Ran across an artist on FurAffinity who was doing requests and I managed to snag one!
After a little thought, I decided on Ambrose in his natural colors, shaving his head. He could just shapeshift it away, but he finds the process relaxing, almost like managing a zen garden.
Check out the original herehttps://www.furaffinity.net/view/63972259
“David Smith with Cubi I (1963) in his studio”, Bolton Landing, New York, 1963. Photo by Dan Budnik.
Col'vanax the Incubus
Cubi intrecciati con salmone!!#pasticceriasydney2000 #bulgarograsso #cubi #intreccati #salmone #1maggio
Pro Day of Miami QB Cafar Ward has no doubt about No. 1 NFL Draft Pick
The CAM ward is feeling confident after its supporter day performance. He tells the media why he wonders that he will be the number one overall draft pick in April.
New York Jets brought Aron roders The ERA ended during the 2025 NFL Offsen after two disappointing seasons. The 41 -year -old was released as the team’s new brain…
NAME. Neven
AGE & BIRTH DATE. 231 & January 3rd, 2793
GENDER & PRONOUNS. Cismale & He/Him
NATIONALITY. Iskaran
SPECIES. Cubi
FACTION. N/A
OCCUPATION. Alchemist, healer
FACE CLAIM. Paul Mescal
( tw child death, starvation, attempted suicide )
A match struck against the stone and sputtered to life. The flame was shielded from the wind by a grimy, work-hardened hand, trembling in its reverent focus to light the candles at the altar. We need to make new candles soon, Neven thought. The dim light accentuated the gauntness of his cheeks, the dark crescents hollowing the meat beneath his eyes. Dried bones and herbs clinked softly in the wind, dancing from the oak’s branches. The man pinched out the match, sniffled, and wiped his nose on a fraying sleeve. Malnourishment had made his knees brittle, and he felt every pebble shifting beneath them with piercing definition.
The wind went still. Listening. Seeking pray. Neven closed his eyes, and even then the light flickered through in a pinkish haze. Freyr would only answer his calls at night, but wasn’t that to be expected of a god who tended his own fields beneath the sun?
Two summers ago, a locust cloud the size of a mountain had descended on the homestead and eviscerated their red fields, heavy with grain, down to the stalks. The summer after that, a black pox spread through the crop. Within weeks, the once-golden wheat meant to last through the winter was reeking and black with fungi. Neven walked the field and the grain turned to soot in his hands. His family had tilled the same earth for generations without foil. He had built his own family here, secure in believing he would provide for them just as well as his forebears had. He promised Liv that their children would want for nothing, which was more than could be said for most Iskarans when the frosts came.
The Crimson, as the familial lands were named, provided for dozens of mouths in neighboring villages. When there was stock to spare, it was sold for higher profit to the great houses for their pantries. It was known that the run-off from the mountains enriched the soil better than anywhere else in Iskaldrik, giving it a strong, reddish hue and imbuing their barley and wheat with the richest taste. But the plague had sucked every fertile molecule from it. The earth cracked open like plates of salt, blowing the pale dust of death across the flats. And his youngest withered with it.
Cracked lips mouthed the old words. The wind rose, jostling the tithings in the bone-tree. Ivory clinked, herbs rattled, and a growl rose from the darkened field, disturbing the crows. Their screeches soon faded. Hair bristled on the back of Neven’s neck, but he resisted the urge to spin around and face the presence he felt looming behind him. It wrapped spidery, intangible fingers around the shell of his ear. “The girl.” The wind, speaking in the rustle of grain and bone, bade the farmer. The realization struck his heart like a battering ram.
First, the family had offered their supper. Four nights in a tenday they went to bed hungry, but Freyr demanded more of them. Gold offerings did little to sate the old gods. The relief he granted came in diminishing returns, and each time the rot came back faster and stronger. He soon demanded fresh, living blood to hold off the rot. Crimson to sustain crimson. First a chicken. Then their goat, the family’s sole source of milk. Now, in the pit of their desperation, Freyr asked for the girl.
Ida had only seen her seventh summer, but she’d not been born with the strength to enjoy it as any other child should’ve. She instead spent most of her waking hours in fantasy, crafting elaborate stories to entertain her family in the long nights of winter. When the harvest was done, Liv crafted costumes for Neven and the boys to wear in acting out Ida’s scripts. Those were golden nights, the laughter ringing clear as a bell through the fog of memory. Her spark was a wonder to behold. Neven couldn’t bear the thought of snuffing it.
He staggered back inside. Liv had fallen asleep at the dining table. A half-woven protective ward lay on her lap, her assortment of feathers and herbs laid strategically on the table to be patched in. Half a dozen such symbols already hung over Ida’s bed, begging the favor of just as many gods. Even in her wasting, the black-haired woman from the woodlands was strikingly beautiful. Stifling his shaking breath, Neven bent to kiss her forehead. He did the same for each of his children. Ida slept soundly as her father’s hand stroked her cheek, etching every one of her features into the fore of his mind. How could the gods be so cruel?
