brown blemishes and weak spines. She’s not sure if they’d even be able to hold her weight at this point. She turns her gaze to the horizon, but she doesn’t see any more cacti. Either they haven’t grown, or they’ve already been taken by other hermits. 

Grian’s quick to notice what Ecto is looking at, looking for. “I have cactus at my hobbit hole. Actually, I have more cactus that I know what to do with. Do you want some of it?” 

The joyful smile all across Ecto’s face is all he needs to see. It warms him to see someone so happy over something so simple. To give joy to a friend, to another person is all Grian wants to do. He tells Ecto to wait, and go jogging back into the jungle. He’s faster at climbing through the jungle than her, and it’ll be a pleasant surprise when he returns with his bounty. At his home, Grian digs through every chest in his cactus farm, pulling the collected material before it can be put into compost. He’s stuffing the succulents into every pocket and pouch he can find in his new hobbit threads, even tossing aside his tools and supplies to make more room. At this point it’s as much about getting rid of all his overflowing cacti as it is making Ecto happy. 

Ecto hears Grian swearing before she sees him. Mostly because she was looking for his blond hair, but all of him was hidden behind an entire armful of cacti. So much cacti, Ecto isn’t sure if she’s seen that much at one moment. His clothes are stretching with the weight of the plant, and each one is precariously stacked on top of the others in his arms. Even Professor Beak is carrying his weight in cacti. “What do you even plan to do with all this? I mean, I’m not complaining. It freed up so much storage for me, but I’m curious.” 

“I’m going to jumpstack!” Ecto cheers, taking as many cacti as she can hold and starting her tower. She didn’t get to do this in the last hermit world, so this feels especially exciting. Building her monolith in a completely different world. Not just another dimension, another world. She’s careful to position her feet under her, in between the spines before hopping. While there is space between her and the cactus, she places another one. She lands perfectly so that the needles just barely scrape her shoes, feet light as a dancer’s. 

As Ecto stacks higher, Grian can only watch as she’s shadowed by the sun, dropping and blinding him until she’s reached beyond the sun’s rays. It’s not until Ecto has run out of cacti that he realizes she has no way to get down. She has no elytra, nothing. 

And yet, she jumps. Ecto has become a pro of surviving falls that would normally kill other humans. She doesn’t need fancy wings or magic.  She sees Grian scrambling across the sand below, but she tucks into a tight ball and rolls across the sand as she hits. It’s jarring, but it doesn’t kill her. Even though it’s still sunset, Ecto swears she can see stars. Apart from that, she’s still gaining control back when she hears Grian. “What was that?!” 

“I needed to get down.” Ecto hums, standing up with a sway and brushing the sand off her scarves. 

“What about using water? Or scaffolding? There are better ways, Ecto!” Grian grabs her by the shoulders, still shocked by such a ridiculous stunt. He hasn’t seen anyone so willing to defy death since Cub during Demise. And even he eventually lost that battle.

“Water is hard to find in the desert. And why build more than necessary? Look, I’m fine, and this is the most direct way.” Ecto’s face pinches up at the suggestion. She shrugs Grian’s grip off of her shoulders, turning around and looking back up at her art. One monolith stands tall above the jungle trees, spines scraping at the untouched sky. Her build may be the tallest yet. 

Grian can only chuckle, shaking his head and shaking away the nerves. “You’re quite the weird person, Ecto.” 

Weird. Ecto knows that she’s different. She thinks different, acts different from the normal. She’s decided that she won’t change. . It’s a flaw she can’t erase. And people abandon her for that. Disregard her, turn on her. But what about Grian? He is strange like me, but his friends still stick around. Why do they all leave me? Why does he stay around even now?

All Were Innocent Once: Chapter 11 - Shootouts and Sand

So I checked when I last uploaded a chapter of this, and it’s nearly been a whole year. Talk about writer’s block! I appreciate everyone’s patience with me in getting a new chapter out. With all the craziness in the world I can’t promise a regular schedule for uploading, but I will do my best.

Without further ado, let’s just back into the adventure!

It had only taken Cirak a few minutes to determine that he unequivocally hated this planet. There was no breeze here; the desert air was still. The sun bore down on them with unrelenting heat, and though he felt that warmth was better than the cold it didn’t change the aggression that the heat possessed here. He wasn’t fully sure how the citizens of Tatooine kept themselves from putting blaster bolts in their head just from living here. Maybe the sun had zapped all of the intelligence from the moisture farmers’ minds.

Tatooine was a planet rife with cheats, smugglers, and swindlers of all kinds; truly a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Cirak was just surprised they hadn’t come here sooner. There seemed to be little shortage of potential work, and he was pretty sure that he could fire his blaster in any direction and hit someone with a bounty on their head. It was like Nar Shaddaa, but without the lights, duller clubs, and half of the fun. He had to give any fugitive credit if they chose this damned planet as their getaway destination: they really did not want anyone to find them.

Traveling with Taelros over the past several years had taken him to numerous planets, each with their own biome and flavor. They never stayed anywhere for very long – only for the duration of the job – before taking off again. Most of their time was spent on Taelros’ ship, The Reaper’s Prophet, with the rest of his crew, but even those faces changed from time-to-time. It was best to not expect consistency of any kind, not go looking for any sort of home.

His mentor had wasted little time acclimating Cirak to the bounty hunter’s lifestyle. Within a week of meeting the man he’d been given a blaster and some armor that was, at best, passable, before being thrown into the fire alongside Taelros himself. It wasn’t until later that he started learning more about the bounty hunter who’d taken him under his wing. Republic Special Forces Division, once upon a time, until he’d been dishonorably discharged from their ranks five years before meeting Cirak. He’d never asked Tael about the incident that purged him from service, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Tael had taught him how to survive as a bounty hunter, and the key philosophies of the career. Most importantly, he’d taught him the one philosophy that guided them above all others: somewhere, in some part of the galaxy, some shmuck was looking to part with their credits to have someone else dead.

In their case, however, that schmuck was some Imperial official, probably reclining on a luxury chair back in some high rise on Dromund Kaas, probably going through some bureaucratic nonsense while sipping on some fancy wine. Definitely someone Cirak would punch if given half the chance. He’d looked like the stuffy type on the holocom, what with his pencil mustache and balding head only somewhat obscured by his officer’s cap. Taelros had done most of the talking, but Cirak had assigned himself all of the judging. He’d watched in silence as his mentor negotiated their way into a wild bantha chase that, ultimately, had led them here.

Their mark, as explained to them, was a former Imp deserter-turned-raider and part-time treasure hunter named Lenurd Woth. After bailing on his assignment he’d given out the locations to several ordinances to the highest bidder, including the Black Sun, which had earned him a sizeable sum of credits from his buyers and malcontent from his former allies. He’d then vanished, only to resurface on Tatooine with a new yacht, guards under his employ, and a profession scamming the local settlers out of credits with whatever junk he’d find out in the wastes.

Killing him would be no trouble at all for the Empire, considering their vast resources. As much as Mr. Woth wanted to hide, he’d done a poor job of it with the ruckus he’d caused on his way out the door, and finding him had been relatively simple, as was tracking his routines. They could’ve dropped in an agent, put a dart in Woth’s neck, and that would be that, except for one simple reason: Woth wasn’t worth their time, not with a war going on. He was, however, worth sending a message about, hence the bounty hunters and the preference for being put in carbonite rather than the ground. Hence being on this blasted hot planet.

