So, are you ever going to answer that reproduction question I ask a while back or is it just too much of a hassle in balancing between NSFW and SFW?
If you don’t mind a strictly text answer, cause the reality is that it would end up being unnecessary sexual diagrams (I don’t consider it to be relevant to Sonar’s story and much more simple to explain for Abydos, because it’s not prominent in the story-telling).
As for Sonar being mammalian with partial avian characteristics…she’s by all accounts a “mutt”. Fennec father and Osprey mother, conceived and born in live mammalian fashion; likely the 9mo gestation period like humanoids etc. Within Iris’ universe, where she is currently “cameo’ing”, the fact of the matter makes her socially unacceptable; mix breeds are considered lower class, not pure.
Within Abydos’ world, only reptiles have evolved to humanoid anthro forms. While they give live mammalian birth, they have small ‘clutches’ of essentially premature babies- that the entire village makes an effort to care for. Which is why reproduction is a privilege, not a right (also why most of the working class females, especially Guardians, are banned from sexual relations to avoid distraction and maintain economic stability). In means of reproductive organs- they’re primarily reptilian actually. Males have retractable penis (only one for majority of bipedal species) that is hidden unless aroused. Females do not breastfeed, thus have small and/or non-existent mammaries as well. The pregnancy gestation period is roughly 6mo (spanning usually October to March since breeding season is mid-fall). Cross-specie breeding is tremendously dangerous on both a molecular level (deformities, sterility) and potential social exile …or execution!
Sonar, Iris, does one of you two speak a foreign language?
This one’s a wee bit complicated…cause in Sonar’s *original* headcanon, she lived in a variable universe of 1920’s Earth (not to the point, but generally just an anthrotized world) and was rather fluent in the most common worldly languages. Though, within Iris’ story I’m only aware there is a “common tongue” or “trade language” that most everyone/species speaks, but is read as what we perceive as English! So I’m not sure if Sonar’s experiences carry over yet.
"Think about what she would pack. How long does she think she'll be gone. What weather would she expect to encounter. How will she travel to the city."
A light morning breeze snuck in through a broken shard in the loft's only window. It carried a pleasant and almost palpable scent of oncoming rain. Sonar sighed; hunched over at the edge of her cot, absentmindedly clicking her talons on the grated metal flooring. "If it weren't for the scouts passing through the ridge yesterday, I could've escaped the rain." she scoffed to herself.
The small room was, as Sonar proclaimed "organized chaos". Just like the hangar below, it was strewn with charts, tools and even various potted plant life. Though in her absence, most had begun to wilt dolefully. To any guest the residence would seem more of a mine field, but Sonar knew precisely the pathing between piles. She reluctantly stood and began mumbling a mental list of items while almost dancing between the desk, cot and closet. Every couple of steps, she'd pick up something and toss it onto the cot in one smooth motion. As if this was an unspoken routine.
More frequent scouting meant Sonar would need to detour away from the open fields, taking more refuge in the woodland roads. Which would imply being caught in the rain at least for an extra day. She never particularly enjoyed having to carry more supplies. It was uncomfortable for her wings and often resulted in less opportunities for topography studies. "Maybe it won't be necessary if I can hitch a caravan ride?", she pondered, unlatching the numerous pockets on the pack. Covered in various hand-sewn patches and repairs, it was Sonar's one and only backpack; an extension of herself and her memories.
Light rain began to patter on the tin roof of the hangar and gusts of wind forced tree branches to occasionally scratch at the walls outside. Sonar sorted the surplus of perishable items, that would not survive if caught in the downpour. She longingly stared at the leatherbound sketchbook. The paper edges were worn and discoloured. "Next time I'll make sure to let the papyrus dry longer." she mused about the fact that it was entirely made by herself; paper, cover, stitching and of course all the visual thoughts littered within. Warily, she pushed aside all paperwork; notes, maps, drawings. It was more a collection of personal gestures than useful for this trip.
All that remained in the stockpile were, what you would assume are gadgets. She eagerly snatched up her multi-tool, confidently tossing it between her hands, as if to judge the weight. Of all her belongings, it was definitely the most used and useful. Which could be seen from the duct-taped outer case and unfortunate splotches of rust in the hinges. There was never enough time to sit and clean it, or rather, she more often forgot until she'd go to use it again and grunt in frustration. Sonar simply placed the multitool in her lap while softly grinning and poked about the pile. Items such a the old sextant, plotter and ruler all seemed obsolete. Having to remind herself that this was merely a run for parts, not the fantastical adventuring she's been pining after for months. She slowly laid her ears down in sad percolated submission.
With the storm now directly over the valley, her thoughts were drowned out by the terrible racket of rain above. Realizing she had spent more time making a brand new mess on her cot, only deciding not to take a majority of it, Sonar tossed the backpack aside. Pocketing only her multitool, compass, hangar keys and wallet. She stood up carefully, having to practically dig herself out of the accumulated mess. Before she stepped away, she nervously searched for the aforementioned lockbox, suddenly in a state of urgency.
It was a compact metal toolbox, with a crudely welded lock on the front. She dug it out from beneath the pillows and placed it gently on the adjacent desk. With a short pause, she pulled her necklace out from behind the threadbare shirt. The dogtags and key jangled in place. She swiftly unlocked the box and lifted the lid. Residing inside were a handful of faded photos, foreign coins and most importantly- a Browning Model 1922 handgun. Sonar had pilfered such from her bi-plane, as well as the illegible dogtags she's worn daily ever since. Considering it wasn't exactly an easy task to acquire military ammunition without garnering suspicion, she had only fired 2 of the 6 cartridges in the magazine. Simply to see if it was still functional. She gingerly held the pistol, mentally double-checking, before placing it within her leather jacket's inner pocket. She hoped to never need to use it, but the comfort in knowing was reassuring. A resounding crash of thunder jolted her back in focus, locking up the box again and blowing out the lantern as she hastily exited the room.