He took a blade from the kitchen and walked deep into the woods, far past the point where he believed his children would venture in play. They couldn’t be the ones to find him when the flies came. The sacrifice would be enough, Neven told himself. Freyr would forgive the substitution, so long as the blood given was divined from their family’s veins. Crimson for crimson. The farmer’s weathered shirt was left folded on a stump. He raised the blade, holding the point to his sunken navel. The man felt the cold steel with every heaving inhale he took. Heat emanated from the hilt, building until it burned like fresh embers. Neven dropped it with a wince, shallowly slicing his abdomen as he flinched. The blade clattered on the ground. The handle glowed ruby-red in the dark.
The forest was silent, save for the farmer’s heaving breath. Blood ran from the wound as the blade steamed. A bead of crimson dripped from his navel onto the ground, and with the concentrated fury of the gods, a gale-like storm ripped through the clearing. The winds he’d prayed to chanted their damnation: Cursed. Incubus. Oathbreaker. He braced his hands against the raging flurry of rocks and twigs, causing new blood to run. There was nothing he could do. He was powerless against the relentless wrath that flogged him. Freyr, or whatever had claimed to be him, into silence.
Blinking through the silt crusting his eyes, Neven awoke in agony. The kitchen knife was gone. He could not face his family again. Not after the bargain he’d made, not until he lifted the curse he’d earned. His body, littered with abrasions, was proof enough of his sin. They’d fear the devil returning in the shape of their father.
The cubi walked the long road to Hrafntun, where he became enthralled by the craft of alchemy. He’d follow the methods of cure as his wife had, in her wisdom. All that he knew of the arcane he’d learned from her. A reversal was possible. Somewhere, mixed in the feathers and herbs and bones and runes, somewhere would lie the answer to lifting the blight and removing his curse. Beneath the boards of a shepherd’s cabin, the alchemist honed his craft.
Years later, Neven returned to The Crimson. The hope of reconciliation was unshakable in him. He could still restore their crop. Bring health to Ida. He’d dreamed of seeing their faces since the night he’d left, of donning their costumes again. Instead, he found their homestead in rickets, coated in a fine film of pinkish dust. The fields were sapped of color and unplanted. Vermin had found roost in their rotted ceiling, and Liv’s fabrics were moth-eaten. Behind the home, against the edge of the wood, there stood three cairns: One tall and two small, stacked beneath the bone tree. Amongst the death that gripped the land, the old oak appeared to be thriving. A tear of red sap ran from a knot in its pale wood. Mocking their suffering.
Consumed by loss, the even-tempered farmer retrieved an ax from the house and stormed back to the altar. He swung it into the oak, ripping open a great gush of crimson sap. A crow cawed above, akin to a cackling laugh. Horrified, he swung again, sending splinters and hot, coppery tack spewing across his scarred face, into his grimacing mouth. Neven hacked until his arms failed, his hands were split from splinters and his chest sore from sobbing. The crimson soaked his clothes and stung in his eyes. The winds were silent.
Years became decades, and decades centuries. Neven, the bizarre, haunted fellow with the patchwork scars, lived a quaint, secluded life along the southern shores. Nevermind the occasional house call, when a child fell ill or a fisherman’s arthritic knees required something to dull the pain. In the tight community, he was regarded fondly, if not with some suspicion. When the Aetheron came and drove Iskaldrik’s inhabitants into the cold, Neven applied his craft to the sick and blighted along the road. The Legion took particular interest in his self-taught alchemy. Eterna was much more embracing of his craft. There were dedicated academies, mentors there that could school him into greatness.
The sound of his childrens’ laughter repeats in his dreams. The sap of the bone tree stays in a flask at his hip. The gold flows for his services with regularity now, out of secret. With freedom and opportunity in excess to build a life of wealth and acclaim he’d never been privileged to before, only one desire stands: To go home.
+ Charitable, Intuitive, Patient
– Naïve, Perfectionist, Obsessive
ALT
ALTcubus/cubi!
ALT
NAME. UTP
AGE & BIRTH DATE. UTP
SPECIES. Cubi
FACTION. Vanguard of the Light
OCCUPATION. Missionary
Ax-wielder, warrior, soldier through and through. Near the end of the Second Age, you battled against the scores of the undead alongside the forces of Queen Damodred Mordecai, she called for aid, and from Avalon you answered. On the field you lay battered and broken, you prayed for the strength to continue, to rise, and to battle the enemies of the Dark. To the King of Kings, you said the old words, and when you rose there were none that could stand against you. A fortnight passed before a shaft of light illuminated a temple to a Lysaran God - Elgar’nan’s will was clear, but you would not burn a holy temple to any God. For this, Elgar’nan abandoned you, he cursed you, and as your soul was twisted you turned to the New God, the One God, whose promise of salvation was appealing to someone like you.
His symbols hurt your eyes and invoked the sort of fear that only a truly pious person could engage. If it was true that the One God’s flames could purify a soul, then maybe his symbols would slowly burn away what was unlawful and save you from your fate within the Abyss. There was a time when you danced under the light of the Laurelin, but left to wander the wayside, your tongue carved out the missives of truth as they come from the One Word itself. Fifty years you have walked now cursed as a cubi, and all the way you have spread His light; when it reaches the four corners of Taravell, maybe then you will, at last, be saved.
