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lady-of-the-lotus · 3 years

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And All Is Singing

One month after Song Lan restores him to life, Xiao Xingchen hears a child crying.

Or: XXC returns, and his past sins and loss of his golden core are not the only things haunting him.

SongXiao - past XueXiao - T - Read on AO3!

Thank you @gusu-emilu for the prompt!

* * *

One-hundred and fifty-seven years.

That’s how long it takes Song Lan to nurse Xiao Xingchen’s shattered spirit back to wholeness and return it to his preserved body.

And now, one month later, Xiao Xingchen lies awake in a roadside inn, wondering if he would have been better off remaining in Song Lan’s spirit-trapping pouch.

Useless. His dead-alive, new-old body is utterly useless. Death extinguished his golden core, left him empty. He can no longer sense the spiritual energy that let him find his way around without his eyes, no longer night-hunt with Song Lan, no longer do anything other than trip along at his partner’s side during the day and lie awake waiting for him to return at night.

No chance of atoning for his sins. No chance of doing anything to deserve this second chance at life.

He turns over onto his side, pretending he can feel the faint stir of spiritual energy in the moonlight he imagines on his face. A full moon, according to Song Lan. He tries to recall its silvery glow but finds that the memory has faded.

Just like everything else about him.

Something wet wells from the corners of his empty eyes, trickles down his cheek, dipping inwards towards his mouth.

It tastes of blood.

He wipes the tear away. Rolls onto his back. Closes his eyes beneath his blindfold.

No. Not quite right.

Patting beside the bed, he grasps the white horsetail whisk Song Lan has preserved all these years. Tucks it in his arms. Lies on his back again, still and silent and doing his best to prevent his chest from rising and falling.

He’s on the border between sleep and wakefulness when he hears it.

The faint sound of a child crying. Low and muffled, as if the child is afraid of being overheard.

A dream. Just a dream…

But he can’t forget the sound.

“Did you hear a child crying last night?” he asks Song Lan anyway the next morning. “I thought I heard something…”

We’re the only guests, Song Lan traces onto Xiao Xingchen’s palm.

Nothing the next night, just the mournful whistle of wind through the treetops as they camp beside the road. Or the next night, or the night after that, or the night after that.

Exactly one month later, Xiao Xingchen is lying beside Song Lan, mind hazy, when he hears it again.

A long, low wail, drifting in through the open window, a sound filled with pain and fear and loneliness. A lonely sound, full of pain and fear and loneliness, the whimper of a wounded child who doesn’t understand why it’s been hurt.

“Again!” Xiao Xingchen grips Song Lan’s arm. “Zichen, I heard it again!”

What?

“A—a child—”

Nothing. Sleep…

Song Lan is right. The night is silent. Just the soothing patter of rain on the roof, the rustle of the breeze ruffling the dripping trees.

But Xiao Xingchen rises, pads barefoot across the room, stands at the window. Warm rain mists his face when the wind shifts, and he fills his lungs with the scent of wet earth, grounding himself in the senses he has left.

A creak of floorboard behind him, and Song Lan lays a hand on his shoulder. Song Lan still dislikes touching other people, but he makes occasional exceptions for Xiao Xingchen.

Xiao Xingchen misses the casual, easy touch of—

Of no one, he tells himself, banishing all thought of Yi City from his mind, as he has countless times these past two months.

But he still offers Song Lan his palm, as much to feel his skin on his as to allow him to speak.

All right?

Xiao Xingchen closes his hand around Song Lan’s. It’s cold, but better than nothing. “I’m fine.”

Don’t look fine, Song Lan says, and slips his hand away.

“I just want to be alone for a bit.” As if he isn’t alone most nights while Song Lan goes night hunting. “I’m going to get some fresh air.” He takes Shuanghua and his walking stick—his last memory of A-Qing—(Don’t think about her, either) —and leaves their room, taps his way out of the inn, goes to stand outside in his thin white inner robe.

