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vore-scientist · 4 years

Text

Hey Little SongBird

[Sfw safe soft M/m GT vore]

A Tale of the Mystic Woods

Premise: A bard is in desperate need of a story. Can he sing his way out of being eaten by the evil giant wizard known as Yonah HaEsh? Well. No. But perhaps he can sing his way out of the wizard’s stomach? A fun little adventure for sure.

Story is First Person (The Bard’s) POV. He’s a expressive narrator.

Warnings: big Fear.play during the vore scene! This is a thief style story. Yonah, if you don’t know, is very convincing when he says he kills people. And because he has no quick and easy safety spell, his treats sometimes end up a little bit well, not di.ges/-ted but slight skin irritation happens from time to time. Yes some pain, but no permanent harm! Yonah’s very practiced at making sure they are A-OK!

Ok onto the story!

---

I hate the stereotype of bards being horny tricksters who use their voices to seduce people into infidelity. Any such stories are complete poppycock and base slander. Bards are more than pretty faces and lovely voices. We are first and foremost story tellers, entertainers! Actors and chroniclers! Often risking life and limb to get you the stories you love so much. Those fancy sword moves and fight dances you see on stage aren’t just for show.

But still. Going into the Mystic Woods in search of my next story was not a great idea. Solo-ing an adventure into such a dangerous realm was asking for death, with no one around who could tell of it. And yet, I had run out of new material and was desperate. Why didn’t I just purchase rights from another bard through the guild, you might ask? Clever, very clever, but that’s what low rankers do. The Apprentices, the Journeyers. Not Masters such as I.

At least, not ones who are blacklisted from the guild for not properly crediting a story. How was I to know it wasn’t public domain! It seemed pretty generic to me.

Another problem with being blacklisted? No one wants to adventure with you. Not anyone high ranking enough to help me anyways.

Regardless, to earn back my place in the guild I needed a new story, an impressive story. So I gathered my supplies and took the first teleport to the City of Luster, closest city in the Kingdom of Orr to the Mystic Woods. Sure, other cities exist at its borders, but Luster is the only one with a direct path into the Woods. A path that is safe, to a point.

It’s also a great place to get a few last minute supplies. For example, a small ukulele. My previous instrument, my precious goldenrod Oud, was repossessed by the guild. I needed something cheap and lightweight. And also I was banned from purchasing from most craftsfolk because, and I’m sure you’re tired of hearing this, I'm Blacklisted.

Luster is so large that I was able to find the ukulele in a pawn shop. I wasn’t after a ukulele, that’s just what was there.

Right! I was ready to go.

Whistling the first ever song I wrote, and tuning my new old ukulele, I set off down the road.

And Into the Woods.

---

Maybe I should lower my standards? Surely the guild won't be too hard on me?

Or perhaps it would just take more than a day and night in the woods to find a story.

The first day I found some gnomes preparing for a small feast of the half-moon glory. I was confident that something would happen at the party. Something had to go wrong, and maybe a hero—maybe I—would save the day! Or night, as it would be night. No such luck—it was a very nice celebration, absolutely no issues. Wasted a day!!

Not that I’m on a time limit.

The gnomes were so nice, and they made the most delightful floral scented cakes. They enjoyed my songs and tales about heroic gnomes and I left their camp with a flower crown and a sack of cakes.

I felt like today I would find a story!

Nope.

In this forest of wonder and magic and monsters and secrets, I ran into nothing. I even played music to attract trouble but Nooooooooo, guess even the beasts of the woods knew I was blacklisted!

It was late afternoon when I found some interesting deer tracks and decided to follow.

Bards aren’t known for our stealth but I’m going to tell you a secret. What’s the guild gonna do! Blacklist me?

Anyways the secret is: certain Bards learn to play notes and pitches that cancel out our footsteps and create silence.

I followed the prints to find a small herd of very interesting deer!

They had really interesting patterns, each one slightly different but only if you looked closely. That meant I needed a closer look.

So focused on the deer I didn’t watch my feet and I tripped. The deer ran off.

“HEY!” a shrill voice called from somewhere in the trees, “What did you do that for?”

No idea who was yelling at me but I was taking no chances, and like the deer I bolted. But not fast enough, not nimble enough.

An arrow shot by my leg and stuck in the ground. I stopped. And stood perfectly still.

“Idiot.” the voice was now right behind me!

I turned. And looked down. It was an elf! With plum purple skin and dark green hair.

And they were laughing.

Then another elf fell from the trees to land silently next to the first. This one had dark green skin and straw yellow hair. Their long ears were standing straight up reaching higher than my eyes.

They were laughing too.

“What’s so funny?”

“You responded to ‘idiot’!” Said the purple one.

Ugh. Elves!!

Then they got suddenly more serious.

“Can’t believe it! We’ve been hunting those deer before the sun even rose and you happened to trip when we got them in our sights!”

“I’m... sorry?”

The second elf elbowed the first, “He couldn’t have known we were there, Damian! Not his fault!” She spoke in elvish but I’m fluent.

The first elf, Damian, looked up and half groaned half sighed, “and I suppose, Bridget, that I should apologize to the human for almost shooting him?”

I don’t know why I spoke up but I did.

“It was an impressive warning shot!”

Damian’s ears stood up again then folded back and a little red flush appeared on the purple cheeks. As did on Bridget’s but for a different reason.

“Yes. Warning shot,” they said.

This time I managed to keep my mouth shut. Not a smart idea to quip about an elf’s hunting prowess. I still wasn’t happy to learn they were trying to shoot me!

“You’re an adventurer?” Asked Bridget. “What’s your name?

“A bard!” I said. “I’m, um, Ophir!”

“Need a place to stay tonight, Ophir?”

The shadows were lengthening, I hadn’t noticed. And then my stomach growled.

“I sure do. But are you sure? I mean I did scare the deer-“

Damian shouldered their bow and nodded, “It wouldn’t be very elven to leave a stranger in the woods.”

Even not hunting they moved so silently I couldn’t take my eyes off them as I followed them to their village. We stopped by the temple, as it is the respectful thing to do when entering the village. It was set up for fall, done up in browns and oranges and paper chains. On the altar was a single brown leaf. The first one seen by a member of the village.

I’m not elvish but I still prayed to Autumn for my hometown to have a bountiful harvest.

I sat on the floor in the common dining hall as my new… friends, sat on stools made of tree stumps. They may not have caught any deer but there was some sort of roasted meat concoction wrapped in sugary leaves, crystallized to give it crunch, making a sweet and savory combination I’d never experienced before. The same sugar crispy leaves were used to scoop a sort of nut and vegetable curry. Delightful! I could write a song just about the food.

I of course told them why I was in the woods, since they were curious.

And they told everyone how I tripped and fell, exaggerating it greatly. All the elves laughed but knowing elves I was better off. They enjoyed slapstick comedy. The fact that I was able to laugh at myself seemed to gain me favor.

One elf, with lighter green skin and dark brown hair laughed like the rest and yet, their eyes were deep in thought. They were a strange one, I think. Even by elf standards they had a strange name.

Jacuzzi? Who names themselves Jacuzzi?

Then they spoke.

“So, Ophir, you need a story?” They asked. I nodded.

“I think I can help you,” they said, “at the very least point you in the right direction.”

At their words a lot of the company got quiet.

“If you’re that desperate, there’s,” they paused, as if they were still considering whether or not to tell me. “A wizard. If you encounter him, you’re sure to get a proper story.”

I couldn’t think why this made the elf act so strange, plenty of mages made it their job to participate in tales. Though, with wizards they were usually evil, if not a member of an adventuring party. Nonetheless! A story about a wizard sounded fantastic.

“Where does-“ I stopped myself from finishing that stupid sentence. Nowhere in the Mystic Woods stayed put so asking for directions was complete folly.

“What’s the best way to, uh, find him?”

Jacuzzi shrugged “The birds have the most up to date information. But you’ll know it’s his place when you find the tower in the garden.”

Lots of wizards had towers, few had gardens. That was more of a witch thing.

“He’ll be there? Tonight?”

“Probably, he can't- well he’ll be there. If not tonight then by the morning. Don’t mess with his things.”

Sound advice.

“Hold on tonight?” Damian re-entered the conversation. “Are you mad? Traveling the forest at night is dangerous! Especially alone.”

“So? I’m trying to get into trouble. Doesn’t make a difference if I find it at the tower or on my way.”

My confidence wasn’t entirely fake. I had a good meal, I wasn’t tired. I could knock this out by morning!

“Thank you, for everything.”

I swear I heard giggling as I departed. If these elves were pulling one over on me well! I don’t know what I would do but I’ll think of something. I had a wizard to find.

It wasn’t long before I realized why I should have waited for morning.

No! Birds!

From whom could I ask directions? A rodent? They were never as helpful. The sun was about to set. It was only early autumn, the days were still a decent length, but it would be dark real soon. No birds, no people.

Wait. I spoke too soon. There were footsteps. It was a slim chance but maybe they could help me.

“Young man, what are you doing? Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out at night alone?”

The voice had a deep and soft quality that wasn’t human. But they were speaking Orrian. Really folks, dont meet strangers in the forest that you can’t see. They’re usually evil witches or sorcerers or cyclops ogres. Yeah, one-eyed ogres are skilled talkers, luring people to them. It was only after I answered I realized this could be an ogre.

“Aren’t you out alone too?”

“Why yes-” the voice was closer and then I saw them.

Thankfully it wasn’t and ogre. But it was a witch, and a dwarf one. Uncommon. Probably not evil. It did explain why they were confidently out at night. Dwarves had pretty amazing night vision. They had the traditional black robe and hat, and a cat sat down beside them. It was a really large cat, which was amusing next to the short witch. Their long braided beard was decorated with trinkets, which was a quaint look I must admit.

“But I live here.”

I stood up straight, which I guess was a bit rude.

