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#dusky grouse
na-bird-of-the-day · 2 months
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BOTD: Dusky Grouse
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Photo: Doug Greenberg
'"A large, dark forest grouse of inland regions of the western U.S. and Canada. Until recently, this and the Sooty Grouse were considered to make up one species under the name Blue Grouse. Slow-moving and inconspicuous, but often surprisingly tame. Most likely to be noticed (at least by sound) in spring, when males 'sing' incessantly to attract mates, a series of deep hoots."
- Audubon Field Guide
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antiqueanimals · 7 months
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Montana Outdoors. Sept./Oct. 1978. Vol. 9, No. 5. Cover illustration by Ron Jenkins.
Internet Archive
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birdblues · 1 month
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Dusky Grouse
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iicraft505 · 3 months
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Dusky Grouse (Dendragapus obscurus) | Doug Greenberg
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soren-barnowl · 5 months
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Dusky grouse
August 2, 2023
Nikon Coolpix P900
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suttoncreek314stuff · 9 months
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Dusky Grouse
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flintandpyrite · 29 days
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>:V
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softlyspector · 5 months
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Grays
Summary: Joel likes to be read to and held and have his hair stroked. He would never dare admit it, though. Based on this lovely ask.
Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader
Word count: ~4k
Warnings: Joel being insecure about his looks, age, gray hair (idiot 🙄 affectionate), Joel being a nuisance by sweating and chopping wood, Joel's bad attitude, reader is implied to be from the south/Appalachia (and has an accent), food as a love language, food mentions and eating, minor internal angst, Joel character study?because I'm insane, very domestic, fall vibes
A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you like this and thank you to the anon who sent that ask. I wrote this in just a few hours because you inspired me so and a price can't be put on that. Thank you all for always being so lovely and letting me write whatever comes to mind/inspires at the time💕
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“Are you almost done with that?” 
The ax arcs through the air again, splits solidly through the log and then thumps down onto the stump beneath. Two halves of split wood go flying in opposite directions, and you set about gathering them up for Joel, who pauses, one hand on his hip as breathes heavily through his nose. 
There’s a tendril of sweat snaking down his temple; the ax hangs loosely from one hand like it weighs nothing. 
“What?” He snaps. 
You smile and repress the urge to laugh, turning your back so he doesn’t see. “I said, are you almost done?” 
He makes a disbelieving noise, an indignant half-squak. “This has gotta be done before winter sets in, in case it slipped your mind.” 
“I didn’t say it doesn’t,” you agree, rounding the stump to prop up one of the halves back onto the ax scarred stump. “It’s just that you’ve been at it for a good long while. Ain’t you tired?” 
You step back and Joel straightens his shoulders, fingers tightening around the handle of the ax again. He lifts and swings, muscle straining in his arms, shirt lifting just enough that you see a thin line of his skin. The log splits, and you step forward with the other piece, ignoring the flutter in your belly at the sight of him. “Would go faster with help,” he grouses pointedly. 
“Mhm, or you could come get some dinner. It’s gettin’ dark.” 
Grunt, lift, swing, slice. 
No answer. 
You roll your eyes and instead sweep the fallen pieces of scattered wood into your arms and start toward the growing pile of firewood along the back side of the house. You don’t get very far with your burden. “Hey,” he says, tugging you back by your shoulder. “Quit that. C’mere.” The firewood is out of your arms before you can protest. 
He shoulders past you, heat radiating off him in dizzying waves. The autumn air is chilly and growing colder, the day dunked in a gray, dusky fading light. The sky is that late autumn purple it sometimes gets to be, rosy like blush and lavender, the fingers of the trees sharp and black against the horizon. “If you want help,” you comment, following closely behind him. “You do actually have to let me help.” 
His shoulders pull taut, the wide cut of them straining at the red flannel he’s outfitted in. “Uh-huh.” He drops the wood on the top of the pile and turns back to you. His eyes flicker over you, chin tucking down, head tilting as he assesses you. “You eat?”
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at him.
Typical Joel.
“Might be what I’d come to fetch you for. Supper’s on.” 
“That so?” 
“Chicken and dumplings,” you say by way of explanation. “And gravy.” 
 “Sounds good.” He says it with a note of surprise in his voice. “Real good.”
“‘Cause it is. Come eat. The work will be here tomorrow. You’ll even have my help that time around. If ya happen to let me help that is.” You beckon him with a jerk of your chin toward the open back door. 
He swipes the back of his hand over his forehead, then runs it down his face, palm cupping his chin. The thick tendons outlined in his throat tighten when he clenches his jaw and considers the mess of the backyard. Warm yellow light is starting to unspool across the lawn, over long dead grass and the whisper of browned leaves. “Ellie eat?” 
“She’s with those friends of hers tonight. Suppose she’ll eat with them.” 
He makes another vague noise in the back of his throat, still looking at the stack of logs he’d yet to split. 
Joel does this sometimes. Works himself like a dog, gets grouchy and sharp, forgets to eat. 
Sometimes it takes a firm hand and hard pressed coaxing to get him to give it up. 
If you weren’t there, you wonder how long it’d last, that rise and fall of the ax, the strain of his body, already well past its limits. 
He must be exhausted and hungry, not that he’d ever rightly admit to that.  