He removes his blindfold and tilts his face up to rain, squeezing the cool mud of the courtyard between his bare toes. He walks on a little farther, heart in his mouth at his inability to feel the spiritual energy around him, of walking blindly into the unknown—

Courtyard. Trees, he reminds himself. As always when entering a new place, Song Lan has described it for him. Nobody is around this late in the rain; you’ll be safe.

And if you get lost, Song Lan will always find you.

Always.

Sweeping his stick before him, he walks until he hits the treeline, walks on farther until he enters a clearing. Lies on his back in the wet grass. His blindfold is off, face turned up to be kissed by the warm rain he can no longer sense, only feel.

Washed with rain, soaking in nature, he’s as close to being at peace as he has been since that horrifying realization that he had been returned against his will to the world he’d tried to leave, since waking up in darkness, stabbed with grief and terror so sharp it was like a knife to bone.

The grief had softened into a gentle ache over the loss of A-Qing, but the terror had never truly dissipated, just twisted itself into a fear of an empty future, of an eternal life devoid of worth.

Song Lan uses resentful energy to night-hunt. You don’t seem to have any, but perhaps you can cultivate your core again…whatever you are, you’re not a fierce corpse; perhaps this is still possible. You can be useful again, do good…

Like a puff of air displacing a flower petal, the thought dispels the peaceful feeling, letting the dark thoughts seep in.

Cultivation is what allowed him to cause all the harm he had. Led him astray, helped trick him into killing those villagers, killing...killing Song Lan.

Even to night-hunt again, to vanquish demons alongside his partner—

Not worth it. Not worth the risk.

Not even with Song Lan beside him to protect him from people like—people like—

Don’t think about him.

Think about Song Lan instead.

Song Lan. Song Lan, tending his spirit for a hundred and fifty years with unceasing devotion Xiao Xingchen knows he does not deserve yet still welcomes the thought of.

Warmth blooms in his empty chest as he sinks into the memory of Song Lan holding him every night during those first terrible few weeks despite his aversion to touch, caring for him like a newborn child…

Child.

No. A dream. All a dream…

Silence. The soothing patter of rain on leaves, the warm wetness weighing down his limbs, the earth soft and solid beneath him.

He’s drifting along the border of sleep when he hears it again.

A little boy, by the sound of it.

Not entirely human, by the feel of it.

It wants something from him.

Needs something from him.

It’s almost overwhelming, the pure desperation radiating from the huddled ball of tormented spiritual energy. Different from how he used to sense spiritual energy, but just as distinct.

A whisper of mist over his hand, as if the spirit is touching him, and he opens the eyes he no longer has.

A flash of—of something approaching sight. A cloudy glimpse of a little boy, no older than six or seven, with tear tracks on his filthy cheeks.

“What's your name?” Xiao Xingchen murmurs. He keeps his voice soft, but it’s too much. The spell is broken. The spirit fades into the night, melted by the rain, and Xiao Xingchen is left in darkness again.

He doesn’t tell Song Lan what he sensed that night— saw that night. Can’t risk Song Lan dispatching the spirit before Xiao Xingchen understands what it wants from him.

Needs from him.

Another month passes, each day creeping by.

Anticipation builds as the full moon approaches.

He’ll be ready, this time.

There is no rain this month. Song Lan leaves for a night-hunt before the sun has fully set, heading out into the nearby forest. Full moons always draw out spirits and ghosts. Fuxue will be well-fed tonight.

As soon as he leaves, Xiao Xingchen sits cross-legged in the center of their bed and begins meditation.

Not just meditation.

He has no golden core left to draw upon, but he enters as deep of a meditative state as he can. Reaches out with his feelings, sinks into a state as close as possible to Empathy, into the hazy borderlands between consciousness and sleep.

A scuffling sound, as if something is crawling out from beneath the bed, and again he feels the spirit’s cold touch.

The boy is clearer this time. Misty around the edges, and glowing with a dim silver light, but clearly outlined in the darkness of the room. His hair is long and matted, face gaunt, his throat and cheek bruised and cut. His free hand is tucked inside his ragged tunic, the other resting lightly on Xiao Xingchen’s hand.