“How do you know I don’t?” I stammered, “I could!”

The dwarf stroked their beard, “I guess it’s possible, do you?”

I sighed and slouched, “No…”

“But I am looking for trouble.” I explained my story and the dwarf listened, smiling kindly.

“So the elves told me I would be guaranteed a story if I found this wizard who has a tower and a garden-”

The witch’s eyebrows raised.

“- you know this wizard?”

The cat mrowed loudly, his tail swishing on the forest floor a bit faster.

“I do indeed,” there was an extreme fondness in their voice.

“And you know where he is?”

The witch laughed, “I’d say this was coincidence, but in these parts there are too many of those to be truly coincidental. I do in fact know the current location, and it’s close by.”

“Really!” I almost danced with excitement.

Unlike the elves the dwarf had no hesitations. They pointed me in the right direction, and informed me of a few roadblocks and landmarks.

“If you hurry you should be just in time for dessert,” they said, waving as I wasted no more time in heading off.

“Thanks so much!” I turned on my lantern and my back on the witch.

Oh if I had only thought about the implications of their last words to me.

Hilarious. In hindsight.

Nevermind that now, I’m sure you’re already laughing. Hahaha.

Finding the tower was easy with the witch’s directions. They’d even told me the thorns were fake and the vines safe to climb up. That should have raised red flags, or some color, but I was so focused on achieving my goal.

Now, we bards aren’t really known for our… physical abilities beyond dance. We can fight sure, but a fifty-foot climb is gonna leave most bards gasping for breath. I'm proud to say I was merely on the cusp of wheezing, though I was having difficulty standing.

I needed to rest. So I lay on the windowsill.

Which I failed to notice stretched so that I could more than easily lie down. The cool night air and stone felt so nice. I looked into the tower.

And my heart stopped.

I’d gotten a brief glimpse before nearly passing out, but it was different now.

Exactly the same.

But.

Bigger.

You might know, my readers, that wizards are all human. All of them. Non-humans aren’t allowed to attend the academy. I’m sure those like I, being a quarter fairy, might be let in, but... This- this giant sized workshop didn’t make any sense. A giant could not be a wizard no way. Why would the elves say this was a wizard’s tower? Did they not understand the difference between wizard, witch, and sorcerer?

But the dwarf witch, they had to know! They had not corrected me. Plus, the workshop did have a very wizard feel to it.

What was going on here?

I needed a moment to process so I rolled over to look outside. Looking inside made my head hurt.

But a Giant Wizard. If that were real, what a story! If it were fake, then well, a giant mage is still exciting. I looked once more into the room. Three desks, one for material prepping and alchemy, one that looked like the main workbench, and one… like a spare workbench? It was not very organized compared to the other. And shelves full of things I could not identify.

And on the floor, an open trap door with stairs leading down. Down to where the wizard must be.

I was thankful I had noticed the shift in scale, or I surely would have fallen 15 feet onto the floor. Instead I got out my grappling hook and rope and rappelled down. With a flick, the hook dislodged. This place was large, I would need it again.

I could have spent hours in this room, just taking in the immense magical collection, but that wasn’t why I was there. And I heard noises from down the stairs. Water? Clinking metal? I took each stair one at a time, slowly making my way deeper into the tower.

Either the kitchen just happened to be one floor down or this stairwell was enchanted to take you to the floor you were thinking about. For just as I reached the landing I saw the massive doorframe that led into what was clearly a kitchen and small dining room. Small for the giant, who was at the sink washing pots, pans, and other things.

He certainly looked like a wizard! A tall wide brimmed hat with a curling point, and robes that matched the garish colors and patterns. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and mutton chops, and long curly black hair tied behind his back. On his handsomely large nose rested thick square spectacles. Not only was he tall, he was just plain large.

I know I talked about the false stereotypes of bards, but we weren't the only profession with them. People tended to think of Wizards as more delicate, as they spent all their time studying, never going out, forgetting meals. But this, man, for he looked more human than giant except for being over 20ft tall, well the only word for it was burly.

I’d never imagined a wizard who, if you removed his wizard robes, put him in a flannel shirt and handed him an axe would be a picture perfect lumberjack. Now such a wizard was right before my very eyes.

Suddenly I was not so confident. I should have lost my nerve back at the window, when I saw the scale of the workshop. But it just didn’t hit me until I saw the giant. I’ve seen giants before, they are actually larger than this person, that made him seem more dangerous.

Oh.

Oh no.

This wasn’t just any wizard, or any giant.

This one was evil.

Maybe I could just leave! Yeah. I would just get the fuck out of here. I was not prepared to handle an evil giant wizard.

I made my decision a bit too late. The giant stopped cleaning a plate to look up and sniff the air.

Shit.

It was futile to run, but it was my only option. I didn’t even make it up two stairs before the giant roared with delight.

“FEE FI FO FUM!”

No no no! Not that!

“I SMELL THE BLOOD OF THE HUMAN KIND!”

Well technically I was quarter fairy but-

“IT MATTERS NOT THE THINGS YOU STOLE, I’LL CAPTURE YOU AND SWALLOW YOU WHOLE.”

Yeah… I should not have come here. Evil giants tend to eat people. I’d had a small hope that this smaller giant, who was very likely a proper wizard, wouldn’t.

He made it to the stairwell in a few seconds and scooped me up in one hand, holding me up to his face.

“How convenient,” he smiled, revealing very giant-like fangs. His breath was horrible. “I was just thinking I needed some dessert.”

I cursed the witch from earlier. They knew! They knew he would want to eat me! But the witch wasn’t here, wasn’t my problem right now.

“Please! Mister Wizard, I did not steal anything, I am no thief! I’m a bard!”

The giant raised his eyebrows, but did not set me down, instead he turned and walked down the stairs.

“A bard?” he asked, “what’s your name?”

“Ophir Shel Peh!” I said.

The giant tapped his chin. “Hm. Yes I would say you probably are a bard! I don’t get many of those.”

The room he entered was some sort of living room. But I didn’t really have the capacity to take in any details other than the chair that he sat down in.

“I wonder if bards taste any different from thieves!” he said with excitement that made my heart drop to my feet.

“Please, please don’t eat me!” I begged. “I just wanted a story!”

“Hm,”he placed me on the coffee table but did not let me go. Instead he started removing my gear, everything except my clothing. Things were going from bad to worse. “What do you mean?”

I didn’t have much hope of surviving but he wasn’t eating me just yet, and he was clearly open to conversing.

“Well! Either I would tell the tale of my adventure here, or, you could give me a tale, perhaps in exchange for something?”

The giant laughed, “you came here on your own to challenge me? So you could tell your tale?”

I nodded.

“Very foolish,” he growled, “But I could tell you a story.”

“Really?!”

“Not that you would ever get to tell it.” he continued, “since I’m going to eat you.”

He sounded like he’d really made up his mind about that. But the longer he talked the more time I had to think of a way out of this. I didn’t want to point out that him eating me defeated the purpose of him telling me a story in the first place.

“It’s a good one too. Surely you were surprised to find me a half-giant and wizard.”

I nodded again, a bit more dumbfounded. Half giant explained a lot already.

“But if I tell you how I ended up here, you must promise not to tell it until his mystical majesty is dead. Or I am.”

What?

“Are you dying?”

The giant looked wistful. “No. But I’m a villain. I could die any day. The next person who comes into my tower could be the one who kills me.”

“And you’ll finally get what's coming to you I guess,” I said. “Like I’ll even be able to tell it since I’ll be one of your victims.”

The giant laughed, “oh yes, of course. Cause I’m going to eat you! Like I have many others before.”

Great. I shouldn’t have said anything.

He scooped me up again and placed me on the armrest. Then he let me go. But i didn’t dare try to run.

“I guess I could start at the beginning, when I decided to become a wizard.” he mused, “The life story of Yonah HaEsh.”

He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling, and then down at me.

“How foolish I was. I mean obviously I succeeded but it was still foolish.”

You know how I said I would spend the time while he rambled to think of a way out of this? Well his story was certainly long enough. Gods, wizards don’t leave out details! They have no concept of narrative flow!

And yet. It was riveting. His human father was a fire witch and that got him interested in magic. So he disguised himself as human to attend school. He was found out eventually, expelled and arrested for infiltrating the kingdom as a dangerous magical monster. He was almost executed before he was offered a job here in the tower! And amazingly, the Grand Master of the school had taken pity on him and allowed him to continue his studies here and graduate, earning the right to call himself a wizard.

The point is I forgot about escaping. Until he started to wrap up his story.

“Never intended to become evil. But it suits me!” He said brightly.

That brought me back to reality. Evil. Giant!

I was in his hand again, not so tightly this time but still secure. Face to face. He was smiling again and chuckling.

“Especially since it means I get to eat people!”

“You're so surprised you’re evil but I’m not!”

I think he knew I was stalling more but didn’t care.

“How so?”

“You spent years among smallfolk! You have smallfolk friends! And you’re perfectly fine eating us?”

He snorted “it was smallfolk that expelled me from school, that nearly executed me for trying to learn magic! And for trapping me here, in my tower. Make no mistake, this gilded cage is still a cage.”

There really was no going back.

“Now your time's up, and I’m hungry.”

I still screamed! Who wouldn’t! I was sure he was going to have to bite me in half to eat me even if his earlier proclamation was to swallow me whole.

I barely fit in his mouth, ribs pressed into his lower teeth and it hurt! His saliva soaked me through so quickly I could only imagine how good I tasted. I tried to brace myself on his teeth but my hands slipped between the jaws. Even more distressing he was definitely enjoying my struggles and flavor.

Then I was upside down! And even in the tight space I slipped towards his throat. I put my hands forward to try and stop but it was so slick they slid down into his throat, along with my shoulders, as he swallowed.