At least there’d be credits at the end of it all. That was the one and only solace Cirak could take on this hell planet.

Cirak lay on his stomach flat against the rise of a dune, binoculars raised as he searched the glistening sand for any signs of Woth’s skiff. The mark would be returning from treasure hunting any minute now, far from the defenses of his yacht. He and Taelros had spent the past hour planting ionic charges in the ground. Once he drove over it, Woth’s skiff would come to a halt; he’d be flat-footed and easy to take down. Using thermal or kinetic explosives would’ve made the job far simpler, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t wanted dead. Sadly, there would be no big boom.

With a sigh he pressed the binoculars into the sand. That is, however, if Woth ever showed up.

“Buck up kid,” Taelros said, as if sensing Cirak’s discontent. “Not every day we get asked by someone to go hunting for the Empire. Even less often that they ask us to go after one of their own.”

“And I’m gonna die of boredom and heat exhaustion if he doesn’t show soon.”

“You’re a bit of a whiny little thing today aren’t you?”

He kicked the ground, forming a divot with the toe of his boot. “I don’t like sand,” Cirak grumbled, baring his teeth. “It’s coarse and rough and irritating, and it gets ev-”

“Kid if I have to hear you wax philosophical about sand I’m going to lose my mind. Nobody cares about your whining.”

“Fine. Kriff it, whatever.” Cirak raised his binoculars again. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. Sand was catching in his face fur, particularly his moustache.

It was a truly immaculate moustache. He’d begun growing it about a year into his life as a bounty hunter, but it hadn’t fully formed until a few more years after that. Now it was perfect: two strands of thin-but-bushy grey hair fell from both sides of his upper lip, framing his face in an edged way. The best bounty hunters had facial hair if they could grow it, or at least that’s what he’d learned from watching holovids in the early days.

Just as Cirak was about to prod Taelros about the veracity of the intel they’d received, a shimmer on the horizon stole his attention. He ducked against the sand dune, clasping the ion detonator in one hand while his other raised the binoculars once more. Three skiffs – not one – sped closer to them, all three mounted with a pair of turrets meant to rend metal from ships, and there was a man stationed at each one of them. Woth was nowhere to be seen.

“Think someone tipped them off?” Cirak asked.

“Looks that way. Plan hasn’t changed though. Just more blaster fire.”

“We’re charging extra for this.”

“Most definitely.”

Despite the increase in protection, Woth’s security didn’t appear as though they knew of Cirak and Taelros specifically. The sentries scanned the sands, but it was an aimless search, a general kind. Cirak recognized it well from the few times he’d been hired for security detail by overly-paranoid aristocrats fearing assassination attempts. They still didn’t know about them, and as such, they were heading right into their trap.

Cirak popped the lid off the detonator as the skiffs neared the ion charges.

“On my count Cirak,” Taelros said, raising three fingers. “Three…”

His thumb hovered over the red button. Red buttons were the best, especially when explosions followed.

“Two…”

The skiffs drew closer, their engines growing ever louder.”

“One…”

They were right over the charges.

“Now.”

Cirak clenched the detonator and slammed his thumb downwards onto the button. Instead of an ionic burst, there was nothing. The motors hummed, still approaching in what now felt like a lackadaisical speed. Cirak pressed the button again. Then a third time. Still nothing. He shook the detonator as though the resulting ionic burst was hiding somewhere within and simply needed dislodged. It wasn’t, because that’s not how detonations work.

Taelros sighed, running his hand down his face and dragging his features along with it. “Cirak, did you arm the charges when you planted them?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

“It’s not a stupid question if it makes the most sense.”

“Of course I armed them! They’re live!”

“Then why haven’t I seen any-”

The shrill sound of a singular round of blaster fire cut through the air, and Cirak looked up just in time to see it strike the engine of the outmost skiff. The vehicle burst into flame as shrapnel scattered across the desert sands. Without slowing momentum the wreckage veered into the center skiff, which in turn rotated violently into a collision with the third. In the distance he could hear shouting as panicked scoundrels fought to wrest control back from the increasingly devastating situation in what few seconds they were afforded. Both remaining skiffs flipped, their repulsor engines dying simultaneously and throwing their passengers in various directions before landing in separate dunes. Some flew higher than others, and, Cirak realized, had he been prepared it would’ve made for excellent skeet practice.

He glanced over at Taelros. His mentor looked equally shocked and no less amused. “Well,” Cirak said, storing his binoculars. “I’m not about to look a prize bantha in the mouth. Let’s clean up the security and then deal with poor Lenurd.” He unholstered his twin blasters – among them his father’s old holdout blaster (which, to be fair, he’d now possessed far longer than his father ever had) – and then bound over the dune.

Woth’s scattered retinue was still climbing to their feet as Cirak approached. He twirled his blasters patiently while examining them. For a former Imp he sure employed several aliens. Most Imps only tolerated Chiss. Maybe he found them useful, relatively cheap labor when he couldn’t otherwise afford selectivity. He shrugged at the thought. It really didn’t matter either which way.

From the corner of his eye he saw Taelros heading for the other downed skiff. Time to go to work, he thought. Cirak cleared his throat, aiming his blasters at the wreckage survivors. “Attention everyone having a bad day. We are just after your boss Lenurd Woth. Hand him over, and it’ll be less ammo I have to waste wasting you. There’s no point in dying for him; all you’ll do is increase my paycheck for resistance fees.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than one of the mercenaries closest to the skiff dove for his rifle several paces away. Cirak fired before the man could so much as take aim. The bolt struck him square in the chest, and he fell limp.

“Not smart,” he chided. “What’ll it be for the rest of you boys?”

Death, apparently. Viewing numbers superior to having a blaster trained on them, the remainder of the mercenaries all simultaneously reached for their weapons. It was a common fallacy, thinking that surely they would be the lucky one who got the shot off and ended the threat. No one ever was. Some were faster than others to their credit, actually getting their blasters from their holsters before Cirak’s fire reached them and ended their lives.

He holstered his blasters as the sounds of combat continued from the other side of the sand dune. “He’s not in this one Tael!” Cirak yelled, turning towards the presumed sound of Taelros’ slaughtering. “Any luck over-”

Sudden movement caught his attention, and he only had a mere moment to throw himself prone before an axeblade swung where his head had been. Cirak flipped onto his back. A gamorrean stood over him, axe raised for a second strike. He rolled to the side as his assailant hacked at the sand, pushed himself to his feet, and somersaulted past him. The gamorrean squealed, spit and sweat running down its piggish mouth.

Cirak drew, managing to fire off a single shot into the gamorrean’s chest, but the blast did little when compared to its size and strength. It was a strength Cirak was swiftly reacquainted up close. A backhanded slap sent Cirak sprawling backwards, loosing his blaster from his grip. His ears rang. The image of the gamorrean blurred from heat and pain as Cirak lifted his head.

Another blaster fire rang out, knocking the raised axe free. The pig-man made a sound that could only be described as a surprised snort, head swiveling in the direction of the shot. It was just enough time for Cirak to draw his other blaster, aim, and fire two clean shots into its head. The gamorrean fell backwards, sending a burst of sand skywards.

A blur of red streaked past from overhead, touching down hard in the sand. Cirak wiped at his eyes as he surveyed his savior. The figure stood covered from head-to-toe in brilliant scarlet armor that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. His helmet, which obscured every aspect of his face, had two pincers that met just at the bottom of his black T-shaped visor. It was a unique touch, but Cirak still recognized the style, the symbology of the pieces. It almost made him want to shoot anyways.