N/A
N/A
NAME. UTP
AGE & BIRTH DATE. UTP
SPECIES. Cubi
FACTION. Merchant’s Guild
OCCUPATION. UTP
Hand over hand, that’s what they always said. The needle pulls the thread, the staystich holds it all together, and then you begin again. They were always more patient than you, pricked fingers and shaky hands, you didn’t know how they did it but they always seemed to manage it in the end. A taxing process that procured immaculate results, simple threads pulled into intricate designs; this was the way the world worked. This was the way the fates tied everyone together, you grew up on those stories, you grew up learning about Gods and men, about the Blight and the heroes of old. You used to get lost in these tales as you stitched away and tried to breath life into the embroidered fables you knit and wove.
Somehow, someway, you crossed the threshold between that novice sitting on another knee, and someone who was taking over the shop after they were gone. If you had one wish, no, not a wish, if you had one prayer it was that you’d be recognized for all that you had done. You wanted to be seen, to be respected, and to be pulled into one of these adventures of your own. Minerva whispered across the veil, your tale had begun, that you could spin straw into gold, you had no magic to speak of and you dismissed the dream as nothing but a work of an active imagination. You knew better, you knew in your heart that it was true, but if you believed that Minerva had chosen you, then that meant your simple life had drawn to an end. You were afraid, and for that, you were cursed.
N/A
N/A
ALTCommission I did for Netrogo of his fursona and his fursona’s sister/female version, Engie. More to come of these two!
ALTGot a commission to design a female version of Netrogo’s fursona. Her name is Engie. I quite like how she came out!
[queer incubus]
ALT
ALT
ALTa flag for those who are incubi and queer, regardless of the reason for identifying as queer, a queer incubus(link).
ALTnon exclusive!
radqueers and transid/transx people stay off this post, none of these are for you.
tagging @delightfulweepingwillows, and @docsfallfromgrace !
ids in alt text
ALT![[gd: a gif of young cassandra and percy from vox machina, brown text overlayed on the top near the right saying "dni if.. transx/id, radqueer, pronoun police, terf, pro-c para, anti-mogai..." and more brown text to the bottom right saying "more in pinned post" :end gd]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/b1a5d362c2e7fdc3057a759f062b7bbb/f63c3d07339d4302-94/s640x960/fdb7f5f829e8b3cfb17ed4592bac69b3315ac17e.gif)
ALT
[disabled incubus]
ALT
ALT
ALTa flag for those who are incubi and disabled, be it physical or mental disability, a disabled incubus(link).
ALTnon exclusive!
radqueers and transid/transx people stay off this post, none of these are for you.
tagging @delightfulweepingwillows, and @docsfallfromgrace !
ids in alt text
ALT![[gd: a gif of young cassandra and percy from vox machina, brown text overlayed on the top near the right saying "dni if.. transx/id, radqueer, pronoun police, terf, pro-c para, anti-mogai..." and more brown text to the bottom right saying "more in pinned post" :end gd]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/b1a5d362c2e7fdc3057a759f062b7bbb/97d7e9f2a232322b-51/s640x960/37a0d783fc22ca89cfe58326288e77e821fca931.gif)
ALT
[arissomei incubus]
a flag for those who are incubi and identify with arissomei terms of any kind, incubi who are arissomei, arissomic identifiers who are incubi, arissomei incubus(link).
arissomei exclusive!
arissomei is created by user .acetrapolaswife
radqueers and transid/transx people stay off this post, none of these are for you.
tagging @delightfulweepingwillows, @arissodic-archive and @docsfallfromgrace !
no spoons for ids sorry
![[gd: a gif of young cassandra and percy from vox machina, brown text overlayed on the top near the right saying "dni if.. transx/id, radqueer, pronoun police, terf, pro-c para, anti-mogai..." and more brown text to the bottom right saying "more in pinned post" :end gd]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/b1a5d362c2e7fdc3057a759f062b7bbb/52a93db815498fe0-86/s640x960/f43d84fda4be7adee9240f6cfa389c3983e9fd2d.gif)
ALT
[nonbinary incubus]
a flag for those who are incubi and nonbinary, regardless of the reason for identifying as nonbinary, a nonbinary incubus(link).
Enbicubi/Enbycubus even.
non exclusive!
radqueers and transid/transx people stay off this post, none of these are for you.
tagging @delightfulweepingwillows, and @docsfallfromgrace !
no spoons for ids sorry
![[gd: a gif of young cassandra and percy from vox machina, brown text overlayed on the top near the right saying "dni if.. transx/id, radqueer, pronoun police, terf, pro-c para, anti-mogai..." and more brown text to the bottom right saying "more in pinned post" :end gd]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/b1a5d362c2e7fdc3057a759f062b7bbb/454e25e3b56ad4d5-14/s640x960/1be957194729824d280d4fbc5574f45d915d709f.gif)
ALT