The air was crushed out of my lungs and I dared not scream. It was hard, as I knew where I was headed, and I was surrounded by hot rubbery flesh that shoved at me, eager to get me to my destination.

A massive throbbing against my face told me I was passing by his heart. It was at this point he took another swallow and my feet slipped into his throat, my hands… they touched air. Thick. Hot air.

And then so did my face and I made the mistake of gasping for breath. As the air smelled of vomit, and I remembered the wizard was cleaning up from dinner when I arrived. I was smelling the remains of that meal. Oh gods if he had eaten me right away I would have been sitting in food! It was a small bit of reprise, I guess. That the giant decided to talk for a couple of hours.

My feet were still in the esophagus when my face pressed against the opposite wall of the stomach. It was slimy like I couldn’t believe! I pulled my feet free and oriented myself so that I was sitting upright.

This must be what it feels like to be kidnapped in a sack. A sack that was going to be dunked in acid.

“You awake in there?” said a deep rumbling voice from above, and I felt a sharp nudge. Great. He wasn’t done with me, and I failed a bit in protest. “Ha! That’s better, I go through all the trouble of swallowing you down, the least you can do is struggle and scream a bit.”

“If I do that, I’ll run out of air quicker!” I squawked. Though I suspected I would start crying soon enough. Either just out of despair or because of the pain.

I wasn’t feeling anything yet except for slime and heat, so it wasn’t likely to be a quick death. Depending on how long it took for digestion to work on a whole human, I might run out of air and pass out first. That would be nice, less painful. Unconscious I would feel nothing. I would much prefer that- oh.

“Mr Wizard,” In that moment I’d forgotten his name, thought I wouldn’t need it if I was going to die.

Another jab at my side. “Yes, my tasty little bard?”

“Can I make a final request?”

The entire chamber squished and bounced a bit, and I imagined the giant heaving a sigh and sitting back in his chair.

“That depends on the request.”

“I- I want to sing one last song. But I need my ukulele, can you-” I kind of shuddered, but it wasn’t like an heirloom or something, “swallow it for me?”

There was a long pause, or it felt long because my timeline was now so short.

“I'm not a fan of eating objects,” he said, then heaved another sigh, “but I suppose I can do that.”

I felt him lean over and then heard a sickening gulp. If I was going to die I was going to die singing with an instrument in my arms!

I plucked a few cords and shook out as much of the drool as I could.

“Your voice isn’t magical is it?” Asked the giant as I tuned the ukulele.

I smiled “No, it is. I’ve got some Fey ancestry. Never really tested its power. Mostly I’ve played monsters to sleep. Or made a crowd cry with an opening line. People tell me that when I weave a tale it’s as if they were there first hand. Not so useful when you’re already eaten.”

Unless he’s so moved by my song that he takes pity. But I didn’t say that out loud.

“Well, just make it a nice song. I’ve got sensitive ears.”

Ok… I had a momentary thought of singing so loudly and so sharply that his ears bled. But then I realized he was making a threat. He could make my death much much worse. My original song was fine.

I strummed the ukulele, it sounded so odd in the stomach. And maybe it couldn’t penetrate out so well. I used a little magic to boost it. I don’t always use magic, except for my naturally magical voice, but I figured…

This would be my last performance. And it would be for my murderer. Still, I was compelled to make it a good one.

I’d already made it through the first instrumental bars, and I took a breath of the rancid air.

In the quiet mystic morning When the sun’s just graced the land O’er the horizon, lies a story And it begs to take my hand

Now that summer’s ceased its gleaming And the harvest’s past its prime In adventure i've found meaning But I’ll be homeward bound in time

Bind me not, to the pasture Chain me not to the town Set me free to find my calling And I’ll return to you somehow

As the first instrumental break started I turned my attention to the giant’s response. It was hard to evaluate from inside of him. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t hitting my mark.

If you find it’s me you're missing And you’re hoping I’ll return To your thoughts I’ll soon be listing On the road I’ll stop and turn

It was starting to hurt a bit now, I hadn't noticed it at first since when I perform I tend to feel all floaty and numb, but now pain penetrated my fog. I directed it into my voice and I cried out.

For the wind has set me racing As my journey now begins To leave the path I’ll be retracing When I’m homeward bound again

Bind me not, to the pasture Chain me not to the town Set me free to find my calling And I’ll return to you somehow

The second, and last, instrumental break. Did I feel shaking around me? Was this working? Breathing was becoming harder, my skin stung. My shoulders, elbows, and knees ached too, this was a horrible position. The fluid level was rising. But I didn’t stop. I would finish this song.

I was practically sobbing at this point but my song rang out.

In the quiet Mystic morning When the moon has gone to bed When adventure’s lost its meaning…

I’ll be homeward bound

Again

With the last few notes from my mouth, I gripped the ukulele so hard it almost cracked.

Then the chamber jerked. I heard heavy breaths. Again. Was that a sniff?

Was he crying? Please. Gods of music.

“Dammit,” he hissed and sniffed again, “Fine. I’m letting you go. Stupid bard.”

My brain was so frozen with elation I couldn’t actually believe it until it was happening. Not until I was physically forced back up the way I’d come. I slid out of the giant’s mouth and into shallow warm water. I took deep breaths of the clean air. And Yonah continued to retch as I got my bearings.

We were back in the kitchen, I was in the sink! Wait where was- The giant let out a horrible sound like a cat with a hairball and with a plop, my ukulele joined me in the bath.

Now Yonah looked at me, eyes red and puffy, some tear streaks down his face. Though he had just violently thrown up.

“Congratulations, Ophir the bard,” he spat, but he was grinning, “You have your story.”

I- I blinked in astonishment. He was right. I’d trekked through the woods, hung out with gnomes, got led to my near doom by elves and a witch, and sang so sorrowfully I made the evil man-eating giant cry and let me go.

“Th-thank you-” I said, and I let him help me out of the sink and onto a towel to dry.

“I should be thanking you!” he said. “Dessert and entertainment all in one!”

The fact that he still thought of me as food wasn’t reassuring but I didn’t think he was going to eat me again. In fact, Yonah’s entire demeanor had changed, he wasn’t so harsh looking, his voice was softer.

“Would you like some tea? That helps after a near-death experience.”

He didn’t wait for my response but went to get the tea leaves and pot.

“Hold on!” I said, but he didn’t stop making tea. “Did you even intend on killing me?”

He smiled as he put the pot on the stove and lit it with a snap of his fingers and a flash in his eyes.

“No, not really, you’re not a thief.” Yonah laughed at some joke that only he got.

“So why-” I mean he could have gotten me to sing before swallowing me whole.

“Your fairy blood.” I looked confused, “I could smell it on you, sweet and magical. I wasn't going to pass up such a special treat.”

If there was a god who could erase horrifying knowledge from the mind I would have prayed to them.

“Then- did my song do anything?” I choked like I was back in his stomach, unable to breathe.

It was clear he saw the distress in my face, that I was not as good a bard as I thought I was.

“My tears were real, little bard. I didn’t expect to be moved so much. Even if I had meant to kill you... you might have convinced me otherwise.”

The teapot whistled and he went to take care of it. I sat down. I was so lucky. Had the elves known he would spare me? Was that why they were laughing? This was some convoluted prank? And the witch, how were they in on it? Not that it mattered, their reasons and motivations weren’t important for my story.

Then I remembered, “Your story!” I said, rather loudly.

He stopped what he was doing, which was carefully using magic to pour a cup for me. “Yes?”

“I'm not dead! I can tell your story!” I stood back up, one hand on my hip the other pointing, “That’s why you let me go isn’t it.”

“Sure,” he shrugged, “That definitely factored into it.”

Motherfucker! This also meant I wasn’t done with him. He was getting out a smaller place setting for me to sit at but I didn’t sit down, or drink the tea.

“I need- I need to write it all down!” I said, “I have a good memory, but I was under duress before. I need to hear it again. And write it down."

The wizard smiled again, showing his teeth, but this time it did not scare me.

“Then let’s take this upstairs, shall we?”

He held out his hand and without hesitation I sat on it. I was placed on his shoulder and he took me, and the tea, to the workshop.

Amazingly he had a few blank notebooks that were human sized, and human sized pens. Nice ones too. And a human sized desk? The set up was perfect.

“Since I have until either you or the king dies, I can do proper research. I’ll need names and places and dates! And your parents, if you know how they met, that would make a great prologue!”

We worked well into the night. My cup of tea got cold.

[FIN] if you liked PLEASE REBLOG!

REBLOGS HELP SPREAD MY WORK! I also love knowing that people read my stories! My askbox and DMs are OPEN!!! let me know!!!

[Thanks for reading! please reblog! Or message me telling me what you think! I crave feedback! For more mystic woods go to vore-scientist.tumblr.com/tagged/mystic+woods+story or search ‘mystic woods story’]

FOR REFERENCE, HERE’S HOW THE SONG SOUNDS: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VooU55wzSEc

#safe vore #soft vore #sfw vore #g/t vore #nonfatal vore #extreme cuddling #PLASE REBLOG

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sciencespies · 4 years

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Heavily Trafficked Songbirds a Victim of Venezuelan Collapse

https://sciencespies.com/nature/heavily-trafficked-songbirds-a-victim-of-venezuelan-collapse/

Heavily Trafficked Songbirds a Victim of Venezuelan Collapse

The black-helmeted, crimson-jacketed males flit from branch to branch chirping at the female birds, who are shaded gray with less flamboyant flashes of orange and red. The environment is hot and humid, just the way the tropical birds like it. But this conditioned climate exists in a Smithsonian facility in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, thousands of miles from the birds’ ancestral home along the Caribbean coast of Venezuela.

These 20-odd red siskins are part of a population helping researchers to learn more about this endangered South American songbird. They aren’t the only ones in captivity. In fact, the diminishing Venezuelan population of birds in the wild is likely dwarfed by the number of siskins held and trafficked by breeders and pet owners around the world.

