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Posts by cyrus

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Hey fellas! I want to get on VGen to possibly do commissions in the future #VGenCode vgen.co/Nial/ I need 20 RTs + 100 likes! 🥺! Here's a sample of some of my latest work~

1 month ago 110 50 5 1
Drawing of a pine marten and a ferret playfully jumping through a field of English heather and Texas bluebonnets under the northern lights.

Drawing of a pine marten and a ferret playfully jumping through a field of English heather and Texas bluebonnets under the northern lights.

Commission for @nqrthie.bsky.social ✨

1 month ago 723 231 5 0
a stylized 3d render of a bunch of cats at an aquarium touch tank.

a stylized 3d render of a bunch of cats at an aquarium touch tank.

touch tank

2 months ago 5487 1678 20 4

I would love to grab the tail in the second image!

2 months ago 1 0 1 0
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Qamaqtuq ᖃᒪᖅᑐᖅ “To call dogs to oneself”

For the Gender Mutual exhibition @ SUM Gallery

2 months ago 3330 768 63 8
two small ceramic pine martens

two small ceramic pine martens

sorry, two tiny martens is the best i can do. take it or leave it.

#ceramics

3 months ago 3378 957 37 10
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escapism through channeling a medieval manuscript illustrator

4 months ago 6045 1645 54 2
A hand-drawn black-and-white cover image in a sketchy ink style. At the top, large stenciled type reads: “LOOK INTO MY EYES ONE LAST TIME.” Below the title is a syringe and a small medicine vial labeled “LUPINEX – Therionyl – 5mL,” with a stylized eye logo on the label. The vial and syringe are crosshatched with vintage texture lines. Below the drawing, in handwritten script, is the phrase: “Homecoming, not vanishing” and the signature Shimi & Critter.

A hand-drawn black-and-white cover image in a sketchy ink style. At the top, large stenciled type reads: “LOOK INTO MY EYES ONE LAST TIME.” Below the title is a syringe and a small medicine vial labeled “LUPINEX – Therionyl – 5mL,” with a stylized eye logo on the label. The vial and syringe are crosshatched with vintage texture lines. Below the drawing, in handwritten script, is the phrase: “Homecoming, not vanishing” and the signature Shimi & Critter.

[Art on Page] A detailed graphite drawing of a wolf’s eyes. One, the left is more formed than the right — indicating a near but not complete transition. The fur around them is dense and wispy, rendered in fine pencil lines that suggest softness and depth. The eyes are highly realistic and expressive, staring directly outward with intense, soulful focus. They seem alert but ancient—wide with instinct, watching as if waiting for something to begin. The drawing fades at the edges into blank white space, giving the eyes a floating, disembodied presence. Look into my eyes one last time Look into my eyes. Hold them close until you can see the last scrap of me — the part that counts thoughts in lists, that weighs choices against rules, that folds shame into tidy, human-shaped pockets. Watch it loosen. Watch the corners of doubt unhook themselves like small animals from a net and dart away. There is no melodrama here, no violent yanking; it slips. The human mind peels like old bark, and underneath, the thing that always was settles warm and terrible and simple. They give me the last injection in a room that smells faintly of cedar and lemon. No needles, no cold clinical lecture — only the careful hands of doctors, veterinarians and nurses who know which bones to cradle and which stories to leave untold. I breathe. I lost the ability to count days back. I let the bracing liquid be a gate, not an instruction manual. I do not want to name it; names are the thin net that caught me for years. The burn is a rumour. It goes through me sideways — a quiet rearrangement, like a convent bell that signals not death but a calling. My limbs answer first. They stop thinking of movement and begin to remember it: how to fold, to coil, to push.

[Art on Page] A detailed graphite drawing of a wolf’s eyes. One, the left is more formed than the right — indicating a near but not complete transition. The fur around them is dense and wispy, rendered in fine pencil lines that suggest softness and depth. The eyes are highly realistic and expressive, staring directly outward with intense, soulful focus. They seem alert but ancient—wide with instinct, watching as if waiting for something to begin. The drawing fades at the edges into blank white space, giving the eyes a floating, disembodied presence. Look into my eyes one last time Look into my eyes. Hold them close until you can see the last scrap of me — the part that counts thoughts in lists, that weighs choices against rules, that folds shame into tidy, human-shaped pockets. Watch it loosen. Watch the corners of doubt unhook themselves like small animals from a net and dart away. There is no melodrama here, no violent yanking; it slips. The human mind peels like old bark, and underneath, the thing that always was settles warm and terrible and simple. They give me the last injection in a room that smells faintly of cedar and lemon. No needles, no cold clinical lecture — only the careful hands of doctors, veterinarians and nurses who know which bones to cradle and which stories to leave untold. I breathe. I lost the ability to count days back. I let the bracing liquid be a gate, not an instruction manual. I do not want to name it; names are the thin net that caught me for years. The burn is a rumour. It goes through me sideways — a quiet rearrangement, like a convent bell that signals not death but a calling. My limbs answer first. They stop thinking of movement and begin to remember it: how to fold, to coil, to push.