“What is your name?” Xiao Xingchen asks, though he doesn’t dare speak the words out loud.

The boy shakes his head.

“What happened to your hand?” Xiao Xingchen asks, trying again. The desperate need of the little boy is almost overwhelming, burning in his sunken black eyes. “What can I do to set you at rest? How long have you been like this?”

The boy shakes his head, but he draws his hand out from his tunic.

It’s all Xiao Xingchen can do to keep from jumping to his feet and breaking the trance. The boy’s left hand is a skin-bag full of pulp, the little finger severed at the joint. Slivers of bone jut through the swollen purple flesh, bright red blood oozing from around each sliver as if the wound is fresh and not enough time has passed for the bleeding to truly start.

“Who did this to you?” Xiao Xingchen whispers, sick, and the desperation in the child’s eyes suddenly turns to undiluted hatred so powerful it’s as if his frail body can’t contain it.

“Chang Cian,” says the boy, and at this Xiao Xingchen does start back, shattering the trance, because he now recognizes the boy.

Recognizes Xue Yang.

Xiao Xingchen doesn’t speak at all the next day. Or the next. On the third day Song Lan finally reaches for his hand.

What’s wrong?

“Nothing.”

Not nothing.

And so he tells him. It can only help if Song Lan banishes the repugnant little spirit, rids Xiao Xingchen for good of the ghost of his tormentor, banishes the last scrap of memory.

Sure it was him?

“I’m positive.”

What will you do?

Xiao Xingchen pulls his hand away and continues walking. They’re on their way to Xinjiang, where they heard of a spate of violent hauntings that the main clans have ignored. “Nothing,” he says. “He deserves whatever purgatory this is.”

Suffering much?

Xiao Xingchen hates the ugly feelings welling in him, hates the cruelty he hears in his own voice. “I think he’s trapped in the last moment he was—was uncorrupted, which was—”

An unwanted memory: "But the man was so irritated at the sound of his crying, that he snatched the driver’s whip and lashed the child’s face, knocking him to the ground. Then the wheels of the carriage rolled over the child’s hand, one finger at a time. He was seven! The bones of his left were completely crushed, while one finger was milled into battered flesh on the spot!"

Song Lan makes a questioning sound in the back of his throat.

Xiao Xingchen walks faster. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

They camp by the side of the road that night. Neither of them need to eat or drink, but Xiao Xingchen needs to sleep, and both appreciate the heat of a fire.

Song Lan takes his hand again as they settle down around the campfire.

Enough time. Enough pain.

Meaning: Hasn’t enough time passed? Hasn’t he suffered enough? Atoned enough?

A spurt of resentment. It’s been harder and harder to keep his usual tight grip on his negative emotions. He’s slaughtered entire villages; what difference would anger or bitterness or selfishness make in the cosmic scheme of things?

“He wiped out your entire temple,” he says. “Killed everyone you ever cared about.” Drove me to death, he adds, but not aloud. Isn’t that alone enough for you?

For a moment he thinks Song Lan is going to accuse him of being the cause of his temple's destruction, as he had on the terrible night so many years ago, but Song Lan just shakes his head.

Don’t forgive him. Will never forgive. But enough time. Enough pain.

“So you don’t care, as they would have all been dead by now anyway. Celibate monks, a mere blip.” Xiao Xingchen hates how good the words feel leaving his mouth, hates how he can’t stop himself from saying them, hates how he doesn’t want to stop himself.

Xingchen—

“The people I killed, entire bloodlines ended— ” The words tumble out, tripping over each other. “ —that can never be atoned for, that can never be undone—”

Worse than what happened to your temple, are the unspoken words, and Xiao Xingchen can almost feel the pain he knows must be twisting Song Lan’s face, and he’s crushed by a wave of guilt.

Xue Yang did this to him. Xue Yang turned him into this useless, empty, cruel thing.

A child. Song Lan’s touch is even lighter than usual, almost hesitant. Just a child, now…

“A monster,” says Xiao Xingchen, and he rises and strides off into the forest, leaving Shuanghua behind.