Researchers are working on learning more about trafficking rings in an effort to potentially co-opt some of the breeders and other players to help with siskin conservation. Meanwhile, plans are underway to reintroduce the birds to parts of their former range in Venezuela to bolster the fast-dwindling wild population.

The only thing standing in their way is widespread societal collapse in the birds’ native country. On March 26, the U.S. Department of Justice formally charged President Nicolás Maduro and 14 other current and former Venezuelan officials with narco-terrorism, corruption, drug trafficking and other criminal charges while a news report in February describes how the school system is in dire straits as teachers leave the country or otherwise abandon their posts.

“We would like to think the reintroduction could happen soon, but politics keep getting in the way,” says Michael Braun, an evolutionary biologist at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of National History, who works with the birds.

A local breeder voluntarily surrenders a male red siskin. “We were surprised and heartened to find many people interested in helping to save our natural heritage,” says Cardozo-Urdaneta.

(Leonel Ovalle-Moleiro, Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute)

Red siskins, listed as endangered by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, face threats from habitat loss, and poaching for the pet trade. The small finches live in the northern coastal foothills of Venezuela, and at least historically in Trinidad, though no birds have been seen in the island country for decades. Some birds may cross into Colombia while another distinct population lives in Guyana.

Red siskins can crossbreed with canaries to create red canaries, a bird prized by pet owners. In fact, many of the siskins trapped over the last century were likely taken for interbreeding purposes, though pure red siskins are also highly prized by pet owners.

“These birds have been maintained in private aviculture since the 1800s,” says Warren Lynch, the bird unit manager in charge of the climate-controlled facility at the Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute in Front Royal, Virginia. As siskins whistle and flit about in an enclosure behind him, the researcher discusses the complex dynamics of the ongoing trade of these birds. “Any red canaries you see are a result of that interbreeding.”

The use or trade of red siskins is illegal in Venezuela, but the breakdown of basic law due to the continuing political crisis in the country means that poachers and traffickers can act with near impunity.

The majority of Venezuela’s exported red siskins (above: female in the wild) are sent to the United States.

(Jhonathan Miranda, Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute )

At the Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute, red siskins (above) are part of a captive population helping researchers to learn more about this endangered South American songbird.

(Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute)

The diminishing native population of birds in the wild (above: male in Venezuela) is likely dwarfed by the number of siskins held and trafficked by breeders and pet owners around the world.

(Jhonathan Miranda, Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute )

Just the same, learning and understanding the operations of the illegal trade in siskins may offer researchers a leg up in disrupting the capture of birds in the wild. Braun and colleagues conducted a study, published recently in Animal Conservation, in which they analyzed social networks in the South American country from 2010 to 2017. The researchers suspected that the people trafficking red siskins may be using some of the same networks and routes used by drug traffickers or other illicit traders.

“Efforts of this type in Latin America are rare, because high impunity, low resources, and a very diverse market can make it difficult to understand illegal activities scientifically without putting the team at risk,” says Arlene Cardozo-Urdaneta, a research professional in the Spatial Ecology Laboratory of the Venezuela Institute of Scientific Investigations and one of the co-authors of the study.

The researchers used known contacts to get in touch with other players in the process and gained the trust of dozens of breeders, harvesters and others involved in red siskin trade. They also monitored specialized Facebook and Whatsapp groups dedicated to wildlife sales. They recorded 1,013 instances of siskins being either offered for sale or requested for purchase.

They also found that while drug traffickers or other illicit operators might be moving siskins occasionally, a lot of siskin trade occurred between people highly specialized in dealing with the birds.

“This is not a product they’re selling on the street corner in Venezuela,” says Kathryn-Rodriguez Clark, a population ecologist in animal care sciences at the National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute, who was also a co-author of the study.

Brian O’Shea, a collection manager for ornithology for the North Carolina Museum of Natural Science who was not involved in the recent study, says the researchers’ findings make sense. “Siskins have always been a target of a unique niche.”

Basically, the process of trafficking a siskin may start with a trapper in a rural area. Their traps use a live male bird that sings in one side of the two-compartment cage. Territorial males will come by to check out their potential rival and get trapped in the other compartment of the cage once they enter.

Many of the breeders share a common interest with conservationists—they are fascinated by the bird and carry a deep understanding of its biology and natural habitat.

(Raul Jimenez, Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute)

At this point the bird is sold for as little as $5 per animal to a commercial vendor who attempts to adapt wild birds to living in a cage. More than 60 percent die during this stage in the network, Rodriguez-Clark says.

“For the bird, it’s probably not a picnic,” she says.

The rest are often passed to one or more intermediaries, who move the birds to cities, or sometimes pass them on to what amounts to bird launderers, who sell them as legal captive-bred birds for about $80. In other cases, the birds are sent via smugglers to international breeders or pet owners, who may pay as much as $500 for a bird. The smugglers use everything from medicine bottles to suitcases. One man was even caught in Venezuela with siskins trapped in hair curlers taped to his body, the researchers say.

Rodriguez-Clark’s preliminary data shows many of these stay in Venezuela. But the majority of exported birds are sent to the United States.

These dollars mean a lot to Venezuelans undergoing a devastating economic crisis, and while the researchers didn’t examine whether the crisis has resulted in an uptick in siskin trade, Cardozo-Urdaneta says it’s likely. “The appeal of more valuable foreign currency may led to increases in the international wildlife trade,” she says.

Based on their research, Rodriguez-Clark and her colleagues detected about 70 birds taken from the wild in western Venezuela alone every year. Since estimates put the wild bird population in the low thousands at most, this take is worrisome, says Rodriguez-Clark.

Now that the researchers know how these networks function, they are optimistic that they might be able to interrupt the trade of wild-caught birds by co-opting some of these players to become active in conservation efforts. Many of the players caught up in the illegal trade share a common interest with conservationists—they are fascinated by the bird and carry a deep understanding of its biology and natural habitat. “We were surprised and heartened to find many people interested in helping, and in generating changes to save our natural heritage, even in the most remote areas,” Cardozo-Urdaneta says.

Putting this shared passion into practice could involve a banding program that helps to verify whether an individual siskin was bred in captivity or taken from the wild. Breeders would put closed-ring bands on the small feet of young birds that couldn’t be placed on adult feet. If the bird doesn’t have one, it may have been caught from the wild. Conservation-minded bird enthusiasts could ensure their hobby isn’t contributing to the bird’s demise in the wild by verifying these bands, while breeders could pledge to only work with banded birds.

“We have to do a little bit of conservation jujitsu,” Rodriguez-Clark says.

Meanwhile, zoos are working to breed captive siskins destined for eventual release in the wild. The Red Siskin Initiative, an effort started by some of the authors of this paper, partners with a number of international institutions. The Initiative is working to help coffee farmers in siskin environments to participate in the Smithsonian’s highly successful Bird Friendly certification project, as well as producing a red siskin chocolate bar made from bird-friendly cacao.

“What we would do for red siskin habitat would also improve things for migratory birds,” Braun says, since siskins use some of the same coffee farms as many birds that summer in the U.S. and travel down to Venezuela, such as the golden winged warbler or Connecticut warbler.

The Initiative is also coordinating breeding efforts between zoos in the U.S. and the newly constructed Red Siskin Conservation Center in Turmero, Venezuela.

Trappers use a two-compartment cage (above) holding a live male bird that sings from one side. Territorial males will come by to check out their potential rival and get trapped in the other compartment of the cage once they enter.

(Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute)

Facilities like the Smithsonian location in Front Royal are writing protocols on breeding and husbandry so they can exchange information with this center and other zoos in Venezuela.

“Basically what they want is a recipe,” Lynch says after pointing out a female with several recent chicks in the enclosure at Front Royal.

But researchers are still worried about the situation in Venezuela. In fact, Braun and his colleagues kept a discovery of a distinct population of siskins in Guyana in 2000 under wraps for years until the government there placed it on their endangered species list.

“We don’t tell anyone where they are, because they are still being poached,” says Royer.

The trouble with reintroduction, Rodriguez-Clark says, is that any release of these birds would only be successful if the original threats to the birds are mitigated. But poaching is unlikely to stop given the ongoing political crisis in Venezuela.

Nonetheless, she believes that more conservation money could help save the bird from extinction. “Give us $2 million and 10 years and we can save this bird from extinction,” Rodriguez-Clark says.

O’Shea says that since captive breeding efforts seem to be going well, zoos may eventually end up with a surplus. Eventually they will need to think about releasing some of them, regardless of the situation.

“People are always going to want to trap these things no matter what,” he says, adding that he’s not sure released birds would face extra danger, especially if their release spots are secretive.

Despite the current crisis, red siskins are a culturally important bird in Venezuela, where they are called cardenalitos. Siskins are even featured on some of the bills of their national currency. Rodriguez-Clark hopes that if the situation improves, Venezuelans will get behind reintroduction efforts and conservation of red siskin habitat, which will help a number of other vulnerable species as well.

“It could transform into something very positive for Venezuela,” Braun adds.

#Nature

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handers-time · 7 years

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Day 3 - Judgement - Just One More

Title: Just One More

Author: eijentu

Prompt: Judgement

One more, Anders thought. Just one more. There was a song that went like that, wasn't there? Anders wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. Three days. Three days the Blind Auditions had been running now, and Anders had seen it all: the songbird nun in leather pants, the crooning Qunari with the eye-patch, the young guy who had been more hat than voice, in the end. And worse than that, Anders had heard it all now too: the soaring high notes, the clumsy rapping, the vocal gymnastics that, inevitably, fell as flat as the voices trying to produce them.