That’s another thing you wonder after — did Joel even feel those things anymore? 
Yes, you think. Since Jackson, yes. He just had a way of ignoring his own needs. He’d run on empty for days if he had to. 
But he hesitates, makes a show of surveying the work he has left for him, the last dregs of the dying sun spilling weak across the yard. Or, maybe it's not a show. With Joel, things rarely are. He’s earnest, feet rooted firmly to the ground. 
You watch him while he deliberates. One huge hand is still fisted around the handle of the ax, the bulk of his forearm straining, muscle and vein twisting prettily beneath flushed, damp skin. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, the top few buttons of his shirt left undone. His chest and neck are tinted the same color, dappled in the same sheen of sweat. 
His hair is starting to go properly silver, a dark attractive gray that extends to his beard, the chest hair that just pokes out against the top of the flannel. 
It’s unfortunate, really, how he seems to get more beautiful each year. Age shouldn’t look as good as it does on him. 
When your eyes flicker back to his, he’s already watching you. An unreadable expression is tangled over his features, complicated and unknowable. Just as quick as it’s there, it’s gone, his expression cleared. You aren’t sure what he’s seen on your face that makes him fold inward, shut the door closed on you. 
“All right,” he agrees, leaning the ax against the stack of wood, seeming reluctant about it. 
Still, he follows you up the back porch stairs and through the door, wipes his shoes on the mat and then toes them off as you close the door to the encroaching night.
There’s something about socked feet, bare feet, that is painfully domestic, painfully homey and full of a feeling you don’t know how to articulate anymore. Something that reminds you so starkly of life before. You’d both gone months, once, without ever taking your shoes off, aside to tape them and switch socks, too afraid you might not have a moment to put them back on. 
Joel glances at you as you shuffle past him, a hand placed gently between his shoulders for just a second, before you trek further into the house. “Smells good,” he compliments, following close on your heels. “I ain’t had chicken n’ dumplings in years.” 
“That so?” 
“Mm.” He moves toward the stove in what you’re sure will be an attempt to serve both of you. 
“Nuh uh, sit,” you intercept him bodily and direct him into the chair at the breakfast table. 
He huffs at you and sits, only mildly annoyed.
“Crabby,” you comment, spooning out a sizable portion. You always feel that he doesn’t eat enough, that he tries to leave too much behind for you and Ellie, especially after hard work. Joel still ate like he expected rations to run out. It’s unconscious, but it still worries you. 
“I ain’t crabby,” he gripes. 
You roll your eyes, sit the plate in front of him, and press the back of your hand to his cheek. The sweat is drying tacky on his skin, the strained rose color fading from his cheeks in the warmth of the house. He should have been wearing a jacket; his skin is a clammy kind of chilled, even sweaty and warm as he is. “You’ve actually never not been crabby, and it’s worse when you haven’t eaten,” you inform and hand him a fork with your other hand. “Ellie would agree with me.” 
His hair curls at the base of his skull with the evaporating humidity of his skin. Like his socked feet, it feels painfully domestic to witness. Incredibly human, which Joel seemed more than, sometimes. “Guess she would,” he agrees. You lean your hip into his side and wait for him to take a bite, moving your hand away from his cheek to rest on his shoulder. 
Joel might show his love through killing himself chopping wood for the winter, but this is the way you do it. He can’t cook, anyhow, and it makes you feel good to give him something good. It reminds you of better times.  
When he swallows, eyes fluttering closed at the taste, you pat his shoulder and start to pull away to get your own plate.
“Hey,” he catches at your hand. His fingers tangle briefly with yours. His thumb sweeps over your skin, soft about it, though he doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. “It’s real good.” 
“You’re welcome, Joel.” You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. 
When you’re both done eating, he does the dishes, builds a fire in the grate in the living room so the room is warm when you find your way there, book in hand with the intention to complete a nightly ritual that he’s never raised complaint at since it was quietly started. 
You alternate between words and music, and last night Joel had played the guitar for you in the chilled air of the back porch, a blanket tucked around your legs. 
Joel would never dare admit it, not in ten thousand years, not in the pits of hell with a knife at his throat, but he likes to be taken care of, too. 
It’s just so often that he bristles at it, feels guilty and faulty over it. 
After dinner, with a full belly, and a stiff drink in him, he’s better about it. 
Better about letting you shove him down onto the couch to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging at those delightfully gray locks. It’s longer now, too, and you like that too. You hope he forgets about getting it cut. 
It’s such a nice look on him. Handsome. You should probably tell him that, but the words never come out. 
He lets you do as you like, easy about it, eyes closed, breathing even and slow as you settle beside him, pressed tight to his chest, ass hanging off the edge of the sofa. You mean to open the book lodged somewhere between your bodies, but you don’t. You just look at him, sleepy, between the fire and the heavy food. 
Maybe he’d never admit it but this is one of the many little ways he can accept it. He lets you feed him food that reminds you of your childhood, lets you read to him on alternating evenings, lets you bring him in from the cold when it starts to get dark. 
“Should I add chicken and dumplings into our rotation?” You wonder aloud, tracing the lines by his eyes carefully, the vein in his throat, the hollow at his clavicle, the slope of his broad shoulders.  