The man was a Mando.

Mandalorians were far from uncommon in the bounty hunting business, but common encounters with them did little to mitigate Cirak’s instinctual hatred of those people. Centuries ago they’d invaded his species’ homeworld, partly for sport and partly for retribution for losses experienced in wars prior, and proceeded to butcher or enslave as many cathar as they could manage. It had led to the near-extinction of his people.

Cirak felt he had a birthright to feel bitter.

The Mandalorian in front of him, however, did not seemed particularly concerned about possible grievances pertaining to genocide, and approached him with an outstretched hand. Cirak slapped it away. “I’m fine,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet and recovered his dropped blaster, dusting sand from it.

Although he couldn’t see his face, Cirak got the sense that the Mandalorian was giving him the expression of someone who had just been slapped. “Your man is over this way,” the Mandalorian said coldly. The rocket booster on his back ignited, and he took to the air once again before disappearing beyond the opposite sand dune.

Cirak grumbled to himself before following suit. He found Taelros beyond the dune, leaning against a flaming skiff while deep in conversation with another human man; a fellow bounty hunter from what Cirak could tell of his armor and weaponry. A carbonite slate of some poor soul – probably Woth – floated on a transportation bed beside him, which Taelros kept a steady hand on. The Mando had landed next to this unknown person, arms folded in what Cirak only figured was silent judgment of the situation.

Taelros regarded Cirak as he drew closer. “Ah, see, this is the kid I was telling you about. Braden, this is Cirak Kiht, my protégé. Cirak, this is Braden. He’s an old friend of mine.”

Cirak looked him over. Taelros and his friend seemed roughly the same age, though Braden possessed a more weathered face with fewer scars. His head had been shaved bald, and contrary to Cirak’s personal beliefs regarding bounty hunting he had no facial hair. His suit of armor was that of Golan Arms make, specifically designed with survivability in mind and able to absorb all but the most powerful of blaster fire. It didn’t come cheap.

Braden extended his hand, which Cirak then shook. “I was curious to see how you’d handle a change of plans and if Tael here hadn’t dulled too much with age. You didn’t disappoint.”

“Well, it isn’t the first time one of our plans have gone sideways,” Cirak said, “Usually they’re his that do.”

“Yeah, shut up kid, or I might just ask Braden here to swap protégés.” Taelros snapped his fingers. “Right, your protégé here. What’s his name again? You said it in passing.”

Braden curtly nodded towards the Mandalorian. “This is Dekon of Clan Arrun. One hell of a shot, great merc. Been traveling with him for a couple years now.”

Cirak glowered at Dekon and moved closer to Taelros’ side. “Your man seems rather emotional Taelros. It’s hardly a beneficial trait in this profession,” Dekon said, insultingly matter-of-fact.

“Mando scum tend to have that affect on me. Funny how genocide does that to people.”

“Insult my people again and I’ll drop your numbers by one,” Dekon snapped.

Snarling, Cirak went for his blaster, but Dekon was faster, having his own drawn and in Cirak’s face. Shock gripped him. He hadn’t been outdrawn since he was first learning how. “I wouldn’t,” Dekon said coldly.

Taelros forced his way between them, lowering Dekon’s blaster with one hand while restraining Cirak’s wrist with his other. “Boys, boys, cultural histories aside there is a bigger picture here that we need to focus on. Cirak, can you play nice with the Mando for a little bit?” Cirak glared at Dekon, anger still hot on his ears and face, but he nodded all the same. “Good! Now let’s get the four of us to a cantina. Braden said he wants to team up for a job, and I think you’re gonna want to hear this.”

Desert

As i live in Ajmer, Rajasthan, I will most probably be making my biome on desert only. 

The Thar Desert, also known as the Great Indian Desert, is a large arid region in the northwestern part of the Indian subcontinent that covers an area of 200,000 km2  and forms a natural boundary between India and Pakistan.

It is the world's 17th largest desert, and the world's 9th largest hot subtropical desert.

It is situated in Indian subcontinent in the largest state, Rajasthan 

The Thar Desert extends between the Aravalli Hills in the north-east, the Great Rann of Kutch along the coast and the alluvial plains of the Indus River in the west and north-west. Most of the desert area is covered by huge shifting sand dunes that receive sediments from the alluvial plains and the coast.

Due to the Desert Geography, temperature climb above 40 to 45 degrees Celsius in most places. Due to its location, summers are the longest season in Rajasthan.

The cold weather commences early in October and ends around the end of February and sometimes the temperatures reach nearly 2-degree Celsius’

The annual average temperature is 25 degree Celsius 

Average precipitation in Jaipur of Rajasthan(mm) is  637.4 

The climate of Rajasthan keeps varying throughout the state. In the desert areas, it is usually hot and dry in summer and cold during the winters. Coming to the Aravali range, to the west, both rainfall and humidity are low. While to the east, weather can be characterized by high humidity and better rainfall.

Desert plants may have to go without fresh water for years at a time. Some plants have adapted to the arid climate by growing long roots that tap water from deep underground. Other plants, such as cacti, have special means of storing and conserving water.

The most common plant found in deserts is cactus 

THEY ALSO HAVE

Specialized skin surface. The cacti have a waxy, shiny skin that helps them survive the harsh weather conditions in some of their natural habitats.

The spines.

Specialized root system

And  flowers.

The other plant commonly found is khejri 

Khejri Tree is a small moderate sized evergreen thorny tree, with slender branches armed with conical thorns and with light bluish-green foliage. Leaves are double compound. The leaflets are dark green, and have a tiny point.

OTHER THREE TYPES OF PLANTS THAT LIVES ON DESERT ARE

shrubs, and grasses ,  succulents 

Desert animals have evolved ways to help them keep cool and use less water. Camels can go for weeks without water, and their nostrils and eyelashes can form a barrier against sand. Many desert animals, such as the fennec fox, are nocturnal, coming out to hunt only when the brutal sun has descended. Some animals, like the desert tortoise in the southwestern United States, spend much of their time underground. Most desert birds are nomadic, crisscrossing the skies in search of food. And among insects, the Namibian desert beetle can harvest fog from the air for water. Because of their very special adaptations, desert animals are extremely vulnerable to changes in their habitat.

TREATS TO DESERT 

Global warming is increasing the incidence of drought, which dries up water holes. Higher temperatures may produce an increasing number of wildfires that alter desert landscapes by eliminating slow-growing trees and shrubs and replacing them with fast-growing grasses.

This vast amount of pollution can have various effects on the Sonoran environment. ... These storms could spread deadly disease-infested dirt through the air and far around the desert, endangering the health of all species in the desert in Phoenix, including humans in the city

REFRENCES : Wikipedia, National Geography website, google images 

Chapter 5: The Long Road

A job well done by fireflower117 and an anon for solving my cipher and discovering the hint! Enjoy the anguish! I think I’m going to do a few more of those, so keep an eye out for more clues left in my favorite cipher.

Red and Avon continue their journey, and while Red wishes Avon would talk to him, Ecto wishes the feeling of not being alone would go away. 

Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland​

Ecto belongs to @ectochoir​

It’s been a week of traveling. Red and Avon had followed the coastline until they could no longer, which is when they turned inwards. They always traveled westward. That’s the direction that Avon feels her home is, though she isn’t one hundred percent sure. They wandered forests, plains, and hills. 