And there had been genuine talents too - the pub singer with the guitar, and, well, that nun had been rather good, actually; Isabela snapped her up with a smug grin for Team Bela - but after three days of it, Anders had had enough. It seemed as though every song ever penned in Thedas was jumbling about in his head. All the faces blurred together, all the voices melted into a single tuneless dirge. And now all Anders wanted was peace. A quiet room, a cup of tea, and his cat sprawled over his lap, purring her contentment while he read the music blogs online.

(A memory came back to him then, quick and unbidden, in that sly way memories do, of nights when he used to do just that; when music blogs were actual music papers that furled out over his legs - tangible in a way that things weren't anymore - and of strong warm hands kneading the soles of his feet. Karl used to do that quite often, Anders remembered: used to sit him down and rub his aching feet after hours of interviews and rehearsals and singing his heart out. Used to make him stop and just be for the first time all day.

"Look after your feet, they'll look after you," Karl had always said, laughing. Anders wasn't sure whether that was true, in the end.)

But now wasn't the time for that. In the years since he'd lost Karl, the raw grief of it had settled into something quieter, more muted; it was something Anders had learnt to live with, but it still came to the surface sometimes, and he really didn't want to risk his eyeliner just then. It was meant to be waterproof, of course, but Anders had heard that before. Waterproof meant nothing. He still remembered the paparazzi snaps after he'd sniffed that raw heirloom onion at a farmer's market in Lothering, face smeared with make-up as his eyes set to watering. Erratic Anders's breakdown over 'murdered vegetables', read the accompanying article. Some Kirkwall entertainment writer had outdone themselves there. Friends say the Grey Spaces singer, famous for his aggressive animal rights stance, has been a strict vegan for many years, but he has now taken things too far - by refusing to eat what he calls murdered vegetables. "Anders was in tears when he saw the onion," confided one long-time friend. Sources say the singer - who was fined 1,250 sovereigns for an anti-fur attack at Fereldan Fashion Week last Kingsway - bought the onion to "give it a decent burial".

Anders had, in fact, given the onion a decent burial in an eggplant bolognaise - but his trust in waterproof mascara had been shaken ever since.

All that aside, though, he just didn't have time. Not to stop and fix make-up, not to wallow in the warmth of times past. Three days. Three days of wobbly singing and forgotten lyrics and voices that stayed in tune until they didn't. Three days of achingly soft melodies and big, bold voices and sensitive arrangements that genuinely caught his attention. Three days, and Anders had almost a full team behind him now. But there was just one more space to fill. One more, he thought. Just one more.

Sadly, it wasn't to be the man on the stage before him now. Less sensitive arrangement, more bleach-blond Macklemore wannabe who thought that volume equalled goodness, that one. He'd belted out every note at the top of his voice, and even Merrill, who hadn't so much as flinched at the death metal grandfather (pure white dreadlocks and gravelly growl, that one) had twisted up her kind face in dismay at the din.

None of the other judges turned either, to Anders's complete lack of surprise. Merrill already had a full team, so she was out anyway - not that she'd been tempted, it seemed - but Isabela and Fenris shook their heads as well. Anders caught one last glimpse of the man's curiously noodlelike hair before the chairs swung back to their blind position.

'Shame,' said Isabela. 'He probably could have been a model, that one.'

Fenris grunted. 'Yes. If he'd had a different face, he probably could.'

Anders closed his eyes. He could hear the tap-tap of heels across the stage as the artist moved into position. A woman, then, or likely, at least. Anders didn't like to assume. One more, he thought. One more.

And then: a sweet, clear, pure sound. A little bit breathless around the edges: probably nerves, Anders thought, but it sort of worked for the voice too, gave it the kind of vulnerability that made you listen, drew you in.

His hand twitched towards the buzzer. The voice went on sweetly, staying mercifully in tune. Not much training, he'd say if he had to guess: she needed more control in places, but the right elements were there. He could work with this. If the artist would listen to him, he could work with this...

Merrill's chair creaked beside him. He opened his eyes and looked across: she was kneeling up in her seat to watch the singer, chin resting on her hands like a child. She was smiling hugely, and when she saw him looking, she flicked her eyes towards the stage, still smiling, and nodded enthusiastically.

'Kitten, how could you fraternise with the enemy?' Isabela laughed. Her strong, heavily-ringed hand came down on her buzzer, turning her chair, and that was enough to galvanise Anders as well; he pressed his own buzzer a split-second later and found himself staring at indisputable talent show gold: a pretty young woman with dark hair and eyes, cheeks pink with excitement as she brought her song to a close.

There was a moment of quiet as the remaining two judges - Merrill, with her full team and Fenris, with his complete lack of taste - turned their chairs to be part of the action.

'What's your name, sweet thing?' Isabela called in a velvety voice. Anders rolled his eyes. Isabela might be reigning queen, her artist having won last season, but Anders was having none of it; she wasn't going to steal this one away from him too.

Unfortunately, the girl looked rather awed at having Isabela address her. 'My name is Bethany Hawke,' she said, and there it was in her voice too, that slight natural breathiness. Isabela just about licked her chops. 'I'm 19 and I'm from Lothering, Ferelden.'

Isabela nodded. She leaned back in her chair and considered the girl a moment. Then, 'Well, you're very good, and I want you,' she said. Anders groaned. Bethany went a sudden blotchy red. 'Would that be alright, do you think? Could I have you?'

Bethany said, in a strangled sort of voice, 'Erm...'

'Er, just a moment!' Anders cut in. 'Don't let her fool you, sweetheart,' he said to Bethany. She did, at least, look pleased to be addressed by him as well, if less awed than she had been by Isabela. Anders went on, warming up his pitch. 'She's a cutthroat underneath all that, you know. A real pirate.'

A wave of laughter went through the arena. Quite a bit of it came from Isabela herself. Anders said, 'Listen, you've got a beautiful, vulnerable sort of quality to your voice,' and then Bethany looked at him, really looked at him, and he thought, I've still got a chance here. 'You've got a storyteller voice, a voice that draws people in, and that's exactly the kind of voice that interests me. I can help you develop that in your singing, help you connect with people through your music.'

'Bethany, I will teach you to connect like nobody else,' Isabela countered, and Bethany laughed, nervously. 'Total connection, I promise you that. I am available for my artists all hours, day or night.'

Isabela winked. Bethany reached up to play with her hair.

Damn it, Anders thought. It was all over, but he could have one last dig, at least. 'Bethany, can you trust a woman whose boots have caused more international incidents than Antivan diplomacy?' he said, his voice conspiratorially low.

Isabela laughed at that too. That was probably one of the reasons, Anders thought, he liked her so much. 'Oh, sweetheart. Can you trust a man who once posed naked for PETA with only a few strategically placed...roosters? Do we have a picture of that? Can someone find that?'

Anders said, 'That was for a bloody good cause and I'd do it again tomorrow,' but he was laughing now too and putting up his hands in defeat. The audience broke out into laughter and chatter; producers were moving about, directing cameras to move in for Bethany's close-ups and to nab family reaction shots, just out of sight at the edge of the stage. In a moment Bethany would accept Isabela's offer and then they'd all take a break while the crew set up for the next artist.

Perhaps the next one would be right. One more, Anders thought. One more.

And then, while Isabela was still calling for someone to find the poster to put up on the big screen, and Anders was still defending his roosters, Bethany said, quite suddenly, 'Oh, I know that one!' All eyes swivelled back towards her, but she was focused on Anders now, her pretty face lit up. Maybe I haven't lost this after all, he thought. Then, 'My brother has that poster; he used to kiss it every night before bed.'

The arena erupted. Anders could barely hear above the noise of the audience, screaming and laughter and hooting all blended into a glorious, deafening cacophony. Fenris was speaking, but his words were lost in the din. Merrill smiled, leaning up to shout in the ear of Isabela, who looked like her nameday and Satinalia had come all at once.

Anders couldn't hold back his smile either, try as he might. It was such a sweet, genuine sort of thing to say; exactly the kind of thing that someone like Bethany - and he didn't know her, but he felt he did somehow; he'd got a sense of her from the way she sang her song - would say. There was something lovely about it, though, the image of some young man kissing his poster faithfully night after night. It made Anders's heart flip over in a way...in a way that it hadn't for a while. Staggeringly touching, when he thought about it, the intimate, heartfelt ritual of it; and Bethany had been willing to share her brother's secret, not to flatter or embarrass anyone, but just to connect.

Anders tried not to think too hard about it. Waterproof counted for nothing, after all.

Embarrassment, however, was probably unavoidable for the brother, Anders thought. And evidently the producers had the same idea, because seconds later a trio appeared on the big screen: Bethany's family, waiting just out of sight off-stage. There was an older woman, presumably her mother, and two men who might be brothers. One was laughing, wiping his eyes from the effort of it, and the other...Anders swallowed. It was ridiculous, because he hadn't even had time to formulate what he might have expected, but this man, somehow, wasn't it: he was tall and beefy, with lines around his eyes and a nicely shaped beard. Anders's heart flipped over again, and then again.

The brother had, at that moment, the look of a nug caught in the headlights of a monster truck; red was creeping up his neck, into his ears, his cheeks. He was going to cover his face or walk away from the camera any minute, Anders realised, and he ignored the way his heart sank because that was just silly. He didn't know this brother. It was something the poor man had probably forgotten long ago. And so Anders ignored his lurching heart and started to think instead of something to say, some suitable quip to save face all round.

Then the brother smiled. It was a small smile, at first, uncertain - it made him look like his sister when Anders had first turned his chair - but then it bloomed across his face, bright and true. The lines around his eyes crinkled. The nicely shaped beard revealed a row of white teeth. He grinned into the camera and waved - almost casually, as though he couldn't be more at ease; but his face was fully red, brow shiny with perspiration, and it was the most charming thing Anders had seen in a very long time.