He only grunts and doesn’t open his eyes. “It was good.” And that’s the closest you’ll get to an admission that he would like to have it again. 
“Glad for it, Miller,” you say and tuck yourself under his chin. You hear the book fall to the floor and make no move to get it. “You need a shower,” you complain instead, nose pressed to his throat.
He does, but he doesn’t smell bad. He smells like himself, sweat and sawdust and cedar, the faintest whiskey. It’s a human scent, almost comforting. And Joel has, frankly, smelled much worse.
He just locks one thick arm around your waist, the wide flat of his palm against your spine. “In a minute.” But he’s breathing deeply already, halfway to a place you can’t reach. His arm tightens, his head tips down heavily against yours, solid and comforting, mostly asleep. 
“In a minute,” you echo.
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Joel wakes to a dark living room, a chill creeping in around the edges of the room. You’re still pressed tight against him, though he can’t see how with the way you’re practically halfway onto the floor. If he loosens his arm even a fraction, you’ll go tumbling down. 
He considers doing it for just a second, suppressing a chuckle at the unimpressed reaction it would garner, the wet cat look of anger and indignation that would pull over your face. 
Instead, he nudges you awake, rubbing your back until you start to stir. The bedroom would be warmer for you, now that the fire had burned down. He hates the thought of you cold, always has. “Let’s go to bed,” he says in your ear. 
He doesn’t know exactly where you came from before. It doesn’t really matter anymore, doesn’t  hold any weight or meaning, since most places are just empty graveyards that can’t really be returned to. But wherever you came from gave you a pretty little accent, a twang in your voice that’s different from his. 
It’s something he loves about you, sounds like home. 
“Joel,” you complain, brow scrunching. “You just go on and leave me be.” It’s almost funny, how much twangier it is when you’re close to sleep. 
“Can’t do that, honey. C’mon now,” He pats your hip and keeps a steady pressure on your back until you grumble and start to sit up. “Go up to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.” 
You’re rubbing your eyes, leaning back against his legs. “Why?” 
“Fire,” he nods to the still glowing embers as he sits up. “Don’t want the house burnin’ down. Wanna make sure Ellie got home all right, too.” 
“Okay.” He keeps a hand on your waist until you’ve got your tired feet under you, still mostly asleep, he thinks, as you balance with one warm hand on his bent knee until you stumble away towards the stairs. 
He sighs and tends to the fireplace, then checks out the kitchen’s back window to see the glow of Ellie’s lights on, before following you up the stairs. He expects a dark bedroom but you’re propped up against the headboard with the bedside lamp on, changed into sleep clothes but definitely still awake. “It ain’t that late,” you say when he arches a brow at you and leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “And it’s my turn,” you hold up the battered copy of the book you’ve been slowly reading to him. 
“It’s all right—”
“Uh-uh,” you interrupt. “Go shower. Then come here.” 
He holds up his hands. “Yes ma’am.”
“Mhm,” you hum and flip idly through the book, no longer looking at him.
There’s a hope lodged in his heart that you’ll fall back asleep while you wait. It ain’t that he doesn’t want to hear you read. He’s invested in that story now, and he loves your voice even if he didn’t. The cadence and shape of the words, the rumble of your voice against his ear is a nice balm to drift off to. 
What's more is that you deserve the sleep, that he shouldn’t have fallen asleep on you downstairs. 
There’s a lot of things about you that scare him. How much he cares for you, for one. But the thing bothering him most now is the one that stares back at him when he looks in the mirror.
Jesus, it’s like everyday there’s more gray in his hair, his beard, even his chest hair is starting to go white and gray. It’s like everyday, he looks and gets a little bit older. 
It’s goddamn embarrassing the way he worries about it, the way it bothers him. He doesn’t remember aging, isn’t really sure when it happened. Maybe he spent so many years avoiding the mirror he missed it. 
And, well, it wasn’t important before. But now that he has time to think beyond the next day, the next meal, he thinks about it. About how fucking old he looks, especially next to you. 
You aren’t younger than him, not but maybe a couple years, if you are at all—another thing that doesn't matter anymore, birthdays and age and counting the years—but you don’t look your age. Your hair has retained its color, aside from the very artful looking gray starting to creep in at your temples, just barely there. Your face isn’t lined, not like his anyway, delicate, graceful little lines by your eyes, instead of the deep creases that crack up his. You don’t seem to ache in the same way he does, either. You don’t seem to feel old. 
Maybe that’s why he’s so set on working himself down to the bone over chopping that wood, to prove he was still worth something to you, worth keeping around. Proof that he could keep up with what needed keeping up with. 
He watches himself in the mirror, the lines under his eyes and across his forehead, age creeping in around the edge of him like a slow poison. The way you look at him sometimes. . .he knows you think about it too, know it too. You had been in the yard before dinner, eyes locked on him, a look on your face he couldn’t quite get a read on.  
It worries him. Makes him sharp with you when he should be the opposite. 
It’s embarrassing, really, the way he thinks about it, hates the way your eyes linger on him and feels too fucking self-concious about it to just ask you what you’re thinking. Maybe he just doesn’t want to know. 
He glances away from his reflection, a sigh heavy in his chest. He needs a damn haircut, if nothing else. 