Right now, the pair walk through tall spruce trees, watching the sun as it begins to disappear on the horizon. Red tries to strike up a conversation. “So...uh, what’s your house like? Your home?” 

Avon stays silent, like she always does. The silence draws out, and after a minute, Red sighs. No matter what they try to talk about, Avon never answers. Not unless it’s something pertinent to the journey. If Red asks about where they are, or how far they’ve walked, Avon will speak up. But anything else, any attempt to make conversation, to fill the silence is only met with a cold wall. It’s been a long week for Red. 

Avon knows that Red wants to chat, she hears all the questions from them. But she never answers beyond necessary knowledge. It’s safest that way, for Avon. She’s spent her whole life keeping to herself, this little journey isn’t going to change that. Dragons are solitary creatures, even though it seems kiplings are the opposite. 

They’re an odd traveling pair. In the mornings, Avon leaves to find food while Red packs up. Today, Red was delighted to see Avon had brought back sweet berries from the bushes all around. However, she noticed that Avon’s hands were covered in scratches from the plant. When Red offered to clean them, Avon only tucked her hands under her cloak and began to walk. 

Most of the day they wander, following the sun. Sometimes, while Red is resting her sore feet, Avon takes off into the sky to check their surroundings. Red doesn’t know how Avon can walk so much and not have aching muscles. He thought swimming would have prepared him for this, but Avon rarely slows her consistent pace. The walk is mostly silent, though sometimes Red will begin to hum to himself as he observes his surroundings. He’s never been to places like these before. Where trees grow so tall they could stick out of the ocean, or fields filled with flowers of every color and shape. He tries to strike up conversations, but is almost always shot down with silence. And every time, it hurts a little. Red wants to befriend the mysterious girl, but Avon doesn’t seem interested in being friends. She seems to care about Red’s wellbeing, but not enough to notice that the silence is killing him. That he just wants to be friends, just wants to talk and share stories. Of their homes, of their families, of their life. 

When the sun begins to set, that’s when the two stop. Avon finds a clearing large enough for them, one close to a source of water for Red. Red feels bad that her sea pickles haven’t come in handy. She never realized that they don’t glow out of the water. Avon starts up a fire while Red sets out her bedroll, though Avon always rests on the opposite side of the fire. Red’s noticed that Avon doesn’t sleep much. When she goes to bed, Avon is up- often watching the darkness. And when Red wakes, it’s the same. They share food, cooked fish caught nearby or meat that Avon has hunted. 

“We should stop here.” Avon announces, looking around. It’s a small cove near a river, flat enough for the two to make camp in. Avon makes it official by digging the prongs of her trident into the dirt. Claiming it like her weapon is a flag. 

“This river is so deep. Look at all the fish!” Red grins, peeking below the surface by dunking her head in. This evening is going to be good for her, she can get a swim in. Red always feels relaxed when she’s in the water. It feels like a mother’s arms, cradling her. Protecting her. 

Avon doesn’t answer Red's exclamation, already putting together the fire. They go through the same motions they’ve gone through every night for the past week. Fire, bedroll, dinner. Red takes some time to soak in the river, feeling her scales become healthy and hydrated in the cool water. She swims as deep as she can, and turns over so that she’s laying on the sand. Beyond the surface of the water, she can see the stars. Glittering, distant pinpricks of light. Red is usually too deep under to get a good look at them. They make patterns in the sky, patterns she starts to name as she watches them twinkle. 

A black shape soars across Red’s vision. It startles him at first, but after a second he remembers his traveling partner. Avon must be stretching her wings, or doing ‘patrols’ like she says she does. The fresh water starts to become chilled, the sun no longer warming it. That’s Red’s cue to return to the surface. Just as he suspects, the campsite is empty. Avon’s trident is still stuck in the ground, so she must not be far. She hardly ever lets that leave her sight. Red wonders how she came across it, if she lives in the End. Do they have drowned in the End? 

There’s a shuffle in the leaves behind Red. He turns just in time to witness Avon narrowly avoid hitting one tree, brush past another’s leaves...only to strike into a tall tree on the far side of the camp. The entire tree shutters, leaves falling at a much slower speed than Avon. She comes crashing to the forest floor, her arms still wrapped around her head to protect it from the crash. The mysterious protector rolls down the hill, wings askew and hair full of twigs. 

“I can’t be-leaf what I just saw.” Red giggles out, looming over Avon. She’s still dazed from her crash landing, but it doesn’t take long for her to recapture focus. And immediately, Red sees her pale face become as red as a salmon. 

“That...that was intentional.” Avon stutters out. 

Red’s giggles grow into full laughter as Avon stands up, plucking the twigs from her hair. Red isn’t trying to be mean, but the circumstance was just too much not to crack a laugh. “That was quite the hot landing, how’d you miss a tree that big?” 

“I saw it coming, I was coming in too hot and needed to make a fast landing.” Avon tugs her cloak back into place, dusting dirt from her wings. She stiffens her shoulders and tries breathing to stop the growing red across her face. 

“That was not a landing. That was a crashing.” Red’s doubled over with laughter. This is the first time he’s ever seen Avon not in that stoic, cryptic stature she always carries. She’s actually showing emotion- beyond anger. She’s stumbling over her words, embarrassed that Red saw what he just did.

“It was a rapid deceleration. Not falling.” Avon storms past Red, putting her hands over her cheeks to cover the color that betrays her. She didn’t want Red to see that- ever. Avon is a great flyer. But landings in the Overworld are tough. So many trees and mountains, sometimes she calculates things wrong and ends up hitting them. She’s done it a few times this trip, but luckily Red wasn’t around. This time she wasn’t so lucky. 

“You’re quite the clumsy person, Avon. First you knock yourself out in a shipwreck, and now you crash into a tree!” Red sobers up a bit, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes. “It’s okay, I’m just glad you aren’t hurt.” Red places a hand on Avon’s shoulder. As soon as Avon feels the pressure through her cloak, she raises her wings like curtains. Pushing his hand off of her. 

“I-I’m not clumsy. This is why I prefer the End.” Avon is thoroughly embarrassed. She never wanted anyone to know anything about her. To never let anyone see her as anything less than the protector she is. Nothing less than a dragonheart, and nothing more. She doesn’t want Red to see her as weak in any way. How could Avon possibly be a decent fighter if she can’t even evade a massive tree? She grabs her trident from the ground, keeping her face out of direct firelight as she sits down on the ground. She buffs out marks on her weapon, hoping that maybe if she can get rid of the blemishes on it she can get rid of the embarrassment as well. 

Red sits down on her bedroll, shaking her head. For once, Avon feels like a real person. Not the silent, static soldier she tries to portray. A real being, with layers and flaws and the ability to have emotion. While the crash was embarrassing for Avon, it only reinforced one thing in Red- that there is hope in Avon. She’s not immune to feeling. And it only encourages Red to keep picking away at the tough exterior. 

----------------------------

Ecto feels like she’s constantly being watched. Just over the dune, just beyond the horizon, just below her cacti monuments. It’s not husks, no. They don’t even have eyes to watch her. She feels like someone is drilling right through her back with their gaze. Someone who shouldn’t be in her desert. 

She’s started to make precautions. The door into her home, burrowed in the dunes, is now surrounded by cacti. She has to crawl over them to leave, but she’s used to the spines. She’s a master of plucking them out of her hands. Ecto has no weapons, but she’s been on the lookout since the feeling started. Hoping that a husk would be carrying it’s blade even through death, or a pyramid would have a weapon stashed away. But she’s been out of luck. All she has is her wits, her mind, and her cacti. 