Song Lan lets him go.

A month. He has another month to decide what to do. A month to savor the thought of the little boy’s terror and agony and—and—

Xiao Xingchen sinks to his knees, dissolving into a fit of tears.

Shameful tears that he does his best to hold in but can't. Instead he sobs silently, the blood staining his pure white robes, sobs until there’s no strength left in his thin, empty body. He lies curled up amongst the fallen leaves, holding A-Qing’s stick to his chest, the memory of the little boy’s tear-stained face rising before his sightless eyes.

The memory of His hand on his elbow, His chin on his shoulder, His arms around his waist. His mouth on his, the sound of His laugh, the taste of His oversalted congee.

A month. A month of this—

Xiao Xingchen digs the heels of his palms into his empty eye sockets.

He can’t take a month of this.

Or even another night.

He drags himself up onto his knees, digging his fingers into the damp earth.

I forgive you! he cries out with every part of him but his voice. I forgive you! Just stop haunting me!

Nothing.

Nothing—

He sinks back to the forest floor, a single tear trickling from the corner of his eye.

Desperate for the oblivion of sleep, he slows his breathing, focusing on the forest around him. The whisper of the breeze. The burble of a nearby brook as it rushes towards the river. The trill of a nightbird. The rustle of a mouse in the underbrush. He can almost hear the ants swarming up and down a nearby tree trunk—

“You lied.”

Xiao Xingchen opens his nonexistent eyes. The little boy is sitting beside him, staring down at him solemnly.

“You lied just now.” His high thin child’s voice is incongruously world-weary. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s not what I need.”

Xiao Xingchen wants to sit up but is afraid of breaking the spell. “What do you want?”

The little boy tilts his head at him. He’s different tonight, somehow. Older, though he looks the same. He’s no longer crying, and there’s an oddly keen look in his sunken black eyes.

“What do you want?” he returns.

A surge of frustration. Xiao Xingchen sits up, meaning to sever the connection, but though he’s upright he’s still in the trance, still trapped by the little boy. The moon should not be full, but an enormous silver globe floats behind the boy, cut through with what must be tree trunks, black against the white, and he can just see the silvery outlines of his own limbs.

“What is that you want?” The little boy’s frail, high-pitched voice is somehow piercing. “What do we all want?”

Xiao Xingchen surrenders. What does it matter if he tells the truth? He’d already laid himself bare in Yi City. There is nothing about him that Xue Yang does not already know.

“To make an impact,” he says. “To make a difference in the world, despite the loss of my eyes. But I can’t, not like this, so all I’ll have left are the atrocities I’ve committed.”

The little boy gazes past him. Blood drips from his bone-pierced hand, as if it has finally begun to bleed, and wells from the cut on his cheek.

“Did I make any impact?” he asks.

A stab of hatred. The memory of Shuanghua piercing flesh. “More than most.”

“On you?”

Xiao Xingchen laughs. “How can you ask that? Look at me!”

The boy’s eyes are sad. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“You lie.” The desperation is back, the overpowering need. “Another lie!”

“Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen says aloud, speaking the name like an epithet, and the little boy clutches at his sleeve, staining the white with red.

“That’s not all—I know it isn’t—”

“That’s not all you ever were,” Xiao Xingchen admits, filled with a desperation of his own, a sudden frantic need to rid himself of this specter, to banish it forever, by any means necessary, even the truth. “I—I cared for you once—you made me—happy—”

I cared for you once. He winces as the words leave his mouth, at the words he had never spoken aloud even during their best days in Yi City.

They hang in the air between them, catching the light from the ghostly white moon, quivering and diffident, but solid.

The faint silver light clinging to the boy intensifies as he leans into the words. The glow brightens, brushing his skin with radiance.

Peace fills his face.

“Thank you, daozhang,” he says, and he melts into a shimmering mist.

It’s not sorrow that makes Xiao Xingchen break down. It’s not even relief.

He doesn’t know what it is, except that he’s not strong enough to resist it from overpowering him.