He makes quick work of the shower, dressing in something warm because he’s always cold, even if that's just another thing he won’t admit to and that is an aversion that gets worse as the years go by.
You gave him a scarf recently, blue and soft, and he wears it because he likes the way you look at him when he leaves in the morning with it on. 
When he pushes the door open, you’re still awake, curled up on his side of the bed, book held open with one hand. “Thought we were supposed to do that together,” he says mildly. 
“I’m just re-reading where we left off.” 
“Mm,” he sits down at your hip. “Scooch.” 
You move over just enough for him to lie down, which he does with a huff and a groan. “You got that whole other side there, you know.” 
“I like being close to you.” 
“Well it ain’t like I’m far. Now c’mon, move it.” 
“Cranky.” 
“Thought it was crabby?” 
“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “Real funny. Y’know sometimes I don’t even know if y’like me at all.” 
The way you say it makes something sting in his chest, a sharp little barb wedged between two of his ribs. 
You start to move further away, like he asked, when he hooks an arm around your waist, props himself up over you, tangled up in the middle of the bed like you’d end up anyway. “Like ain’t exactly the word I would use.” 
A wicked smile pulls the corners of your mouth up. “What word would you use then?” 
“Hm,” he looks you over, feels the curve of your thigh, the hook of your knee, press against his hip. “I think you already know what word I’d use.” 
You reach up to cup his face between hands that have seen too much violence. The skin of your palms is softer than he remembers it being just a few years before, calloused thumbs sweeping in a tender arch over the apples of his cheeks. “Mm, I think I do.”
“Yeah, y’do,” he agrees, and then lets you pull him down against your chest. The comb of your hand slides through his hair, against the back of his neck and the tops of his shoulders. It’s nice. It’s the kind of affection, attention he’s not sure he’s ever had before.
Not since he was a kid, at the very least. He’s never been the one that got held, just the one doing the holding, and he hates that he likes it. 
And he does like it, craves it. 
Things like this, they were so easy to get used to, and the hardest thing in the world to adjust to. The mix of it, the easiness and the hard knot of disbelief and potential rejection, make for a disarming cocktail. 
You’re so warm and soft under him, the scent of you wild and homey, like cooking and chilled air and soap. 
“You smell better,” you tease and pinch his bicep. “You awake?” He feels you shift, book cracked open over his shoulder. “Or am I reading to the ghosts?”
“You got me,” he mutters, curling his arms around your waist, behind your back, and you arch just a little to accommodate him. The material of your shirt rucks up under his hands, soft, scarred skin warm where he touches you. “I’m listenin’.”
You rub the back of his neck again but don’t start reading. He waits a few minutes, listening instead to the sound of your breath, even and slow in your chest, the tap of your heartbeat against his ear. 
“You forget how or somethin’?” He asks eventually. 
You shake your head, and the paperback comes to rest against his spine. “Have I ever said—” You stop and he waits, but nothing more is forthcoming, just your silence and the kind way you touch him. 
“What?” 
When he picks his head up, your brows are tilted down over your eyes; you’re frowning at him. “Nothin’,” you dismiss, massaging two fingers against his temple, not quite meeting his eyes. 
“Said what?” He tries not to have a bite in his voice about it but he does anyway. Just a little bit of a snap, because he worries whatever you might have not said are all the things he thinks about himself. 
You shrug. “I just think the gray looks real nice on you.” You twist a strand of his hair around your finger and tug gently. 
He huffs, expecting you to grin at him so he knows you’re just teasing him. But you don’t, your gaze is reverent, adoring where it’s focused on him. “It just makes me look fuckin’ old,” he disagrees and sounds bitter about it.
“No, it means you got to get older, Joel. Not everyone gets the privilege.” 
That takes the wind out of his sails. He doesn’t say anything else, words collecting in the back of his mouth like a little ocean he can’t seem to make drain away.
“It makes you look. . .rugged,” you decide, tracing the curve of his jaw. “Handsome.” 
“You like it?” 
“Yeah.” Another tug. “I love it.” 
“Mm.” He clears his throat, tips his head down against your body again, the trapped wing of your heart fluttering faster than it had been before. “All right. Get to readin’ now.” 
It makes it just a little bit harder to hate, if that look in your eyes was appreciation, affection. Maybe that’s what he’d seen in your face earlier, and couldn’t quite recognize it.  
You tap the book against the back of his head. “Idiot,” you sigh, and then start to read. 
It’s some kind of thriller, something you’d started at the beginning of October and still haven’t entirely worked through. The plot is a little ridiculous, all things considered. After all the horrors he’s seen, this book doesn’t do much to thrill him, though it is entertaining in its own way, maybe a little funny. 
He’d have to find something new when you’re done with it. Something seasonally appropriate, if he can help it. Some kind of Hallmark holiday romance ordeal. He’d like to hear you giggle through reading something like that out loud. 
Yeah, even if it keeps him up, he’d find you something like that. 
When your voice fades, each word cottony and long in your mouth with fatigue, he reaches back to pluck the book from your hands, and then flick out the light. 
“Baby,” you coo, and it’s nice to hear, nice to have you reaching for him in the dark, kissing him goodnight, because he’s yours, and you like him fine. 
