Here’s Alyssia’s Twin Elliot, The Token Cishet Of The Group.

Pasodau is a seedworld established alongside its sister world Snekens in the far future to study the dynamics of evolution without the intervention of sophonts, recalling the numerous worlds established by the Old Ones in time immemorial.

The affair of seeding, as is typical of Terran lead terraforming, was a chaotic undertaking of measures and countermeasures to establish a sustainable atmosphere and biosphere, a process born from the frantic attempts at stabilising the fragile, almost mono cultural terraformed worlds established by Terran factions following a number of narrowly avoided and even total ecological collapses leaving thousands dead and millions displaced. Whilst successful at preventing such planetfalls through redundancies and diversity, this method of seeding a world makes determining the full list of species introduced near impossible due to many extinctions, failed introductions, hybridisations and genetic modifications that occur at a species, genus or even family level amongst microfauna and flora. The list of species that are larger, more distinct, or introduced later in the process is much more complete, with all vertebrates seeded being recorded.

The map above shows the planet at the time of seeding.

A world of ghosts

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

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

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

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

The flag of the Faerie Revolutionary Alliance, the first of many resistance and revolutionary movements to collaborated with the Allies during the Faerie War to overthrow the Faerie Empire (names are a work in progress, I know that’s a lot of faeries). The war hammer represents what was seen as a “people’s weapon” due to needing little metal, the tree represents the home trees many faeries build/built their civilisations in.

Diagrams of formid anatomy. First is external anatomy, red and orange is skeleton, blue is respiratory system and green is digestive system.

Pretty basic question but ah well- are the faeries aliens? Or seed world organisms that originated from earth?

The faeries, slaters and formids are all aliens, however the slaters are from an ancient seedworld/colony world of a now extinct alien.

Some say magic died when a hail of shellfire tore an ancient god asunder. Others say it died when the whistle of engines dragged an old world kicking and screaming into a new one. Yet more say it died when the wheels of progress ground the very building blocks of the universe apart into ordered lists and categories. It has been said it died when some long lost soul first harnessed the all consuming light of fire to keep away greater evils that haunted the shadows.

But magic is not dead.

If you venture long enough into the wild lands you can find it, scorched and scarred, battered but not broken. Ancient beings who’s rattling voices sing ballads of fall and fallow; Good People who ask for your name and offer you a deal; silent colossi passing beneath trees that reach to the heavens; beasts that stalked the flickering borders of ancient campfires, and kind travellers who no longer know how long they have wandered these lands.

If you follow the coast you can find it, hear it in faint songs barely distinguishable above the breaking of the waves; see it in the dark shapes that glide over the reefs and shoals; be told of it in epic tales as sailors boast of their victories, and if you stay you might overhear whispers of awe and dread of the rage and might of what dwells within pelagic storms, those spirits who never returned from the sea, and the unfathomable might of leviathans known only to the cachalot and those rare few glimpsing a shadow in the depths.

If you travel through the country you can find it, temples of corrugated metal and bricks; archaic machines held together with welds, duct tape and dimly glowing runes; laughing farmhands heaving clods of soil from the earth to lob at eachother; faerie rocks jeering from the centre of a plowed field; forgotten gods standing motionless amongst the wheat; long abandoned churches that never fall into disrepair; half forgotten sigils carved into fence posts to ward off the Things in the night, and the eyes that yet still burn like red moons between the stalks of corn.

In the cities you can find it, in the prophecies etched and sprayed upon the subway walls by robed sages and masked youths; in the pig iron shrines to gods of the forge tucked in every nook and cranny of a foundry; in the clubs and bars that you can only find when you are shown them or when a full moon looms above; in the figures kneeled in the light of the street lamps and the shapes that lurk beyond their reach; in the graffiti that can race and dance or slowly shift upon the faces of buildings older than countries and refuse to be removed; in the timeworn temples that had the city built around them; in the druids of lawns and weeds; in the mages that carve their baseball bats with symbols of power and fill their trench coat pockets with glador brewed in basements and lifted from stores; in the bards that busk at the city crossroads and send ballads streaking across the globe in a crackle of sparks and binary; and in the warlocks both of new gods with bones of steel, veins of fire and skin a tough as concrete, and of the old gods that seep out like moss from the pavement as they refuse to be forgotten.

So as you go about your busy days, give a swift greeting to the magpies that watch and wait from the roofs and branches; pass a murmur of respect to the faerie oak that stands like an island in a sea of concrete; ignore the shapes glimpsed from the windows at night but draw the blinds and lock the doors. And always remember. That magic is not dead.

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

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

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

Meep morp

ATTENTION

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

Bone, abyss, rot

ARE YOU A BONE OR BLOOD PERSON.

ARE YOU A VOID OR ABYSS PERSON.

ARE YOU A ROT OR DUST PERSON.

@dragoninaki @spicy-rat-2 @cloudberry-candy @gingerjaydraws @unexpecteddinolesson @trans-fem-menace @gayoticbeing @lesbianhouseplant @paluboligo @sashathegirliepop , y’all are chill, and cheers for being moots

rb to tell ur mutuals ur fond of them