Ecto is clever, she knows if something were to really happen, she’d make it through without a problem. She just hates this feeling of being watched, of some intruder in her home. There’s a village on the other side of the biome, but she never visits. There’s no need for her to. The villagers don’t bother her, and she doesn’t bother them. But they wouldn’t be the ones spying on her, not after all this time. 

This is something new. Every so often, Ecto catches a whiff of that awful scent again. What she smelled that day in the sandstorm. The melted sand footprints are still there, though they’re getting buried by the constant flow of sand. It’s most often near the swirling monument that Ecto feels like she’s being watched. It’s starting to drive her mad. Every evening, she hunts for husks that may have a weapon. She’s always carrying a cactus on her, separate from the cacti she snacks on.

 Tonight, Ecto brushes the sandy grime from her face after killing a horde of husks. The sensation is back as she wanders home. Boring deep into her, though she can never see who is always watching. At the mouth of her home, she suddenly turns around and shouts into the night. “Go away! If you’re looking for a fight then come get it!” 

She’s not backing down. Whoever this is, she’s going to fight for invading her desert and making her so uncomfortable. When she finally sees who it is, they’re going to wish they had brought better gear.

A Land of Opportunity

A world has been created. Three major landmasses, with several dozen smaller islands of varying size. Over 700 geographic regions, from the scorching deserts of the north-west to the glacial planes of the far south. Twenty four civilizations, comprised of the 5 major races of the world: Dwarves, Humans, Elves, Goblins, and Kobolds. One hundred and twenty seven years of history,

And seven brave settlers, looking for a new place to call home.

Its time to choose where in this wide world we will plant our proverbial flag. And man, is there a lot to choose from. Fortunately, we know some things to look for1:

Multiple shallow and deep metal ore deposits: we’re Dwarves, we need stuff to forge. We can’t just make everything out of stone.2

Flux stone: needed for turning frail and lumpy pig iron into that smooth, gleaming lifeblood of industry and war, steel.

High Savagery: we don’t want to be living in some quiet pasture where you don’t get Giant Sparrows carrying off your children or (if we’re lucky) a Yeti booting a fisherdwarf into the stratosphere, that’s just not Fun.

Those ideals in mind, we turn to the master cartographers of the Mountainhomes, and after a flurry of research, we have some options! Leeeeettttsss bring in our contestants for this new season of....

The Fortchelor!3

First we have a continent up in the far northwest, with the intriguing name of “The Subtle Dunes”:

Is the land rich in a bounty of ores, stones, and all things dwarfy? Yes! However, its a scorching desert, and you know what, I just don’t like deserts. They’re hot, dry, full of that annoying sand that gets everywhere. It’s cut off from all its neighbors, so that’s gonna be pretty lonely. How are you supposed to spread word of your incredible works of art if you don’t get any visitors? Also no trees, which is a problem because we’re gonna need those for beds. I don’t want grumpy sleep deprived dwarves stomping around outside and getting an unexpected blood-to-venom transfusion from a giant scorpion.

Rating: This Porridge is Too Hot / 10

Next up we drop down to the southwest corner of the world’s major continent, “The Esteemed Land”:

In contrast to the dull dunes up there, this is a hotbed of activity. There’s a sprawl of human, dwarf, elf, and goblin settlements, roads and tunnels cris-crossing between them. Several different biomes ranging from salt marshes to freezing tundra. And most exciting, that little purple “I” down there at the bottom is a Necromancer Tower, the home base for a group of necromancers that have been waging a war of subtle schemes and undead sieges across the area over half a century. Oh man, the excitement, the drama! On the other hand, of course...

there’s a group of necromancers that have been waging a war of subtle schemes and undead sieges across the area over half a century.

Also there’s just too much going on. I don’t feel like we’d really be able to make a mark, make the place really ours. Not enough elbow room (except in the crypts apparently).

Rating: 4.8 Romero’s

Next up, the Island of Influences, right in the center of the world, more or less:

It’s lush, with dense woods and abundant undergrowth. Good temperature, nice central location...buuut see that water? All around it, between it and the rest of civilization? Whelp, dwarves haven’t mastered the art of sailing,4 so that would leave us all cut off from the rest of the world, while watching it grow and change around us. Just too lonely.

Rating: 16b/65 Twilight Zones

Okay, this is a really tempting one...far, far to the south, The Island of Fortresses:

When I said to the south, I mean allll the way. That grey along the bottom? That’s the window border. Also, the island is minuscule, only a single square at this map resolution. Cut off from the rest of the world again, this time though by glaciers and frozen seas. Nobody lives there, nobody can visit, why would this distant speck be so tempting?

Well, its all about the sole inhabitant, The Crystalline Flame, the one and only volcano in the world, and very much alive and bubbling. Is there anything cooler than building a fortress in a volcano? Magma fueled forges, cast obsidian structures, steamy bathhouses, dizzying bridges hanging over a fiery molten doom for our enemies. A glorious achievement for dwarf culture. And yet...

Come on lets be honest, I am 100% guaranteed to lose at least one dwarf to a horrible fiery death in less than 10 seconds after arrival, and I’d give myself a generous 4 months before there is nothing but ash to show that anyone even attempted to settle here. Also, once again, completely cut off from the rest of the world, and what’s the point of fiery traps of doom if you can’t lure armies into them. Maybe some day I can embark on a megaproject to bridge the ocean and then go try settling there, but not today.

Rating: 12000 °U

Well, I’ve really been goldylocksing it up here. This one’s too hot, this one’s too cold, this one’s too overrun by a cabal of necromancers stretching back to the dawn of time, blah blah blah. The cartographers are getting antsy, this is starting to edge into T time4. Isn’t there somewhere in this wide world that’s just right? Somewhere we can call...

Oh...what’s that...that right there...

Right on the main continent...a lush swamp touching the foot of a majestic mountain range...dwarves and humans to the east, elves to the south, goblins across the mountains, a necromancer tower across the inlet.

I’ve done it. I’ve found it. This is where we will settle. This is where legends will be made.

It’s time! Load the wagon! Pack the beer! Its time...

to go home.

Cause we’re not just looking to have a nice cozy little burrow. We’re full of booze and hubris and we’re gonna go down as legends. ↩︎

Most of it, oh yeah, absolutely. We’re gonna be rolling in rock mugs and stone pots. But we want some glitz and glamor in there too. ↩︎

Okay some portmanteaus are not meant to be, but hey you can’t make a word omelette without breaking a few grammatical eggs. ↩︎

That is, of course, tankard time, their late afternoon round of drinks. ↩︎ ↩︎

Lore: Centauri

This distant planet circling Earth's closest star is a harsh landscape on which life had to evolve beyond inhospitable circumstances. The four regions of the globe are dominated by four vastly different terrains. The ancient inhabitants of these terrains were forced to develop abilities to withstand the dangerous environment, eventually forming four races of people on Centauri. The races may crossbreed between each other today, creating greater genetic diversity in hybrids, but those of the purest descent tend to have the most focused and prominent abilities. Centauri culture highly values family lineage, both for genetic purity and for ancestral honor. Higher class citizens tend to arrange marriages to ensure a pure bloodline of their race and stronger abilities in their children. The lower classes are more likely to interbreed for the sake of love, as they are not constantly judged by their peers. However, it is not unknown for hybrids to enter the upper class through acts of great prestige and honor, and it is not unknown for the upper class to fall from grace through brash carelessness. In spite of transplants, travelers, and hybrids, each region is clearly dominated by the race that originated from that terrain. The highest echelons of the upper class, the legendary figures that earned their place upon the Imperial Counsel, are made up of individuals from all four races that live in the capital city of Alpha, where the Royal Space Fleet Headquarters builds the strongest galactic military in the universe (so they claim).