What’s the other word? The one that’s decidedly not like? 
“Love you,” you say against his mouth, the edge of your lip sticking wetly to his. “Even though you’re always crabby.” 
He loves you, too, even though he’s cranky about the whole goddamn world. 
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💕 Thank you for reading! I would love to hear any thoughts you might have! 💕
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wizardhecker · 11 months
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I'm trying to find out what type of grouse that is but in the process I'm learning that grouse might be the coolest bird group and include
Ruffed Grouse: with a stunning collar
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And Dusky Grouse, whose notable feature is "feathers mimicking an open neck wound" and eyebrows
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balladofthewhitehorse · 2 months
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hope you aren't sick of me requesting things but how about "dinner is served" for eng, Scot, and Wales!
I would never be sick of your requests <3 Thank you so, so much - You inspire me to keep writing Hetalia Fics, not gonna lie. Your bear Eng has fuelled me. 
Wales scrutinised her brothers quietly, leaned back in her chair as England and Scotland stood on the shores of the lake; It was painted in idyllic colours, faint hues of pink and washed out orange unfurling across the sky. A thread of anxiety coiled tightly around her lungs, her heart, her ribs as England muttered something to Scotland - and then a bark of laughter let Wales breathe. ‘’Having fun-?’’ She called out, smiling thinly as England turned around to regard her - with an expression painfully reminiscent of younger days amongst the dandelions and the trees (Children’s wishes and sunlight - freckling the dark undergrowth). It struck at her heartstrings like fingers at a harp, Wales’ smile thinning. ‘’-Caught anything?’’ 
‘’Not yet.’’ England grunted softly, shaking his head dolefully; Fish had been furtive and England hovered on the grassy lakeside, almost tempted to dive in head-first into the brackish water. They would have more success that way, England was sure - impatience thrumming through every nerve. ‘’I don’t know how you can stand this - just a load of sitting around…waiting for something to happen.’’ (Once he had complained during a siege, staring up at those insurmountable walls - and now it echoed by the lakeshore, on a cold, grey day).
‘’Maybe if you stopped whingeing, the fish would come.’’ Scotland muttered under his breath.
England’s eyes flashed as he shot Scotland a glare; The surface of the lake rippled as a fish came up for air, a darting brown shape in the dusky light (England pouted, irritation bearing teeth - a thorny thing he was, as he elbowed Scotland in the ribs for good measure). ‘’You’re hardly the epitome of cheeriness.’’ He glanced at Wales, seeking her approval with an impish grin that lit up his eyes - and one that vanished as quick as a wink when Wales shook her head. ‘’Oh come on-’’ England groused, petulant while his half-sister simply crossed her arms in disapproval; A tension crackling in the air as England reluctantly stood down. 
‘’Sorry.’’ 
Scotland shrugged, smirking as he reeled in a struggling trout - its speckles shiny in the early light. ‘’Naw, it’s alright-’’ He held up the fish to England’s face, pride blooming a fire in his heart as he slowly unhooked it from the line. ‘’-Caught something. Shown you how it’s done.’’
‘’Get it away from me.’’ Scotland snorted, amused as England’s nose wrinkled with disgust (freckles dusted the bridge of his nose - and Wales’ too, and Scotland was struck at once with the heady, heavy realisation that they were his siblings). The trout was carefully placed into an ice box, still kicking as Scotland laid it out reverently - a bruise coiled tight in his chest as the chatter of his family continued to murmur in the background like mayflies. ‘’...Hey, you know what we should do?’’ He sat down, wincing something in his back twinged - bad memories dragged to the surface, like a cat with a mouse - and pulled out a small pocket-knife, blood spooling out of the fish as he began to cut it open. ‘’-Have dinner here? There’s plenty of wood for a fire and…England, you remember how to set a fire? Like I taught you? Remember?’’ Scotland asked hopefully as he looked up at his younger brother (hands folded around a pair of dry sticks, knees bent into a thick bed of pine-needles - finger outstretched in patient instruction). 
‘’Or I could use a lighter?’’ England replied, his voice curt (the snapping of twigs beneath his feet as they stalked one another like wolves; Circling in bitter enmity, kin’s blood on their palms). He fumbled with his pockets as Wales slowly stood up - wandering along the lakeshore, in search of dry wood for the fire. ‘’It’s not-’’ A lump rose in his throat, England choking on sentimentality as he scoffed, a defensive sneer on his face; Prickly and warring with thorns, swarthy red flowers as a flush rose up his neck, cowed by the purse of Wales’ lips and the raise of Scotland’s thick eyebrows, questioning his little brother’s stubbornness.