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

But peace did come for Anders, eventually. It came later, long after Isabela had clasped pretty young Bethany Hawke to her bosom - literally, in fact - and disappeared off-stage to bewitch her family as well. Anders caught one last glimpse of the brother as Isabela leaned in close to say something, then the big screen changed and they were lost. The show went on, the final buzzer sounded. The audience made their way out of the arena, filtering slowly to the car parks and streets beyond. The crew packed up the set, the dailies went to post-production. Anders went to his dressing room and asked a runner to bring him some tea. That, it seemed, had been that.

Just as well, Anders thought. Might've been messy.

His feet ached. He brought one of them up into his lap to rub at it, but it wasn't the same as when Karl used to do it, somehow; he gave up on it, let the foot fall again. It was eerily quiet in his dressing room, despite the whirl of activity he knew was still going on outside. His phone lit up, some message or reminder flashing across the screen, but he left it for now. This was his moment: the moment he'd been waiting for all day. To sit quietly and enjoy his tea: enjoy the absence of producers squawking in his ear or Fenris snarling in the other one or crestfallen looks from those who hadn't made the grade.

In theory, Anders loved the premise of the show: to judge artists based purely on their voices, without any other bullshit getting in the way. It was the kind of chance he would have given his soul for when he was a young queer artist, just starting out: a six-foot-two beanpole with eye shadow and a feather boa. Everyone told him he would never make it, that he needed to play by their rules, fit their moulds first; and if he did that, then one day, once he was famous enough, once he was respected enough...one day, perhaps he could actually be himself.

Anders had told them to fuck themselves; he'd carved out his career with his own nail-polished fingers, and now it was Dragon 42 and nobody blinked if a man wore eyeliner at the Grammys. That didn't mean there wasn't still a long way to go. Discrimination still ran rampant. Kids still got told they would never make it because they were too fat or too dark or too gay. It made Anders's blood boil. And so Thedas Voice might be just another cheap reality show in a sea of cheap television, but Anders believed in that part of it, at least; talent before image, opening doors to diversity.

He would drown the industry in blood to keep that dream safe.

And so the last thing he needed was a distraction, he thought. He looked around his dressing room, with his cooling cup of tea and flashing phone and his cold aching feet bare against the carpet, and he thought, Good. Quiet, simple. Exactly what I want.Because the last thing he needed was a tall, good-looking man with a nice beard and crinkly eyes having some sort of thing for him...

Anders bit down on that train of thought. Stuffed his feet back into his socks with more force than necessary.

Then: knock, knock.

Perhaps it was another runner, one who could bring him a nice hot refill of tea.

'Come in!' Anders called out. And then, a few seconds later, when the familiar owner of a nice beard stood in the doorway, he managed to say, 'Oh, it's you!'

'Um,' said the brother. He looked away down the hall, and then back at Anders. The little line deepened between his brows. 'It's me, yes. Yes. You're...not the toilet, though.'

And at that, Anders had to laugh, out loud, in fact, because it was either that or cry. Waterproof counted for nothing. He said, 'How sweet of you to say so. Not everyone shares your opinion, I'm afraid.'

The brother closed his eyes briefly. Then, 'Well. That probably wasn't the kind of first impression I was hoping to make. Perhaps I could go out and start again?'

Anders grinned. This really was too easy. 'Your sister made your first impression for you much earlier in the evening, I'm afraid,' he said, and watched as the man froze.

'Or perhaps I could go crawl under a mountain. Yes, that sounds like a much better idea.'

Oh, he's funny, Anders thought suddenly. For even as he watched the flush creeping up the man's neck, across his cheeks, he could see his twitching mouth. There was a twinkle in his eyes that hadn't been visible on the big screen.

He's got a nice voice as well, Anders thought.

'How about you come in and tell me your name instead?' Anders said out loud, and ignored the way his heart skipped at the naked joy on the other man's face.

'That's a very easy thing to say yes to,' the brother replied. As he came in, he made a quick gesture with the door, as it to say, open or closed?; there was something so endearing about that, so wonderfully unassuming, that Anders just stared at him for a moment before he gestured back, closed, and motioned at the other seat in the room.

The brother dragged it over and sat down. He smoothed his palms against his T-shirt - wiped them, more likely, Anders thought, but who cared? - and said, 'It's Hawke, by the way. Garrett, really.'

Anders said, 'I thought you were trying to tell me you were Hawke Hawke for a moment there. I was going to have to have a word with your parents.'

Garrett laughed at that. It was a light, easy sort of laugh, that matched his nice voice. Anders didn't mean to notice that. 'Not sure that's actually worse than Garrett, to be honest,' Garrett was saying. 'Bethany's alright, I suppose. My brother landed with Carver, though, so he's the worst off.'

Garrett's eyes twinkled. There was a funny, bubbly sort of feeling trying to work its way out of Anders's chest. He said, as casually as he could, 'I guess I should be glad hewasn't kissing my poster each night. He might've come in looking for the toilet with a chainsaw.'

Well, now the elephant in the room was well and truly awake. Anders expected Garrett to go red at that; to bluster and shut down, maybe edge back towards the door, but instead the man just nodded, a wry look on his face. 'Yes. For that and many other reasons, you should be glad it wasn't him, honestly.'

Garrett's eyes were still twinkling. Bloody hell, Anders thought.

Somehow, without meaning to, Anders found himself saying, 'Did you really do that?' His cheeks were starting to feel warm. 'Kiss the poster every night?'

'Yes. Bethany is appallingly honest, I'm afraid. I warn you now.'

Anders tucked a piece of hair back behind his ear. 'But you don't still do it?' he said lightly.

And that was a mistake, he realised immediately, because Garrett was shaking his head firmly no. 'I don't still do it.'

Oh. Oh.

At that, the small, hopeful feeling in Anders's chest flickered out, and it was silly, he knew he was being silly, but he felt...let down. His phone flashed again: he reached across and picked it up, scrolled through his notifications, and so he sounded completely unaffected - like he always did - when he said, 'Well, I don't look like that anymore, of course. Not a spring chicken anymore.'

It was his favourite joke to make about the rooster poster; somehow, this time, he didn't feel like laughing at it.

But, 'You're still super hot without the roosters, trust me,' Garrett said. Anders nearly dropped his phone. When he looked back at Garrett, the man shrugged. 'I mean, that's not why I stopped kissing the poster. Obviously.'

'Obviously,' Anders echoed.

'Just that I realised maybe it wasn't very respectful,' and for the first time, Garrett looked a bit sheepish. He stared down at his large hands; there were guitar calluses on his fingers, Anders noticed for the first time. 'But it wasn't just that.'

'Good,' said Anders, 'Because I don't mind about that at all. It's an authorised poster. What was it, then?'

Garrett smiled softly. He was still looking down at his hands, and he was going red again, but when he spoke, his voice was steady, certain. 'Because I realised I wanted to thank you every night instead.'

Anders's breath caught somewhere in his chest. 'For what?' he said.

'For being brave,' and now Garrett did look at him. He was grinning massively. Anders's heart gave another skip. 'For being out. For being who you are and telling me, when I was 17 that it was OK to be me as well. I used to play my dad's old Strat and dream of being a musician and I never thought it could happen.' Garrett made a vague sort of gesture with his hand. 'Because I could be that or I could be this. But I couldn't be both.' He shook his head. 'Then you came along. Not that much older than me. You were beautiful and insanely talented,' and here Garrett gulped, but he went on anyway, 'and you still are. So, thank you.'

It was difficult, Anders thought, to know what to say to that. He had a feeling he might be staring, though, because Garrett grinned, and looked away again, and laughed, and ran a hand through his hair.

It wasn't as though Anders hadn't heard that before; he was a rock star, he was a living legend; hell, even the trailer for Thedas Voice blew more wind up his arse than Garrett just had. But somehow...somehow...

Anders swallowed. 'But you're a musician now,' he said. Garrett nodded. 'Why didn't you audition, then? I could have you for Team Anders!'

'You've actually got a full team now,' Garrett reminded him dryly, 'but I'm not a singer; I stuck with the guitar. I'm a session musician now. Working to get my break. It's good. I love it.'

An idea began to take seed in Anders mind. He began to smile - he couldn't stop - and Garrett smiled back, though he didn't know about Anders's idea yet.

'How many of my songs do you know lead guitar for?' Anders said.

Garrett gave another little shrug. 'Hard to say. Is 'a lot' a number?'

Anders picked up his phone again. 'It's a very good number,' he said. He opened up a new contact page and passed it over to Garrett, who looked down at the phone and then back up, his eyes wide. 'Perhaps you could give me another good number. One I could call you on about a band audition? My band, just to be clear.'

Garrett looked back down at the phone. Anders could see the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the pink of his tongue as he licked his lips. Wordlessly, he entered his information and handed the thing back to Anders.

And then, 'Just about rehearsals? Or about other things as well.'

Anders raised his eyebrows. It probably would have looked convincing if he wasn't still smiling uncontrollably. 'Other things?'

Garrett was smiling uncontrollably too. So it was probably alright. 'Other things,' he said. 'Like coffee. And...roosters.'

~the end.

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araneaes-order · 6 years

Text

In the Bleak Mid-winter Prologue

Last Herald-Mage Fanfic

Fix-it...ish. canon mm

Young Stefen, living on the streets, found out someone was looking for him and decided to lay low, avoiding the mysterious stranger in red, so he’s never taken to Haven by Bard Lynnell. It was an unfortunate decision, but in spite of it, he and Van do meet up, just later, and under less kind circumstances. Basically a redo on the ending. ~55k words Finished.

Word Count: ~3350

Rating: Mature for, sorry, lots of bad stuff, rape, sexual abuse, child abuse. Canon was pretty dark, especially what I was redoing here, so’s this.

On AO3.

Chapter Synopsis: Like I said up there ^ Street boy Stef living wild and wary.

He wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had on the streets, in the gutter, if he hadn’t developed a nose for trouble early.