The blood pours from his eyes, soaking his robes, absorbs the red stains left on his arm by Xue Yang’s crushed hand. He cries until there’s no blood left in his body, loud, body-wracking sobs that, for the first time in his life, he does nothing to resist or hide.

The world has changed when he finally looks up.

Silvery light illuminates the forest. The moon is gone, but its glow remains, radiating from the trees, the grass, the soil.

His range of vision expands, encompassing the entire forest, the river, the vast sweep of the mountains and the entirety of the sky.

All is silver. All is singing.

Now, drifting in the space-between, he can sense the thousands upon thousands of spirits wandering the earth, see them burning like blazing beacons of need, waiting for him to come and set them too at peace. He himself is a silvery flame, his bloodied limbs alight with a luminescence born not of spiritual energy, nor of resentful energy, but something in between.

The light becomes bright and brighter, the spirits’ light merging with that of the land, a dazzling white light that fills the emptiness inside him, chases away the shadows filling his chest.

Xiao Xingchen wakes.

* * *

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zishustits · 3 years

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Tagged by @heyholmesletsgo ❤️

Rules: answer 10 questions and tag 10 people you want to know better

Relationship status: single

Favorite color: green (mostly), black and white for clothes, orange+purple for dusk skies

Three favorite foods: mmmm difficult. Arepas, strawberry/berries milkshake, roasted chicken with potatoes (this one bc I seldom eat it😭)

Song stuck in my head: Off to the races by Lana del Rey, bc my sister has been editing a video with this song for several days now 😤

Last thing I listened to: well, Off to the races XD

Last thing I googled: okay if it's on my phone it was Roy Mustang (to check if he was the character I though he was XD) and in my laptop, history of hair removal XD for research purposes (I tend to do research stuff when writing a fic gsvsbsb)

Time: 20:35

Dream trip: New Zealand and Iceland!!

Anything I really want: hhmm right now food. But seriously... Well one thing I'd really like is to write and finish all the fics ideas I have, also to improve my drawing skills, and create art that is good enough to express the images and emotions living in my head. There are more things but that was the one I thought of first.

And I'll tag @frostandstardust @veliseraptor @bitterfrosts @xuexiao @lady-in-the-lair @goldensprite @dead-and-loving-it @pocket-emilu @dead-and-loving-it (only if you want to do it of course) and anyone else who want to join

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whatisalifeihaveablog · 3 years

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Thanks for the tag @gusu-emilu!

tagging: @strawberre-juice @sandyfrog121 @lulubara

I just woke up and that’s all I can think of lol

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akyesein · 3 years

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hi this is gusu-emilu! just wanted to say thank you again for the wangxian lunar new year gift!! it's so beautiful <3

glad you liked it!!! i had so much fun drawing it :)

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z-enobias · 7 years

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Tagged

Rules: Tag any number of followers you want to know better: Tagged by: @dizzyterror-xicanapoderosa !! Name: Emily Nickname: Em, Em-jem, Emilu, and Email Gender: woman Height: 5′3″ Star sign: Capricorn Sexuality: bi/pan Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw Favorite color: purple, black, blue, and green! Favorite animal: goats, owls, dogs, cats, pigs

Time right now: 4:32 Cat or Dog Person: how dare you ask me this

Favorite Fictional Characters: Daenrerys Targaryen, Vanessa Ives, Boba Fett

Number of Blankets: one, we freeze to death like men

Favorite Singer/Band: Marina + the Diamonds

Dream Trip: all of the Mediterranean, all of the Caribbean, New Zealand, Southeast Asia, this is too difficult Dream Job: archaeologist!!!!!! When blog was created: 2012 Current number of followers: 745 and most of them are probably porn bots Why did you pick your URL: Queen Zenobia is a fascinating figure to me

Favorite Book(s)/author : Libba Bray (A Great and Terrible Beauty), Lisa Ann Sandell (Song of the Sparrow), Erin Morgenstern (The Night Circus), Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl)

Best self care tip: a nice bath/shower, a face mask, watching a funny show, drawing, baking

Hobbies? weird habits?: drawing, baking, dancing, practicing makeup, going on this damn website, lurking

Last thing that made you laugh: this

Role model in yo life (if any): my dear friends and the lovely ladies of Latina Rebels

i tag anyone who sees this post, as per usual, no pressure!!!