‘’Are you saying that because you’ve forgotten?’’ Wales hummed quietly, striding towards her brothers - armful of twigs and sticks of varying sizes, carefully chosen and carefully arranged in a small pyramid-ish shape. ‘’...I thought you didn’t carry lighters, Eng?’’ Wales replied softly, watching England grasp it between his thumb and index finger. ‘’You don’t like the fi-’’ A short, curt look - a flash of sparks in England’s eyes, and Wales bit her tongue ruefully. ‘’It’s not the olden days anymore.’’ He replied, fumbling the lighter out of his pocket; A shudder as he pressed the pad of his thumb down on the cool metal, taking a deep breath as something fearful inside England filled out the space in his lungs - a stone in his throat, smooth and icy and heavy. ‘’We’re not-’’ A spark, and England wavered (a deep chill set into his bones, a field turned barren - there would be no more crops, all the men and women and children were leaving; Seeking more fruitful land, somewhere where there wasn’t ash, smoke and cinders). ‘’We’re not like that anymore-!’’ He cried out, half-between laughter and frustration, crinkling the corners of his eyes as the lighter trembled in his fingers. ‘’Old fuck-’’ 
‘’Hey-’’ Scotland’s brows furrowed, heavy and thoughtful; Scales clung to his fingers, silvery in the little grey sunlight. ‘’-You forgot. What about it?’’ (Wreaths of smoke hung in the air, trepidation at the base of Scotland’s spine; Convoys of mumbling strangers, yet no England). 
‘’I didn’t forget.’’ 
‘’Aye, you did.’’ ‘’Would you piss off, you-’’ 
Wales couldn’t help, but snort with amusement - head jerking up towards the treeline, now gone plum-dark. Streaks of gold filtered against a pale pink sky, a blue haze steadily encroaching with the usual impatience of twilight. She had taught Scotland how to build a fire, and then he had passed those lessons onto England while she was away; Cinders at his fingertips, England had a faceful of smoke and coughing lungs by the time Wales had come back to find the aftermath of an argument - tempers had frayed, red-eyed and hissing curses as Scotland tightly bound the puckered, pale seam of a blister under his palm, England’s face drawn into a defiant glare - shot up from the summer grass like a startled rabbit, raw knees. Hot coals on freckled skin, thrown in an argument over what leaves to burn. It was the typical kind of argument that would soon become familiar, and in time - even endearing, before spats were traded for conflict, balled fists and hair-grabbing for swords and war-hammers. The air crackled with tension - a storm brewing between England and Scotland, frowns drawn like blades, and she was stuck between them again. ‘’Would you knock it off, you two?’’ Wales hissed between her teeth, scolding her young brothers - pulling them apart, sit in the corner and think about what you’ve just done - and when she looked at them, eyes flitting between England and Scotland, Wales felt a pang of heartache. Some things would never change. 
‘’England, you can prepare the fish; Scotland, deal with the fire.’’ Wales huffed quietly. ‘’I’m hungry.’’ A sidelong glance down towards the copse of woods, and she nodded resolutely. ‘’I’ll get some thyme, sage and rosemary. Please try not to kill each other, you hear?’’ She offered a lop-sided smile - anxiety thrumming beneath her skin as she slowly walked away, slipping into the cool shade of the woods; Twigs cracked beneath her footsteps, a tight coil of nerves sitting heavy in her chest as she drew in a deep breath. She just hoped they would listen to her - just one day of peace and quiet, just one day of the year with her brothers that didn’t make Wales want to scream (it would well up inside of her; Dragonsfire buried deep in mud). 
Lingering in the wake of Wales’ silence, England blinked slowly - and staggered to his feet with a grunt, muttering under his breath as he slowly deboned the fish with a practised ease of a man who’s been doing this for centuries. A sailor had taught him, sat on a pier with a grey sea churning beneath their feet - stone and timber and a sense of hope that England longed for. Scotland might have taught him to fish, but England remembered with a rueful smile the lessons passed on to him through mortal hands. ‘’I’ve heard birch bark is good for starting fires.’’ He piped up, glancing towards Scotland with a thoughtful smile. ‘’Don’t remember where I heard it from.’’ A steady plume of smoke had already started, trawling through the air in a lofty and lazy trail from the pile of dead leaves and sticks. ‘’I think you-’’ ‘’-I told you about that.’’ Scotland cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘’Nice that you remember.’’ A silence - filled in by the odd birdsong - crept in, uncomfortable and yet familiar (the woolly burr of an old blanket, drawn tight around their shoulders as they lay side by side - the crooked lean-to of their shelter and one another all that they needed). When Wales returned with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, they set about cooking the fish in a small frying pan from the boot of Scotland’s car. (‘’Why do you have that?’’ England had asked, incredulous and confused. ‘’Why not?’’ Scotland had responded - his tone manner of fact, offering no further explanation and certainly not wishing to admit that it had been France’s idea, hastily sequestered on him in case of a car breaking down on the side of the road; Leaving them both to subsist on poor quality petrol-station lunch). 
Once dinner was served, they sat in the cool glow of the dusky light - and for the first time in a long while, things were amicable between them.
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outofangband · 4 months
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Birds of Dor-lómin
I have decided to make two posts at least for the birds of Hithlum, this one and one for Mithrim and greater Hithlum
As I take inspiration from several European and Asian countries for the environment of Dor-lómin, the species here reflects that however to the best of my ability it is ecologically consistent. Obviously this will not be a complete list and I will go back to it!
And as always requests are open! I’m also always willing to put together ecological world building based on specific real locations!