The dreamerie old Berte insisted on losing herself in, that was trouble, for all that he continued to pay for it with his songs. Not like he had a choice. But he could smell the danger in it, see it in her foggy eyes and lax mouth when she was strung out again. Not just the danger of the blows she’d land when she was sore and sick the next day, if he didn’t start singing it away quick enough, not even just the danger of going hungry when she spent all they had on her next fix, and not even the danger of what would happen to him, small and young and friendless, if his only protector passed from the dreaming stupor of her addiction into the dreams that don’t end.

He’d never have said he’d loved Berte. He knew she wasn’t his ma, or any other kin to him, she’d never said otherwise and for as long as he’d remembered the very idea that he could even have had a real family was so foreign to him that when he got old enough to know that most folk did, he still couldn’t imagine being part of one himself. But she was his still, and he was hers, and there was a belonging there was all he’d ever known.

She was old, though he wasn’t sure how old, and he fancied she was probably younger than she looked. Hunched over, in her rags, with her rheumy eyes and phlegmy cough, and palsied, bone-thin arms and hands held out for alms, she looked like she could blow away in the first hard wind, but, like many things, Stef had learned young, her looks were deceiving.

She was still quick as a snake when she needed to be, and meaner’n one, with two long, thin daggers she kept hidden in her clothes. No one pushed around old Berte, who wouldn’t pay for it in blood, quick, excepting maybe the guards, but she was canny enough to keep out of their path and anyway, they didn’t usually bother with the parts of town where her and her sort hung out.

She’d cuff Stef soon as not and send him sprawling in the dust, blood on his face, for any fuss from him, real or imagined, but while she and her stickers were close no one else dared rough him up too much and that was more safety than a street rat like him hoped for.

She got even more protective when his singing started turning a profit. He was a real commodity then, he knew, a fancy word for a fancy new chance at life. She stayed real close for a while, kept a nasty eye on the street toughs that were never far from him, and showed her stickers a few times just in warning.

For a while it meant something almost close to a full belly and sometimes a warm blanket at night. For a while it meant nestling in beside her and though it wasn’t ever loving it was more and softer contact than he was used to and arms around him in the night was almost like she cared.

The days had a dirty feel to them, always, back then. The blue sky was maybe the only clean thing he thought he ever really saw in his part of town and that was so far away it didn’t seem any more real than the nobles he and some of the other boys would sometimes see come slumming it—never as far as their turf though, never across the fouled river, polluted by the uptown waste and stinking its way through his streets.

They weren’t real people to him. Their lives weren’t real. He couldn’t shake the feel that at some point they’d cross a bridge on the other side of town and shake off their pretty togs and old Berte’s twin wouldn’t crawl out from underneath somehow, cackling like she did at putting it over on some rube, only they were putting on the whole world with their airs.

But Stef wasn’t an innocent. He knew what, like as not, the fancy folk were risking coming so close to his dirty life for. Sometimes it was dreamerie, sure, or its like. Pure poison, but if it kills you slow enough you’ll never even know it and it’s sweeter going down that some things. But he knew what the “big houses” held, too big for this part of town, almost fancy, but dirty, dirty, dirty with it.

There was a fatalism to knowing what went on in there. The girls that grew up around him knew where they’d end up one day or another. Pretty-faced boys too. And even if you meant to not live your life there, those squalid buildings that still managed to be too big and too much for everything that skulked around them, cast long shadows.

Pride didn’t pay nothing. But a stuffy toff from the other side of town might, if you was pretty enough, or young enough, or squealed and bucked just right. Would you be in a good enough state when it was over to use your take? If the gaudy dressed—but gods, so dirty—men and women who ran the places even let you keep enough, after you paid them for the room and the set up with the customer…probably. Most seemed to think it was worth it, if not exactly the stuff of dreams, at least it meant maybe not starving, maybe keeping a home, such as it was, or keeping a young one or an oldster fed a bit longer if that was your goal.

It wasn’t long after things changed with his singing, after life got a little better, that he managed to skip Berte’s grip and go awandering, too young and wild a thing to be kept on a leash for long, even if he’d squirmed his way out of her arms that sunrise and was feeling a little more…oddly, mellow or human or something for it.

Thieving wasn’t a thing to fall back on in the slums, it was a way of life, ordinary and instinctive as calling blessings on a sneeze. Which isn’t to say he’d had mind for trouble that day, but it found him anyway, in Sewer Janne, a big, ugly boy with small eyes and a small heart and possibly even less of a chance than Stef had had, with a ma who worked at the big house and had started bringing him with her young, till he grew out of his baby face and she’d left him to his own on the streets, no use to her or the fancy folk like he was.

Janne wasn’t much good to himself either, slow in wit and body, and Stef had used him as a distraction a few weeks earlier, when the clumsy older boy had gone to pinch an apple from a stand that sold cast-offs too near to spoiling, but for less and good enough for those who had naught otherwise.

Stef had pointed him out to Mercader, who’d been running the stand, and while the man had collared the other boy, Stef’d snagged three potatoes for himself.

They’d been half rotten, every one, and the last had had a worm.

They were better than Janne got though, another day with an empty belly and a beating that left him limping a little still as he ran Stef down through the narrow streets like a bull being driven to market.

Stef was quicker, and not limping, and he knew the streets like he knew the spots on the back of Berte’s hand, so he wasn’t worried, not even when a covey of nuns from the local temple—screechy, pious, prigs—made him lose time while they blocked the street and preached to the “poor and needy,” as though their words wouldn’t have gone down better with coin or good bread.

But when he turned in the alley behind the pawnshop and the usurer he found his way blocked by a stack of barrels, a stolen shipment of ale or beer to his eye and worth a fortune to whoever’d snagged them, but not hardly worth Stef’s skin in his own mind.

Quick as the rat he knew himself to be he’d leapt at them, scrambling for the top, hoping to make it over before—

The world spun and the earth itself slammed across his spine and the back of his skull like a hammer.

He blinked up at Janne through a veil of starbursts and black spots. The boy grinned triumphantly, his hand still outstretched, some of Stef’s own overlong red hair twined in his meaty fingers from where he’d brought Stef down by his collar, not caring whatever else was caught in his grip.

“I’ll show you how to sing, songbird,” Janne sneered, and Stef, still in a daze, wondered how long the other boy had been working on that threat.

Then he grunted and curled in on himself as Janne kicked him, very very hard, right in the gut.

It was far from the first time Stef had been caught for a beating and he knew the way of it, how to turn when he could, to give a softer, less vulnerable target. A kick to the arse or the thigh might hurt like hell but if he could deflect the blows there it was better than a broke rib or bruised kidney.

It wasn’t fair though. It wasn’t his fault Janne was slow and stupid and an easy mark.

“Son of a whore!” he hissed and then was sent reeling again from a kick directly to the underside of his jaw that slammed his head back and his teeth together so hard he heard a crack—terrified for a moment it was his jaw itself—and it left him blinking at stars again.

It was so painful that it disguised the tearing grip of Janne’s fist back in his hair as the larger boy used it to drag him up against the wall.

“What did you say?” he snarled, figurative blood in his eye, or literal blood in Stef’s own eye, just then he couldn’t have told.

It was a stupid insult. Pointless, so common the words hardly had meaning. But Janne’s barrel chest heaved and he panted with fury and Stef was streetwise enough to go for a weak spot when he saw it, and twist the knife when he knew he’d hit home. “Son. Ova. Whore,” he enunciated slowly.

He was braced for the blow that came at him, a right-handed swat that knocked his body free of Janne’s grasp and sent him tumbling to the side, sliding against the wall of the alley. He was panting himself when he landed, a careful eye on his tormentor as he gathered his wits and tensed.

“What the hells do you know about anything?”

Stef hissed, using the sound to release some of the pain, clear his own head, as he shifted a little at Janne’s feet. “I know where your ma comes from every day, early, near sunrise. I know where she used to take you, you weren’t so shite—”

“Shut up!” the boy said, in a voice that struck a strange note between a whisper and roar and resonated with a pain so deep Stef knew he should feel guilty. But he was the one bleeding now and guilt was for fools and rich men with deep enough pockets for buying indulgences in the chapels.

“What? Do you miss it?” Another twist, and a cruel one, but Stef was ready for the next blow—ready to move with it, roll with it away from Janne and hopefully out of the alley, where he could get to his feet and run again.

He was the one surprised when the other boy’s face went blank instead, and he went stiff and still, reacting to more than just Stef’s words. Memory turning his beady eyes dark.

“You aren’t no better,” he said, low.

Stef laughed breathlessly. “Sure, sure, maybe not, but no one’s buggered me in one of the big houses yet.”

“Not yet!” Janne said, fiercely, leaning over him, but not kicking or hitting at him. “But don’t think it’ll be long. Your stupid songs may be keeping Berte quiet for now, but she’ll blow all you bring her on the dreamerie quick, and more besides. And then she’ll sell you! Just like she sold her own young’uns.”

“That’s not true!”

Janne spat at him, but Stef was so enraged by his ridiculous words he didn’t react, other than to wipe at the dripping spittle on his cheek.

“S’Truth!” Janne answered, triumph stealing across his unpleasant face again. “My ma told me. And you’ll wish she’d just sold you in the big house, too. Ma said Berte’s real kids disappeared with the north folk, one, two, three, on trading days, til there weren’t none left and she wouldn’t tell no one where they’d gone, nor look ‘em in the eyes about it. Old Sour Face’s so damned mean and so damned ugly, no one wanted to try long anyway but everyone knew what’d happened. And old Berte, she lived high on the hog after each one—for a while. Til the dreamerie run out and she di’n’t have no more kids to sell. But now she’s got you, songbird.”

It would have been better to stay where he was, wait for his opening, but his fury forced him to his feet to glare at the bigger boy. You’re no better than Janne, you shite-head, stay down and wait! the voice of reason screeched in his head, but he ignored it. Janne was just a rotten liar.

