How did you come up with all the binomial names?
By drawing a pentagram on my bedroom floor and sacrificing a goat to some eldritch monstrosity, in exchange for arcane knowledge.
Honestly, my approach to creating binomen varies from monster to monster. I always set out with the intention of keeping the names as grammatically correct as possible, in line with the declensions for Greek and Latin. I do my best to adhere to the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature, but at the end of the day, I’m just one nerd with no formal training. I’m very much an armchair linguist, and while there’s nothing wrong with being an autodidact, it does make me prone to second-guessing. Doesn’t really help that I don’t have a list of acquaintances to consult, who would actually be able to give me reliable feedback.
Sometimes, though, I think a little inexperience makes the naming process more authentic. Because scientists are people, and you can never underestimate the capacity of people to be Extra As Hell.
Let me give you a few examples:
In 2004, entomologists Kelly B. Miller and Quentin D. Wheeler reclassified a genus of leiodid fungus beetles as Gelae (/ˈdʒɛli/). Yes, it is pronounced exactly the way you think it is. The species in this newly-christened genus include G. baen (“jelly bean”), G. belae (“jelly belly”), G. donut (“jelly doughnut”), G. fish (“jelly fish”), and G. rol (“jelly roll”). The authors said that they were merely wordplays without any taxonomical jargon; a “whimsical arrangement of letters.”
And then there’s the lovely Heteropoda davidbowie, described by Peter Jäger. The name was selected for a few reasons: (1), the colors and patterns on the spider’s face resemble the painted face makeup David Bowie wore in his early career; (2), the name references the song “Glass Spider,” as well as his album The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars; (3), the species has an estimated 500 individuals left, so Jäger hoped that giving it a catchy name would draw headlines and help with conservation efforts.
Allow me to introduce you to a trilobite described by Samuel Turvey in 2005. Its name? Han solo. Turvey called it that because a couple of his friends dared him to name a species after a Star Wars character. And while you might roll your eyes at that, the name is actually really clever. The generic name Han is a reference to the Han people, the largest ethnic group in China (where the trilobite was found); the specific epithet solo refers to the fact it’s the sole species belonging to that genus; and like many trilobites, the fossils tend to be extremely well-preserved, similar to how Harrison Ford was preserved in carbonite.
I could literally go on for days. There’s even a website dedicated to compiling all of the ridiculous names out there called Curiosities of Biological Nomenclature. The person who does the heavy-lifting is a bloke named Mark Isaak, and they deserve mad respect.
There’s a point I’m trying to make, I swear.
You see, if professional scientists with degrees can get away with making nerdy references and butchering the grammar of Latin and Greek, THEN SO CAN I.
Sometimes I’ll give monsters really cool or epic-sounding names that try to capture a quality about them, whether that’s their appearance, geographic range, behavior, or some historical fact pertaining to their discovery.
Some of my favorites include:
The verdant qurupeco, Cantio sirenius. Its name means “siren’s song” in Latin, a reference to the high fidelity of its vocal mimicry.
The dire miralis, Pyrothalassion basileus. Its name translates to “Greek fire emperor.” Its generic name comes from an incendiary weapon used by the Byzantine navy. Remember the wildfire from Game of Thrones? It’s basically that. The name felt pretty appropriate for a sea-dwelling dragon that breathes fire.
The black nargacuga, Xyrafiptera cervarius. Its name means “razor-winged deer-hunter” in Latin, a combination of physical descriptors and behavior. It also sounds rad as hell.
And then…we have those names.
The disufiroa, Apparentia absurda. You can take a wild guess what that translates to. I mean, just look at this thing. It’s got weird, inverted, spike-things on its chest. No idea what the fuck those are for.
The harudomerugu, Retentio incredulitatis. Its name is the closest I could get to “suspension of disbelief” in Latin. By now you might have noticed that scientific names are basically my way of bullying the Frontier monsters, because seriously, what the hell, Capcom?
The baruragaru, Stercusanctum currite. Okay, so this one isn’t me taking the piss out of the Frontier design team, because I actually like this monster. Its name is based on my reaction when I first saw the G3 trailer: Jesus Christ, what is that thing? The baruragaru was given the dubious honor of being named “holy shit, run,” because if I saw that thing in real life I’d be trying to put as many doors, walls, and preferably continents between it and myself as possible.
The great jaggi, Magnaraptor ebrius. Also known as the “drunken great thief.” Full disclosure: I’m a big fan of NCHProductions and wanted to sneak in a fun reference to their videos. Whenever they animate the great jaggi it’s always drunk, so I named it in honor of its alcoholism.
The pariapuria, Haustranguis amphibious. Its name means “amphibious bucket dragon” in Latin, and there’s a reason for that. You see, The Encyclopedia wasn’t just intended as a fun creative exercise, but as a learning tool for people interested in zoological classification. In taxonomy there’s this thing called a wastebasket taxon—when a species is incertae sedis, or of uncertain placement, it might get dumped into a poly- or paraphyletic taxon. Academically, this is what’s known as “this thing is weird and I don’t know where it goes, so for now I’m putting it in time out.” When I first tried to classify the pariapuria I couldn’t really figure out what it was related to: The tigrexes? The nargas? Neither? And then it hit me: I didn’t have to have an answer. Instead, I decided to put it in a wastebasket taxon. It’s meant to be a nod to the harrows of IRL taxonomy, and just how much of a clusterfuck it can be sometimes. As for why it’s called “bucket dragon,” and not “basket dragon,” well. I couldn’t exactly find a translation for “basket” in Latin, so I asked myself, “Okay, what’s the next best thing?” And thus we have bucket dragon.