#personal #i love talking abt myself

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zalvarez1 · 5 years

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Speak: The Graphic Novel by Laurie Halse Anderson

Summary: Speak: The Graphic Novel follows the life of freshman Melinda in black and white drawings. Melinda is obviously troubled with numerous issues in her life, such as failing school, fighting parents, and the constant creeping feeling of the horrific trauma of her rape. Melinda lacks any real friendship due to the fact that the night of her rape, she called the police. Before she could explain what happened to her, a fellow classmate took the phone and warned everyone that the cops were coming. Numerous students at the party were busted and Melinda was held responsible for their downfall. She is pushed around in the hallways and old friends refuse to speak to her. Melinda is forced to continue her high school life not just with everyone hating her, but with the reminder and confrontation from her rapist. Melinda describes her day-to-day life in classrooms, where her teachers and peers influence her. For example, her art teacher enlightens her on the beauty of expressing emotion through art. Melinda is assigned a tree at the beginning of the semester and is tasked with creating art focusing only on the tree. Within the novel, Melinda is faced with the conflict of speaking the truth. She eventually gains the courage from the influences around her, such as David Petrakis. He is a young man that speaks out against a teacher that voices his controversial views, but doesn’t allow his students to disagree with him. Melinda also draws in strength from her desire to protect her childhood friend, Rachel, who is now dating Melinda’s rapist, Andy. Melinda first finds a shred of strength when she first tells Rachel that she’s been raped by Andy, which of course Rachel is enraged by and accuses Melinda of lying. Another source of Melinda speaking out is on the bathroom wall, where she warns the girls of the school about Andy. When she returns to the wall, many other girls have wrote their own opinions, expressing how much of a creep Andy is. Finally, Melinda stands up to Andy. In the closet that Melinda has found sanctuary, Andy confronts Melinda and attempts to assault her again. This time, she screams no and fights back. The novel draws to a close as Melinda turns in her final art project, which shows the outline of trees from the site of where she was raped with small birds that fly away.

Personal Response: This novel was amazing. In class, someone mentioned Speak, so I added it to my reading list. I quickly realized that Anderson initially wrote the book in printed text and later converted it to a graphic novel. I loved this choice. The drawings perfectly depicted the pain and fear that Melinda felt. I also love the theme of this novel, speaking out. Melinda is not the only one that speaks out in the book, David is a great example as well. He speaks out against the teacher that tries to silence him. As a future educator, I never want to put my students in the position where they feel like they can’t express their opinions. The classroom is the perfect place to tell people your viewpoints, especially when it comes to literature.

Connection to Adolescence: This novel expresses the danger of sexual assault and the pressure that victims feel about speaking out. The probability of being called a liar and further bullying was a very real expectation for Melinda. Unfortunately, rape culture in today’s society is being normalized. Rape is much more common and rapists are now being labeled as the “victim.” This idea that victims are the ones that should be in the hot seat baffles me. This is due to the idea that with the growth of rape culture, the false claims are also growing. People are falsely accusing others of rape, causing true victims to suffer in the legal process. The struggle of finding justice is causing victims to stay silent. This book can be the perfect source of strength for the victims that are too scared to speak out, especially those that are in high school. I hope to someday teach this book in my classroom and educate my students on the numerous themes that are exemplified.

Anderson, Laurie Halse, and Emilu Caroll. Speak: the Graphic Novel. Farrar Straus Gilroux, 2018.