And yet he smirked, slow perhaps, but as driven by instinct to twist the knife as Stef was. “Wonder what sorta cage a pretty little songbird like you will end up in, huh?”

“Fuck you!” Stef shouted, suddenly hitting Janne as hard as he could, low, going for the kidneys with his bony knuckles.

Janne oofed, and folded a bit, but Stef wasn’t fool enough to think he’d done more damage than he’d had. He ran, and the worst thing was that Janne didn’t follow and Stef knew it wasn’t because Stef’d hurt him, it was because he thought he’d won.

The hovel they’d stayed in the night before, rented for an exorbitant copper a night from a ‘friend’ of Berte’s, was dark when Stef went scampering back to it. The curtains were drawn.

“Oi, Berte! You out?” he called stupidly as he let himself in, pretending he couldn’t hear the thread of worry in his own voice.

Because he knew she wasn’t. The sick, sullen lump in his belly warned him even before the stench rolled over him. Dreamerie. More than she was used to using. But that was the problem, or one of them. The more you used the more you needed and the harder you’d crash when you came up out of it. The worse you felt, the more you’d need to get yourself back to rights and the harder you’d crash again. A cycle that only led in one direction for Berte, and, possibly, for Stef too.

But she shifted under the bulk of her rags at his entrance—and maybe at the fact that he’d left the door open and was allowing the cloud of drugged smoke to escape into the already poisonous air outside, and she turned towards him. In the morning there’d be curses and glares and heavy blows, harder than Janne’s, if he wasn’t careful and quick enough with the songs that eased her morning-after head. For now there was a vacant stare and an absent smile offered to nothing and no one in particular.

She looked younger like this, prettier almost, and it made him sick.

“Stef,” she murmured, startling him. She held out her arm and wiggled back a little on the threadbare pallet, as though making room for him to curl up for the night. But it was hardly past midday.

He quickly turned away and shut himself out of the one room shack, closing the door on her vacuous smile and the smoke that softened the edges of it from across the room. His eyes were blurry as he rested his forehead against the door and his chest heaved once, but he didn’t cry. Berte was stupid on dreamerie. Dull-witted as a…well, duller-witted than Janne.

He could skim a bit of the money he brought in, easy, if he got to it before she could spend it all. He could feed himself while people still gave him berth for the sake of her knives. He could save up. By the time the dreamerie took her where she really wanted to go, he’d have enough to get out. He didn’t have any other choice.

It was all over the slums that a stranger was lurking about town. Poking her nose in the wrong sorts of places, and dressed in rich clothes of eye-catching scarlet, like she didn’t know no better than to make a spectacle of herself.

That was odd enough to have rumors flying—a spy for the crown? A spy for an enemy? Pah! What sort of spy couldn’t keep themselves hid better than that? A spell-caster? A Herald? That was daft, everyone knew Heralds did their prancing about in white and rode them big white horses. A Bard, for sure, t’was Bards that wore red like that—Stef didn’t know what a Bard was and wasn’t going to ask. But Bards were money-grubbers, not that anyone could blame ‘em, but what’s a Bard want with the poor side of town? There’s no coin to be made here! A spy pretending to be a Bard—

Stupid, Stef thought, with the special condescension of the young. News of the unrest down south had everyone jumpy, but there wasn’t nothing important enough in their town to send a spy for, by Stef’s reckoning. Plenty of old soldiers had ended up there, parts of them missing, even the ones that had all their limbs, looking to get lost like Berte did on dreamerie, but none of them were special, heroes or aught, not his side of the river.

But then he overheard Mercader gossiping with the pawnbroker that he’d heard the stranger-in-red was asking about singers in their part of town. Looking for a little songbird, apparently, Mercader confided, and Stef had slunk further into the shadows, further away from the two men, heart racing.

She wouldn’t be looking for him, o’course. Why would she? He wasn’t nothing. But maybe he’d be best served keeping his yap shut and his song behind his teeth for a few days, just so. Even if someone ratted him out, and who was he kidding, when someone ratted him out, good luck to her finding him if he wasn’t perched out on his usual corner with Berte’s hat out in front of him.

It wasn’t so easy convincing Berte of that and he couldn’t tell her why he wouldn’t sing for her—what if she had a mind to approach the richly dressed stranger to find out why the woman was looking for a songbird, and exactly what kind she might be willing to settle for? Instead he feigned a cold in his throat, croaking for her until his chest really did hurt with the strain of pretending it, and she’d cuffed him good and set him out of her sight with a kick and a fierce frown.

Three days he managed to keep out of sight and hearing of the stranger and in all that time it never occurred him what old Berte’s desperation would drive her to. So much for him recognizing danger when it was hunting him.

Continued in Chapter 1

Or switch to AO3

#LHM #the last herald-mage #Vanyel Ashkevron #Stefen #Tylendel Frelennye #my writing #fanfic #reposting for reorganization #and to get the chapters on tumblr

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sciencespies · 4 years

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Heavily Trafficked Songbirds Have a Path Back to Resiliency

https://sciencespies.com/nature/heavily-trafficked-songbirds-have-a-path-back-to-resiliency/

Heavily Trafficked Songbirds Have a Path Back to Resiliency

Researchers are working on learning more about trafficking rings in an effort to potentially co-opt some of the breeders and other players to help with siskin conservation. Meanwhile, working with Provita, a conservation partner in Venezuela, plans are underway to reintroduce the birds to parts of their former range in Venezuela to bolster the fast-dwindling wild population.

Even as the birds’ native country suffers from ongoing societal disruption, the researchers see promise. “We would like to think the reintroduction could happen soon,” says Michael Braun, an evolutionary biologist at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of National History, who works with the birds.

A local breeder voluntarily surrenders a male red siskin. “We were surprised and heartened to find many people interested in helping to save our natural heritage,” says Cardozo-Urdaneta.

(Leonel Ovalle-Moleiro, Provita NGO)

Red siskins, listed as endangered by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, face threats from habitat loss and poaching for the pet trade. The small finches live in the northern coastal foothills of Venezuela, and at least historically in Trinidad, though no birds have been seen in the island country for decades. Some birds may cross into Colombia while another distinct population lives in Guyana.

Red siskins can crossbreed with canaries to create red canaries, a bird long-prized by pet owners across Europe and in the United States. In fact, many of the siskins trapped over the last century were likely taken for interbreeding purposes, though pure red siskins are also highly prized by pet owners.

The majority of Venezuela’s exported red siskins (above: female in the wild) are sent to the United States.

(Jhonathan Miranda, Provita NGO)

At the Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute, red siskins (above) are part of a captive population helping researchers to learn more about this endangered South American songbird.

(Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute)

The diminishing native population of birds in the wild (above: male in Venezuela) is likely dwarfed by the number of siskins held and trafficked by breeders and pet owners around the world.

(Jhonathan Miranda, Provita NGO)

The use or trade of red siskins is illegal in Venezuela, but the continuing political crisis in the country means that some poachers and traffickers can act with near impunity. Just the same, learning from the operators of the illegal siskin trade may offer researchers a leg up in disrupting the capture of birds in the wild. Braun and colleagues conducted a study, published recently in Animal Conservation, in which they analyzed social networks in the South American country from 2010 to 2017. The researchers suspected that the people trafficking red siskins may be using some of the same networks and routes used by drug traffickers or other illicit traders.

Many of the breeders share a common interest with conservationists—they are fascinated by the bird and carry a deep understanding of its biology and natural habitat.

(Raul Jimenez, Provita NGO)

“For the bird, it’s probably not a picnic,” she says.

Rodriguez-Clark’s preliminary data shows many of these stay in Venezuela. But the majority of exported birds are sent to the United States.

“We have to do a little bit of conservation jujitsu,” Rodriguez-Clark says.

Meanwhile, zoos are working to breed captive siskins destined for eventual release in the wild. The Red Siskin Initiative, an effort started by some of the authors of this paper, partners with a number of international institutions, including Provita. The Initiative is working to help coffee farmers in siskin environments to participate in the Smithsonian’s highly successful Bird Friendly certification project, as well as producing a red siskin chocolate bar made from bird-friendly cacao.

The Initiative is also coordinating breeding efforts between zoos in the U.S. and the newly constructed Red Siskin Conservation Center in Turmero, Venezuela.

(Raul Jimenez, Provita NGO)

Facilities like the Smithsonian location in Front Royal are writing protocols on breeding and husbandry so they can exchange information with this center and other zoos in Venezuela.

“Basically what they want is a recipe,” Lynch says after pointing out a female with several recent chicks in the enclosure at Front Royal.

“We don’t tell anyone where they are, because they are still being poached,” says Royer.

The trouble with reintroduction, Rodriguez-Clark says, is that any release of these birds would only be successful if the original threats to the birds are mitigated. Poaching is a problem that is unlikely to stop. Nonetheless, she believes that more conservation money could help save the bird from extinction. “Give us $2 million and 10 years and we can save this bird from extinction,” Rodriguez-Clark says.

Red siskins are a culturally important bird in Venezuela, where they are called cardenalitos. Siskins are even featured on some of the bills of their national currency. Rodriguez-Clark hopes that if the situation improves, Venezuelans will get behind reintroduction efforts and conservation of red siskin habitat, which will help a number of other vulnerable species as well.

“It could transform into something very positive for Venezuela,” Braun adds.

Editor’s note, April 13, 2020: This story has been edited since publication to clarify the role of Venezuela’s current political turmoil has had in the illegal red siskin trade. The problem long predates the nation’s current situation.

#Nature

#04-2020 Science News #2020 Science News #Earth Environment #earth science #Environment and Nature #Nature Science #News Science Spies #Our Nature #outrageous acts of science #planetary science #Science #Science Channel #science documentary #Science News #Science Spies #Science Spies News #Space Physics & Nature #Space Science #Nature

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