The path of climbing down from the loft platforms, all the while visually scanning the hangar for security concerns or potential other belongings for the trip, were done within a fleeting moment. Sonar stood in the exit doorway, staring out into the hillside. She pulled the jacket in snuggly, lifted the hood and adjusted her hefty ears. Patiently contemplating the appropriate chance to, her bushy tail swayed from the increased air-pressure being pulled from inside. Another thunderclap rolled through the skies as the rain blanketed the horizon. She promptly slammed the door and began to sprint into the tree-line, her talons slicing through the mud with every step.
"Blasted!" she huffed out while in full-stride. Another scouting brigade could be seen approaching from the North.
Leaving the ones you love and care so much for, to me, is harder than being left behind. The thought of not knowing if they will be all right, leaves a trail of queasiness. And the underlying issue here is not being able to let go, and wanting to have control over everything. The feeling of helplessness is the bane of all “control freaks”. And that was how I felt last night, watching my frail-looking grandma all curled up and shivering. I can’t fathom how one can bear to witness the suffering of a loved one. All I could do was to stand by her side and rubbed her arms, in hopes of giving her some comfort and warmth. I never took my eyes off her, afraid that once I looked away, I would lose her in that instant.
This feeling was all too familiar. Because it was exactly how I felt every time I had to leave the kids, leave Nepal. Because once I step out, I can only start to imagine that they’ll be okay, and look forward to the next time I’ll be seeing them again.
sonar what is your species? you look like a gryphon
(drew her in reverse, for fun, not permanent)
Suppose by definition, I am? My mother is a pure bred Fennec, where as my father was a “mutt” Osprey. I’m sure if I had siblings, they’d be like myself.
Abydos: I’m not allowed to “consummate my love”, because I’m a Guardian. Part of the pact is to stay “pure” without distraction. Which is also why I’m engaged to someone I don’t particularly have feelings for; to forge a peace treaty with another clan, and keep me from pursuing others. Also, you have to be given permission to reproduce within my known family. It’s a privilege, not a right.
Sonar: Well, it’s not something I’ve ever thought much about. I’ve never been on a date, let alone a committed relationship of that level…
The air was utterly frigid with a light frost glazing every entity in sight. Spider webs gently drooped from the weight of crystallized morning dew. She chuckled quietly and shivered; readjusting the hood of a heavy leather coat to sit closer to her exposed neck. The platform creaked as she shifted towards the center structure. Sonar's ears twitched at the glance of first light. "Sunrise..." she whispered between short puffs of visible warm breaths. Calloused, scale, bare falcon toes lightly graced the scaffolding with light tapping from her talons with each step. She softly touched the platform cables in passing, making mental note of frayed bits to fix later. From any other perspective, the annex would have appeared derelict. Small snowdrifts of broken metal and tools littered the floor. Numerous desks scattered about the bay, enveloped in scrap-paper and unfinished drawings. Sonar liked to call it 'organized chaos'. With only a few strides left to the mechanism, she slowed her gait and watched the first rays of daylight begin to pour in from bullet holes in the upper deck. "Suppose I should take care of those too?" she smiled resentfully. Sonar stood with hesitation, her tail increasing in nervous sway. One final readjustment of her jacket, and she placed her hand on the gearbox. The rust flaked off as she struggled to grip the shifter. "Oh, come on now!" she growled while forcing her own weight downward onto the mechanism. With an echoing, loud snap, the entire bay came to life. The retching of gears, steam and chains shunted the serene silence. Lamps dimly flickered in succession across the roof, "Good morning" Sonar proclaimed. The enormous bay doors began to drag open as sunrise fiercely enveloped her view. Raising an arm to squint and cover her eyes in reflex, she waited for the crowning crash of the doors being fully withdrawn. Gradually she lowered her arm...bathing in the warm light was Sonar's prized Boeing Model 75 PT-18A. Ordinarily a vibrant glossy orange, gear shaped stenciled wing tips and the lively hand-painted "627" on the body. Unfortunately, she had been stranded for an undetermined amount of time in Cape Suzette while scouting for replacement parts. So upon this fateful day, Sonar scoffed at how her dear plane was coated in a layer of embarrassing dust amongst the unmelted bits of frost. "...now where to start?" she swallowed in a gulp of excited concern.
Hey Sonar. Have you ever been in big troubles thanks to your job, like go down in the middle of a desert or be under fire, because someone think you are an enemy?
Not…yet…
Before I met Iris, I was supremely cautious in my adventuring. If given the opportunity, I’d explore areas on foot first. Scouting out potentially great views, or in this case, hostile territory. Avoiding as necessary. I took note from bounty-boards, local pubs etc concerning air pirates or deadzones. I’ve never been shot at or been in a dogfight; good thing considering I have no mounted weapons to defend myself!
Though after traveling with Iris, it’s been a mixed bag. We watch each others’ back, and have traded tips & tricks. But Iris seems to be a strange magnet for attention, flying or on solid ground. I’ve never questioned him about it, but it’s left us in a bind a few times. Heh.
(This was impossible to illustrate an answer, so I figured sharing an updated image of Sonar’s plane would help! It’s not a final paint design.)