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animalfactsus · 7 years

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Snares Crested Penguin Facts for Kids Penguins 101 #penguin Website: http://ift.tt/2hJcgmZ Social Media Links: Facebook: http://bit.ly/2j3sKbX Twitter: http://bit.ly/2kbln45 Instagram: http://ift.tt/2jMTwGl Google+: http://bit.ly/2jHJLcp Patreon: http://bit.ly/2jh2A2Y From Wikipedia: The Snares penguin (Eudyptes robustus), also known as the Snares crested penguin and the Snares Islands penguin, is a penguin from New Zealand. The species breeds on The Snares, a group of islands off the southern coast of the South Island. This is a medium-small, yellow-crested penguin, at a size of 50–70 cm (19.5–27.5 in) and a weight of 2.5–4 kg (5.5–8.8 lb). It has dark blue-black upperparts and white underparts. It has a bright yellow eyebrow-stripe which extends over the eye to form a drooping, bushy crest. It has bare pink skin at the base of its large red-brown bill. This penguin nests in small (10 nests) to large (1200 nests) colonies under forest cover or the open. The main colonies are located on North East Island, other colonies are established on Broughton Island as well as the rocky Western Chain. The Snares penguin's main prey is krill, supplemented by squid and small fish. The species is currently rated as vulnerable by the IUCN as its breeding range is restricted to one small island group. The current population is estimated at around 25,000 breeding pairs. Snares penguins were originally collected in 1874 and named atrata by Frederick Wollaston Hutton. However, Hutton lost his sample at sea, whilst drawing the bird with the assistance of penguin enthusiast Emile Campbell-Browne (1830-1925), before a full speciation could be identified. A description written by Hutton and an illustration done by Keulemans in Buller’s A History of the Birds of New Zealand are evidence that this is the same penguin previously identified by Hutton. Hutton married Annie Gouger Montgomerie in 1863, and resigned his commission in 1866 to travel with his wife and two children to New Zealand, where four more children would follow. They lived initially in Waikato, where Hutton tried his hand at flax milling, but he soon changed back to geology, joining the Geological Survey of New Zealand in 1866 and becoming Provincial Geologist of Otago in 1874. At the same time, he was made lecturer in geology at the University of Otago and curator of the museum there along with Emile Campbell-Browne, the first to classify the species variant eudyptes Emilus Cambellium Brownicus 1875. Hutton became a professor of biology at Canterbury College in 1880, and was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in 1892. The following year, he also took on the curatorship of the Canterbury Museum. Towards the end of his life, Hutton was made the president of the Royal Australasian Ornithologists Union and the New Zealand Institute. He was awarded the Clarke Medal by the Royal Society of New South Wales in 1891. However, there is some debate over the classification of this penguin, and Oliver was able to successfully propose that a few slight anatomical differences did exist between the Snares penguins and the early description and illustration, leading the Snares penguin to be called robustus instead of atratus.[2] Description[edit] The Snares penguin is often compared to the Fiordland penguin (Eudyptes pachyrhynchus), which is related by the genus of crested penguins (Eudyptes). Snares penguins can be distinguished from Fiordland penguins by a patch of skin at the base of their beaks.[3] The Snares penguin is similarly colored to other species of penguins, having a black head, back, and flippers with a white belly. A bright-yellow crest, beginning at the base of the bill, runs along the upper part of the head on both sides and ends at the back of the head. It has a thick reddish-brown beak, traced with light pink skin at the base.[4] The eyes are generally described as a bright red-brown color, but this coloration can vary somewhat between individuals and in different lighting.[2] The color patterns under the wings differ from individual to individual, so it is not a good characteristic for species identification.[5] The penguin can make a large variety of vocal noises. It is difficult to verbally describe these noises, but they range from hisses and explosive cries when threatened to rhythmical braying and trumpeting sounds that can be heard from long distances at sea.[2] Distribution and habitat The Snares penguin is named after the place in which it anal —the Snares Islands. The Snares Islands are a small group of islands off the coast of southern New Zealand. Although little is known of their range and migration outside of the breeding season, it is not thought that they migrate far in the winters. Occasional sitings have occurred on the coasts of Tasmania, southern Australia, the Chatham Islands, Stewart Island, and the southern New Zealand mainland.[6][7] There are approximately 25,000 living pairs of Snares penguins by Animal Facts

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