Flora, fauna, geography and environment of Arda Masterlist
Note: I use Hadorian here to refer to the folk of Hador and of Marach including cultural practices that might predate Hador himself
The eastern mountains and forests around Húrin’s house: hazel grouse, brambling, northern wryneck, common buzzard, Zitting cisticola, grey headed woodpecker, black redstart, grey heron, common quail, great spotted woodpecker, dusky thrush, white winged crossbill, Bohemian waxwing, ring ouzel, tawny owl, common raven
The western border and Firth of Drengist: horned grebe, osprey, black crowned night heron, little gull, black tern, great white pelican, common kingfisher, common starling, little ringed plover, rocky pipit, white tailed eagle
Note: many of the mountain, sea and wetlands birds here are incidental species occurring in Dor-lómin because of migration or other factors. This is also true of some of the species listed for the eastern mountain borders.
The fields and open lands: Greylag goose, corn bunting, little owl, gadwall, mallard duck, wood lark, bearded reedling, hedge warbler, twite, common grasshopper warbler, yellowhammer, greater scaup (migratory), nightjar, stone curlew, barn owl, black headed bunting, whinchat, little grebe, goldfinch, blue throat
Throughout: common wood pigeon, fieldfare, hobby (migratory), common crane, mute swan, house sparrow, merlin, common buzzard (primarily in the Southern mountains), black woodpecker, gryphfalcon
World building notes:
-The people of Hador keep ducks, geese, chickens and pigeons including a species like passenger pigeons. They are the only group of Atani in Beleriand that has a practice of keeping birds primarily for eggs as well as meat and who uses eggs in cooking semi frequently. The Haladin, Bëorians, Drúedain and other groups do eat eggs though not usually chicken eggs and do not often use them as ingredients in baking (although there are some Bëorian dishes that involve bread with quail eggs)
-Hadorian food is a combination of farming and agriculture and hunting and foraging. Grouse, pheasant and wild ducks are sometimes caught for food
-Sea birds are relatively rare but can be seen in western Dor-lómin near the Firth of Drengist and the border to Nevrast. The northern Sindar who live in western Hithlum including western Dor-lómin keep oral records of the presence and appearance of sea birds and mentions of them appear occasionally in song
-Feathers of geese are designs associated with the Hadorian midwinter festival. They are sometimes worn but more commonly embroidered or painted.
-The northern Sindar by the caves of Androth paint birds on the cave and cliff walls, using pigments made from minerals, bark and sometimes shells. Herons, gulls and starling shapes are the most common.
-Random character HC: Sador’s favorite animals to carve are birds especially ground birds. Some of these he even paints or polishes when he has the time.
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typhlonectes · 11 months
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Dusky Grouse male at Glacier National Park in Montana, USA.
Photograph via: National Park Service
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antiqueanimals · 7 months
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Blue Grouse. Ron Jenkins. Montana Outdoors. Sept./Oct. 1978. Vol. 9, No. 5.
Internet Archive
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comatosebunny09 · 2 years
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Playing with Fire [ Pt. 2 ]
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Genre: Angst, Romance, Modern AU, Smut
Warnings: Implied Sexy Time, Female Reader, Cheating, OOC Kyojuro, All the Feels, Word Vomit,
Soundtrack
Again, I do not condone cheating. Please enjoy and thank you so much for reading!
@lovecraving
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—drawn from your slumber by a gentle buzzing at your wrist.
You reach through your weary haze to silence your smartwatch; it reads 05:56 in bold neon.
Shit.
You were out longer than intended, swept away by the currents of sleep and the afterglow of last night’s festivities. You attempt to peel yourself from the bed, but …
Well, you see…
Toned arms hold you in place, draped possessively about your waist. He stirs, having felt you jostle around. A muted groan leaves him; brings a smile to your lips. He tugs you ever closer, melding your back into his torrid chest; feathery hair tickling the crook of your neck. Glancing over your shoulder, you behold him, and you can’t even.
He’s bathed in dusky slivers of sunlight which seep in through the blinds. His features soft like cotton, mouth parted slightly as he breathes steadily against you. Hair sticks up every which way, wild like a fire tearing through the underbrush. He is much too cute this way. If not for the circumstances that brought you together, you would stay to admire his beauty. Remain in his arms until the sun sits proudly in the sky, but…
You don’t belong here with him in this bed.
In their bed.
Memories of last night push through your mind like film reels, reminding you of just how vile you are. Searing, furtive touches. Breathless kisses pressed into erogenous zones. You both mapped out the planes of each other’s bodies for hours, wishing to engrain your features into each other’s memories forever. How you missed the feeling of being wanted; being needed. Touched by him and only him, brought to the precipice repeatedly.
You bite your lip, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
You knew what you were getting into when you accepted his invitation. When you let the Vodka loosen your tongue, your inhibitions, and when you let it wrest your panties from your hips. He belongs to another, of that, you are certain. Why he let you slither into the tiny cracks of their relationship in the first place, you may never know. However, you must leave before you widen the fissures of his heart even more.
“Kyojuro,” you grouse, tapping his arm. He moves again, peeking at you through his untamed mess of hair with one eye.
“Mm?” he mutters into your shoulder.
“I have to go.”
“Hmm? Why, baby?”
Baby?
Fuck.
You ignore the wrenching of your gut, spurred by being called something so familiar, so intimate. Does he call her baby, too?
“Got to pick a new soldier up and help them get settled in.”