The North

The Northern cap of the planet is blanketed in thick, noxious clouds. Acid rains pour down upon the frigid swamplands of the North day and night for most of the year. Little grows under the acidic deluge, but what plants and animals have managed to adapt to this deadly environment are especially hardy and difficult to kill. Sharp, reedy plants reach up through the soggy mud toward the sickly yellow sky. Hulking beasts hide inside misleading murky puddles to strike with jaws like massive vices made to clamp and drag you under. Tiny, skittering creatures produce potent poisons that kill with rapid overwhelming paralysis. The people native to these cold, rainy swamps adapted to outlast these intense conditions. Their skin comes in varying shades of green, chlorophyll inside their skin cells photosynthesizes sunlight to provide them with more energy, requiring them to forage for less food in the swampy wastes. When well fed, the extra energy fuels greater strength, speed, stamina, durability, and healing abilities. The Northerners are renowned across the globe for their physical prowess. They make excellent foot soldiers, mechanics, builders, athletes, laborers, and farmers. Their culture is not one of extravagance or boastfulness. They tend to be blunt, modest, and intensely private people. Many Northerners have risen to the heights of the upper class from their modest roots through honorable actions of impressive invention, construction, or feats of impossible strength and fortitude.

Common mutations: Super strength, super speed, extreme stamina, distance leaping, unbreakable skin, rapid healing, negation of hunger, negation of thirst, sleeplessness, immunity to poisons, breathe underwater

Common side-effects: Because they are so attached to the environment that drove their evolution, many Northerners require bathing in acid water to remain healthy. It softens their thick, durable skin, as well as activates their immune systems to promote even faster healing. Some Northerners also claim to have frequent cravings to eat meat. Scientists can only guess that this is a result of the high rate of protein breakdown and strengthening that happens in their bodies

The East

The toxic rainclouds of the North butt up against towering mountains so tall that they cut into the sky and block all but the coldest, highest-reaching clouds from crawling over them. The slopes jab like a sea of knives into the atmosphere before they crash dramatically into the ocean. On this side of the world, there is very little inhabitable land to build on. Miles of glacial ice slide between the jagged mountains and spill over the frozen waters. Unforgiving winds freeze to the bone and slice away flesh. All that lives in this fragile landscape does so underground or underwater. Very little plants can be found beneath the ice. The animals of this region subsist on a flourishing biome of fungus and algae as well as smaller insectoids and bacteria-feeding swimming creatures. This region is also home to the largest animals on the planet. Great sea monsters, large enough to swallow luxury submersible vessels, roam the depths, while tunneling beasts cut enormous chambers beneath the mountains to build their nests. Evolving in this environment required a sharp cunning and resourcefulness. The Easterners learned to find caverns beneath the glacial ice. Underground lakes and abandoned nests tunneled out of mountains became the sites of their cities. In the darkness of the underground, their skin grew pale. They learned to see without sight, hear the soundless, feel the intangible. Their keen minds reached outside of themselves and began to manipulate the dark world around them. The spaces between them became smaller, as the gentle people under the ice found strength in community and kindness. The Easterners are respected for their emotional and scientific intelligence. The have a knack for tactical planning, for deep investigation, and for finding out-of-the-box solutions. They make up much of the upper class due to their strategic involvement in improving the empire and their appreciation for finer luxuries.As diplomats, law enforcement, managers, doctors, artists, and scientists, they use their powerful minds to delve into the depths of the Centauri spirit within its people.

Common mutations: Telepathy, telekinesis, empathy, astral projection, memory reading, induce unconsciousness, manipulate senses, create illusions, invisibility, psychometry, psychomancy

Common side-effects: The Easterners are physically delicate. The safety and silence of the underground has made them sensitive to intense light, sound, and heat. They feel more comfortable inside, in a cool environment away from the noises of the city and the scorching rays of the sun. Prone to headaches when exhausted.

The South

Across the ocean, the mild temperate country that stretches up from the frozen south pole is host to an explosive flourishing of life. Here, mountains give way to massive forests and torrential rivers. A humid mist hangs in the air, dripping off spiny leaves and puddling up on the soft mossy earth. The vegetation is so dense one can barely see five feet ahead in any direction. The air buzzes with the constant trills and cries and screeches of billions of living things. The thick canopy creates a mysterious world of shadows beneath it, but the darkness is never empty. This crowded space is where life has evolved in an endless war with itself. The food chain beneath the canopy is imperceptibly tangled and complex. Animals eat plants, plants eat animals. Death hides around every corner in all shapes and sizes. The law of the jungle is see or be seen, kill or be killed. Camouflage and heightened senses are necessary for survival in this game of eat or be eaten. The people of the South are nimble, precise, and observant. Their features are dark, their skin coming in a range of brown to jet black, so that they may blend into the shadows beneath the dense trees. Their senses are almost supernaturally acute. As deadly as the fiercest predators, the Southern people have developed the sharpest eyes, ears, noses, tongues, and fingers. Their senses cannot be fooled like so many who become prey. This is accented by a strong tendency toward suspicion. Southerners rarely trust anyone who hasn’t proven themself first. They are a fierce people, intensely loyal to their beliefs, and scathingly sharp-tongued. The people of Centauri respect the Southern race for their keen observations, unbiased by delusional wishes. They are the truth-seekers, the skeptics, the defenders and the hunters. The people of the South have worked their way up to honor in many positions--as spies, firefighters, detectives, animal trainers, pilots, and businessmen.

Common Mutations: perfect accuracy, echolocation, enhanced smell, enhanced taste, x-ray vision, infrared vision, perfect balance, enhanced reflexes, spidey-sense, animal communication

Common Side-Effects: Their sharp instincts make Southerners particularly susceptible to anxiety and depression. The stress of constantly being alert can wear them out and emotionally strain them. They find solace in chaos--busy places, loud music. They struggle with sitting still, often bounding from one task to the next to distract themselves from the constant sensational input.

The West

South of the swamplands and North of the jungles, the planet eases into the dry sands of the Western deserts. While the other regions of the planet are wet or frozen, this arid landscape is baked under an unforgiving sun. Dunes of thin red sand rise and fall like waves in an ocean. Stark cliff sides are decorated by hard, spiny beings. Plants, whose roots tap so deep into the earth they reach hidden sources of life that circle out of human reach, shadow scaly creatures with foggy eyes and forked tongues. Life goes on in this wasteland through pure determination. They will not allow a little hunger and thirst to defeat them, they will not allow a little sun to drain them dry. The people of the West are a constant wellspring of indomitable willpower. Their skin is stained red by the constant scorching sun, they shimmer like hot sand, still they are undefeated. Tempered by the heat of the desert, the people of the West have honed their force of will into a tool for moving the energy that ties the cosmos together. Some call it “magic,” though it is merely another branch of science, with its own theorems and equations. The strong of heart can tap into this cosmic energy to bring forth their desires. They are a race to be reckoned with. The other races find them to be the “wild-cards” of the Centauri people. Bursting with creativity, they can be unpredictable and a bit aggressive when obstacles stand in the way of their desires. Their indomitable willpower has driven many to the top of the upper class in the most unexpected walks of life, from disciplined musicians to wildly imaginative accountants. Whatever they do, they do it without any reservations or restrictions.