Something akin to a growl leaves his mouth, laced with exhaustion and desire. Nimble fingers curl into your jaw, angling your head back until he captures your gaze with his incandescent eyes. He encases your lips with his swollen ones, pilfering a soft whimper from you. Parts for just a moment, a hairsbreadth of space betwixt your mouths.
“Can’t you,” he begins,swooping in for another, noisy taste.   
“Stay…” Smack.
“Just a little while…” Kiss.
“Longer?” Smack.
You hum against his mouth; jump as rough fingers close around your nipple, plucking it to a hardened peak. How delicious it would be to stay and go another round.
No. No. You’ve already overstayed your welcome. Best to leave before you complicate things even further.
Biting down a moan, you tear yourself from his embrace, curling yourself into the edge of the bed. He looks at you inquisitively, anguish suddenly overtaking his countenance.
“Maybe some other time,” you exhale, pulling the blanket up to your chin.
How dare you try to be modest after what you did.
He mumbles an “okay,” after a beat of time passes, shoulders slumping in defeat. Rough knuckles graze your forearm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. This tenderness: you don’t deserve it.
Don’t deserve him.
However, you can’t help the slight quirk of your lips or the flutter of your heart at the words which leave his mouth next.
“Can I walk you to your car, then?”
You’re a disgusting woman.
That’s what you tell yourself as you wind him so easily around your finger.
The elevator doors slide shut, swathing you both in fluorescent lights and heady feelings. He wastes no time closing the distance, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Takes you into his arms with powerful hands sliding down to cup your supple ass. He kisses you, ravenous and desperate. Greedily soaks up your cattish mewls, pouring his own lovesickness into your mouth.
He wants this; wants you. That much is obvious. However—
You’re vile and disgusting and this is still so very wrong no matter what angle you try to look at it from. Yet, again, you make no move to stop him this time. Instead, you twine tiny fingers in his hair, slanting your mouth to deepen the kiss. He grunts, the sound decadent and viscous like chocolate syrup, and you honestly can’t get enough of it. He squeezes and fuses your loins together, his clothed dick prodding your moistening sex through the thin fabric of your jeans.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why won’t you stay again?
It isn’t until the elevator pings that your amorous spell is broken. You push away from each other, smoothing out the wrinkles of your clothes, your hair; looking about the lobby for familiar eyes. When you see no-one, he squeezes your ass again, escorting you out of the elevator.
You giggle, this moment all too familiar. Once upon a time, this was an everyday thing. Him grabbing onto you for purchase as you slid under the prying eyes of the world, letting everyone know that you belonged to him and only him. There is this sinking feeling in your stomach, pooling in the pit of your gut like molten lava. However, you’ll bask in this moment a little bit longer. Forget about him once you’re back at home, left to your own devices.
Kyojuro guides you to your car in the parking lot. Ushers you into the driver seat with a playful swat to your bum.
He hasn’t stopped smiling since you left his apartment, you note.
He leans over your opened door, ensnaring your lips in a lingering, tender kiss.
“Will I get to see you again?” he asks, the galaxy swimming in his irises. Grins with so many teeth and childlike mirth.
“Maybe,” you say, a smirk canting your lips. “No promises.”
“I’ll take it!”
You laugh bewitchingly as Kyojuro closes your door. Taps the hood of your car twice, eyes never leaving yours. You peel out of the parking lot, watching him fade into a fiery blur in your rearview mirror. You barely notice the hot tears pouring like rivulets down the sides of your face. The realization of what you have done and what you still want to do descends on you with its crushing weight.
You slide under a red light, producing your phone from your pocket. You shoot your best friend a text, hoping that she’s up at this hour. You need someone, anyone.
‘Sis,’ it reads, fat globs of tears blurring your vision.
‘Sis, I fucked up.’   
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mountrainiernps · 1 year
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Sooty grouse used to be called blue grouse. After DNA testing, blue grouse were split into two groups; dusky grouse inland and sooty grouse in the coastal mountain ranges. Found from California to Alaska, the sooty grouse, Dendragapus fuliginosus, is a chicken-like bird with short legs and a medium length tail. Both male and female birds are camouflaged in brown, black, gray and white, but the males are a bit more gray and have yellow eye combs and yellow air sacs on their necks.
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In the summer, you might see and more often hear these birds in the subalpine areas of the park. They take advantage of the leaves, flowers and berries that are available in these environments for summer feasting while the young feed more on insects. But come winter, it’s time for change. The sooty grouse move into the deeper, denser forests. Throughout the colder months, these grouse feed on the needles of the douglas-firs, as well as other conifers like fir, pine and hemlock.
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In winter, for sooty grouse, it pays to follow the food. Have you seen or heard the calls of sooty grouse in the park? Where have you seen or heard them? ~ams
More information on birds in the national park can be found here https://www.nps.gov/mora/learn/nature/birds.htm
These photographs are from years past and do not reflect current conditions. NPS/C. Roundtree Photo. Sooty grouse male on snow near Narada Falls area. Yellow air sac and eye comb visible. May, 2018. NPS/S. Redman Photo. Female sooty grouse on ground amidst fall foliage in Paradise area. September, 2015.
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soren-barnowl · 8 months
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Dusky Grouse
August 2, 2023
Nikon Coolpix P900
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