Common Mutations: pyrokinesis, cryokinesis, teleportation, healing aura, manipulate light, magnetism, divination, control electricity, manipulate gravity, grow/shrink

Common Side-Effects: The forces of the universe are a strange and immense energy that we do not fully understand. The willpower needed to tap into them is extraordinary, and the weight of their power is great. Some begin to crack under the pressure, slowly losing their minds to the infinite void of the cosmos, while others let it guide them into wild unexplainable actions. The Westerners that wish to keep themselves strong adhere to strict routines to keep the madness at bay. They pour themselves into a religion, an art form, a hobby, something that requires constant practice. Meditation is taught to the children, and most keep up a regular study of it to empty their minds and strengthen their abilities. They need to keep their minds sharp as their vivid imaginations tend to get the best of them and allow them to get carried away in daydreams or delusions.

Adding clean energy to the Sahara could make it rain (and not just figuratively)

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/adding-clean-energy-to-the-sahara-could-make-it-rain-and-not-just-figuratively/

Adding clean energy to the Sahara could make it rain (and not just figuratively)

Think of the Sahara, with its windswept dunes shining in the sunlight. Some people might see barren land, with minimal water or life and scorching temperatures. Others see a potential solution to a looming energy crisis, and one that could potentially make it rain in one of the largest deserts in the world.

In a paper published this week in Science researchers found that by building out huge wind and solar farms across the desert, they could not only provide a stunning amount of power to Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, but they could simultaneously change the climate—increasing heat, but also increasing precipitation and vegetation in areas that could sorely use the added greenery. They estimate that such a venture could double the rainfall in the region, and increase vegetation cover by about 20 percent.

How much green are we talking? The Sahara covers 3.55 million square miles (9.2 million square kilometers). In the study, the researchers ran computer models that placed wind turbines across the desert close to a mile apart, and covered 20 percent of the desert with solar panels in different configurations (sometimes the panels were spread across the desert in a checkerboard pattern, and in other cases were concentrated in quadrants). Smaller coverage produced smaller climate impacts—in this case, less precipitation—but much of it depended on the location of the turbines and panels as well. For example, installing panels in the northwest corner had a larger impact than the other three desert options.

Covering parts of the desert with darker solar panels meant that less sun bounced off the Saharan sand, which is unusually light in color, and therefore has a higher albedo than other non-polar deserts. That means that typically the Sahara reflects more light and heat back into the air. Reducing the albedo by installing darker solar panels could actually increase precipitation in the region even as it increases the temperature around the solar panels. Warmer air rises to areas in the atmosphere where it’s cooler, and moisture there condenses and falls as rain.

“In 1975 Jule Charney, my PhD advisor at MIT, proposed a feedback mechanism to help explain the drought in the Sahel, the semi-arid transition region south of the Sahara: Overgrazing increased surface albedo (reflectivity), reduced precipitation, and in turn further reduced vegetation. About a decade ago, I had the idea that this feedback would work in the opposite direction in the presence of large solar panel farms, since they would reduce the surface albedo,” said Eugenia Kalnay, a lead author of the paper in a press release. “Similarly, wind farms would increase land surface friction and convergence of air, thus producing upward motion and precipitation.”

With more rain, grass and trees could slowly grow back into the once-lush landscape, sprouting between turbines and solar panels as they do on existing farms.

The solar farm would produce an estimated average of 79 terawatts of power, and the wind farm would produce about 3 terawatts—without producing greenhouse gas emissions. To put that in perspective, the authors say that the entire world used about 18 terawatts of power last year.

But building a massive solar farm doesn’t happen overnight, so the researchers programmed the computer model to look at what would happen during a 100 year buildup period, and during the 100 years after the plants were built.

“If we can finish building all the wind and solar farms immediately, some of the effects on atmosphere would be observed almost immediately. But the effects due to the vegetation–albedo–precipitation feedback mechanism would take some time before it could be observed, because vegetation needs time to grow (within a few years). In reality, the effect would grow as the size of wind and solar farms that have been installed grows,” two of the lead authors, Yan Li and Safa Motesharrei, said in an email.

Green Precedent

This wouldn’t be the first time that humans have altered the Sahara. It used to be a much wetter, greener area than it is today.

“The Sahara is a critical biome for humanity in terms of being a reservoir of cultural and ecological diversity,” David Wright, an archeologist at Seoul National University wrote in an email. He points out that even today, the region isn’t just mass of sand, but has mountains, hills, and small rivers and lakes, home to thousands of species.

“Our earliest known ancestor following our lineage’s split from other apes, Sahelanthropus tschadensis, has been found in the Sahara. During the African Humid Period (ca. 11,000-5000 years ago), the Sahara was a vast, diverse ecosystem dotted with lakes and fisherfolk. It became a site of early domestication of cattle and camels and donkeys. It is the site of vast continental overland trading networks managed by empires. The Sahara has much to teach us about how humans have adapted to climate change in the past,” Wright says.

A paper Wright published last year proposed that cattle herders moved into the region between 8,000 and 4,000 years ago. The cattle did what cattle always do, eating away the vegetation, and in the process enhanced the albedo—speeding up the shift from a wetter Sahara to a bone-dry one.

“Human impacts pushed the natural system over the threshold of desertification, and in places where humans entered ecosystems with their animals, the transition from wet to dry far exceeded the pace that would have occurred in the absence of those pressures. Such changes have been demonstrated time and again from deserts ranging from the Atacama to Mongolia to the Sahara,” says Wright, who was not involved in the new Science study.

Researchers have linked climate change with the Sahara’s continued growth. The desrt has grown 10 percent since 1920.

The authors of the more recent paper did not look at other ecological impacts that could be caused by large installations of wind and solar farms in the Sahara, but they think the increased rainfall would overall be a boon to the people who live in and around the region.

“The top 10% of the world’s population is producing about 50% of the world’s carbon emissions. Thus, if the poorest 90% of the world population aims to bring its standard of living up to the level of the richest 10% using fossil energy, that would increase total energy use and emission of global greenhouse gases by five times,” Li and Motesharrei say in an email. To give the whole world access to development—without pushing climate change even further—the authors argue that we need as much clean, renewable energy as possible.

The prospect of purposefully altering the climate is obviously fraught with ethical questions. But Wright points out that we’ve done it before. “Humans are, by nature, niche constructors. We evolved as niche constructors and our niche construction activities will have one of two possible outcomes: either it will save our species from extinction or doom us to extinction. Human societies have already placed large ecological footprints into desert and semi-desert environments,” he says. “In terms of willingness, yes, people are certainly willing and able to construct dozens of energy plants in the deserts and semi-deserts of Africa. Whether it is prudent to do so is an open question. This study suggests it is prudent, but as they indicate, there are more costs to such projects than just ecological.”

Analyzing the costs and benefits for such a world-changing project is daunting under the best of circumstances, but the stakes here are particularly high. Especially for the people who live in the region already.

“It is up to local people to determine if they are willing to gamble on developing energy infrastructure, which could have recursive effects within the broader ecology of the region,” Wright says. “In the context of Industrial-Era geopolitics, such development projects are likely to benefit very few people in the areas where they are constructed even though the ecological impacts to them will be the most severe. The benefits will flow to the already-developed areas of the world, which assume no risk and only reap the benefits,” Wright says.

The authors of the paper also advise a considered approach to any action that might be taken in the future.

“Implementing such large-scale solar and wind farms has become increasingly possible, but requires proper planning and visionary decision-making, plus co-operation of policymakers, companies, stakeholders, and people. We hope that all these local and global actors and stakeholders co-operate and make this a reality,” Li and Motesharri write. “This could be the best chance for sustaining life on this planet while improving the quality of life for everyone.”

Written By Mary Beth Griggs

Earth's most mysterious hums, ranked

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/earths-most-mysterious-hums-ranked/

Earth's most mysterious hums, ranked

When all else is quiet, Earth still hums. Scientists have known about this low-frequency droning for years, but last month researchers published the first-ever study to record the not-so-noisy noise on the bottom of the ocean. The paper presents some interesting findings on the hum and its frequencies—the planet’s oscillation clocks in between 2.9 and 4.5 millihertz, which is 10,000 times lower than sounds humans are capable of hearing—but at the end of the day, this vibration is just that: a vibration. The main benefit of this research, Ryan F. Mandelbaum pointed out for Gizmodo, is that scientists could pick up a lot of interesting seismological data in the course of studying the hum. Perhaps one day we could analyze it to learn something about the planet’s core, but we’re not there yet.

We’re willing to wager that if you clicked on a story about a mysterious hum, you expected it to be about a different phenomenon—something humans can actually hear. The aforementioned study is indeed intriguing and important. But for those of you hoping for something a little sexier, here are some mysterious hums you can ponder with your own eardrums.

The hum

Yes, that hum. The one that’s got a Wikipedia page titled “The Hum.”

This refers to what may actually be many, unrelated phenomena. Basically, folks around the world—especially in a few select spots—tend to report the presence of a deep (dare we say ominous?) rumble. It’s tempting to assume that the latest deep sea research on the Earth’s hum provides an explanation for The Hum itself. But it definitely doesn’t.

Not everyone hears the supposed humming in these hum-troubled towns (just 2 percent of people in affected areas, according to one study), but people do hear it. People cannot hear that hum that the Earth is always making. Yes, human hearing has its variations (your ability to hear high frequencies diminishes with age and ear damage) but there’s no way two percent of the population is walking around with a hearing range 10,000-times lower than average. For one thing, they’d also hear all the stuff between normal human hearing range and the seismic hum (and the stuff around the same frequency, like hospital ultrasounds).

In all likelihood, whatever humming does exist in these areas is caused by some unknown local source, like machinery at a nearby factory. The people who can hear the noise may have more sensitive hearing or less of an ability to tune out noises they hear on a regular basis, but they might also have tinnitus (ringing of the ears) or be highly suggestible, as so many humans are. If you grow up being told your town has a mysterious hum, it’s really, really easy for your brain to make up a mysterious hum.

Rating: 2 out of 5 stars. Way less mysterious than advertised and yet frustratingly impossible to solve, we are generally dissatisfied with this hum.

Humming giraffes

It would make sense if giraffes were silent. Or silent to us, anyway. Their extremely long tracheas suggest that any noises they could make would be a low, sub-human-frequency rumble. But a 2015 study found that at night, the animals audibly hum in order to communicate. It sounds like this:

Rating: 2 out of 5 stars. Not actually all that mysterious; we just like it.

Infrasound

These days, there’s nothing all that mysterious about infrasound. But if you’ve never heard of it, boy are you in for a spooky treat.

Technically infrasound refers to anything below the human hearing range, but you’ll most often hear the term in discussion of sounds that we can’t hear, but that we can still … sense. It’s just below our frequency range, and it makes us feel deeply unsettled. Horror movie soundtracks use it all the time to make you feel like something terrible is about to happen to you. And it can also have physical effects. Here’s an amazing description from a previous PopSci post on the subject:

There’s an elevator in the Brown University Biomed building (hopefully fixed by now) that I’ve heard called “the elevator to hell,” not because of destination but because there is a bent blade in the overhead fan. The elevator is typical of older models, a box 2 meters by 2 meters by 3 meters with requisite buzzing fluorescent, making it a perfect resonator for low-frequency sounds. As soon as the doors close, you don’t really hear anything different, but you can feel your ears (and body, if you’re not wearing a coat) pulsing about four times per second. Even going only two floors can leave you pretty nauseated. The fan isn’t particularly powerful, but the damage to one of the blades just happens to change the air flow at a rate that is matched by the dimensions of the car. This is the basis of what is called vibroacoustic syndrome—the effect of infrasonic output not on your hearing but on the various fluid-filled parts of your body.

Not spooky enough for you? Some scientists actually believe that locales with a reputation for being haunted might just be producing infrasound waves. Also, it might be behind some of “The Hum” phenomena around the world.

Rating: 2.5 out of five stars. Not all that mysterious, but so dang spooky.

Upsweep

The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has monitored several mysterious noises over the past couple decades, and some of them remain unexplained. One example is Upsweep, a sound picked up seasonally since recording began in earnest back in 1991. NOAA’s best guess is that it has something to do with volcanic activity.

Rating: 3 out of 5 stars. Definitely mysterious, almost certainly not spooky.

The Bio-Duck

In the 1960s, some submarine personnel picked up a sound that reminded them of a duck. The noise remained a mystery for decades, blamed on everything from ships to fish. In 2013, researchers finally pinned the phenomenon on the Antarctic mink whale.

Rating: 3 out of 5 stars. Sounds nothing like a duck.

The midshipman fish

At least one case of the mysterious hum is now tied to the courtship song of the midshipman fish, and several other hum-plagued regions are on the lookout for aquatic answers in their bodies of water as well.

The male fish build nests around rocks close to the shore, and sing at night to entice females to join them. Researchers were recently able to make the fish sing or stay silent by tweaking their light exposure and levels of melatonin, a hormone produced as it gets dark that helps tell the human brain it’s time for sleep.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars. It’s a fish mating call that drove humans crazy for years and we respect that.

Skyquake

Though it is oft the subject of suspicious YouTube videos, the skyquake is in fact a real phenomenon. It’s when the sky goes boom for no apparent reason, and there are places where it seems to be a more common occurrence than others.

There might be multiple phenomena at play here. Maybe crashing waves are to blame in some regions, and shifting dunes to blame in another. Perhaps something (like a military jet or a meteor) breaks the sound barrier but isn’t visible at the time the sonic boom occurs. Or it could be a planetary fart.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars. We actually have no idea what the heck is going on, plus it might be an Earth fart.

The 52-hz whale

There’s a reason why it took researchers so long to listen to the Earth’s hum at the bottom of the ocean: it’s a noisy place. Whales sing out (or quack out, apparently, if you’re a confused submarine operator in the Arctic) communications that reverberate through the seas. No song is more mysterious or sanguine than that of the 52-hz whale. The most popular theory is that this whale, which sings (or sang—it might be dead by now) at a different frequency than all the species it could conceivably be, was alone and unloved because of an inability to communicate with its brethren. Was it some kind of hybrid? A sad mistake of nature?

Of course, it’s possible this sound was never from a whale at all, as the animal has only been heard and not seen. And perhaps this call isn’t as unusual as so many scientists assumed. Even if it is unusual, how are we to know that it isn’t more of an advantageous quirk than a handicap? We simply can’t.

Rating: 5 out of 5 stars. We believe in you little buddy; shine on you crazy diamond; wow so inspiring.

Written By Rachel Feltman