Tendons unlearn the polite phrasing of two-legged steps and curve toward the old, fourfold geometry of running. My hands tighten and flatten; the knuckles find a new logic. Fur prickles along my forearms as if a thousand small moths take flight together and settle again. Each hair is a note in a chord I’ve felt… no… known in my bones since childhood. Look again. See how the pupils widen, how the whites retreat like a shy moon. My last maps of metaphor — the maps that turned hunger into lists and longing into projects — dissolve. Where there had been a ledger of self, there is now only the immediate ledger of scent and sound and the earth’s exact tilt beneath my weight. I do not mourn the maps. I never used them as well as the human world predicted and as I pretended. Sound changes. Those little, trivial noises of the room condense into a chorus: the slow tick of breath in the person beside me, the whisper of fabric, the distant wet confluence of gutters. And underneath that: a low, patient life-frequency — root and soil and river. It is not music so much as an acknowledgment. I find I can hear the insect conversation inside the walls, the sap walking up the birch, the small, stupid heartbeat of a mouse two blocks away. There is an intimacy to it that is almost rude. Breath becomes work and worship at once. My ribcage narrows, then widens in ways I know but cannot name. Milk memories — a thing to shame into silence when human — rise like a tide: the cadence of suckling, the doctrinal simplicity of being called to feed and to protect. A swelling around my belly that is not fat but purpose. I think of my children who never were, of the packs I have loved in mute pieces. The notion of motherhood is larger than gender; it is a compass with teeth. My children! You are my children and you are my all!

Tendons unlearn the polite phrasing of two-legged steps and curve toward the old, fourfold geometry of running. My hands tighten and flatten; the knuckles find a new logic. Fur prickles along my forearms as if a thousand small moths take flight together and settle again. Each hair is a note in a chord I’ve felt… no… known in my bones since childhood. Look again. See how the pupils widen, how the whites retreat like a shy moon. My last maps of metaphor — the maps that turned hunger into lists and longing into projects — dissolve. Where there had been a ledger of self, there is now only the immediate ledger of scent and sound and the earth’s exact tilt beneath my weight. I do not mourn the maps. I never used them as well as the human world predicted and as I pretended. Sound changes. Those little, trivial noises of the room condense into a chorus: the slow tick of breath in the person beside me, the whisper of fabric, the distant wet confluence of gutters. And underneath that: a low, patient life-frequency — root and soil and river. It is not music so much as an acknowledgment. I find I can hear the insect conversation inside the walls, the sap walking up the birch, the small, stupid heartbeat of a mouse two blocks away. There is an intimacy to it that is almost rude. Breath becomes work and worship at once. My ribcage narrows, then widens in ways I know but cannot name. Milk memories — a thing to shame into silence when human — rise like a tide: the cadence of suckling, the doctrinal simplicity of being called to feed and to protect. A swelling around my belly that is not fat but purpose. I think of my children who never were, of the packs I have loved in mute pieces. The notion of motherhood is larger than gender; it is a compass with teeth. My children! You are my children and you are my all!

My jaw shifts. I feel the slow, inevitable rearrangement — a socket loosens, a hinge finds its voice. A tooth erupts where an organised thought had lived. The smell of iron, rain-damp soil, and sleeping bodies that have waited for me — flooding my mouth like saliva. Tears come and I do not know if they are human or creature; they taste of salt and release. There is a tenderness in my own trembling that I have never allowed before. Outside the window, someone whose scent I knew laughs and it sounds to me like a distant bell. The handlers murmur: careful, gentle, let her and her pack decide. My mouth forms the shape and bark of guttural assent I could not voice when I was wholly human. Somewhere a crate opens as if the world is taking a breath with me. They will test me further, yes. They will see whether my newness walks toward the wild or clings to the small, safe hands of fosterers who will teach me boundaries, how to pass in a world of paved things. I do not fear them. I am no longer wrapped in that ledger — of consent, of cost, of consequence. I am wrapped in appetite and mercy. The choice, if there is one, feels less like an argument and more like a direction: toward den or home, toward the kill lovingly taken or the bowl lovingly given. Look once more. There is no human drama in my eyes now — only depth, like a riverbed where stones remember every footstep. The last scrap of thought, the tiny librarian of my life who loved lists, things and order, exhales and steps back through the doorway we are leaving open. I feel it go, and where it is gone there is fullness, a pulse that answers the creature’s call without translation. This is not a loss. It is not my obliteration. It is the solving of a long, clenched equation. I am not lessened. I am finally the shape I have been learning. Look into my eyes, one last time. I am awakening. — Shimi & Critter @shimi.bsky.social

My jaw shifts. I feel the slow, inevitable rearrangement — a socket loosens, a hinge finds its voice. A tooth erupts where an organised thought had lived. The smell of iron, rain-damp soil, and sleeping bodies that have waited for me — flooding my mouth like saliva. Tears come and I do not know if they are human or creature; they taste of salt and release. There is a tenderness in my own trembling that I have never allowed before. Outside the window, someone whose scent I knew laughs and it sounds to me like a distant bell. The handlers murmur: careful, gentle, let her and her pack decide. My mouth forms the shape and bark of guttural assent I could not voice when I was wholly human. Somewhere a crate opens as if the world is taking a breath with me. They will test me further, yes. They will see whether my newness walks toward the wild or clings to the small, safe hands of fosterers who will teach me boundaries, how to pass in a world of paved things. I do not fear them. I am no longer wrapped in that ledger — of consent, of cost, of consequence. I am wrapped in appetite and mercy. The choice, if there is one, feels less like an argument and more like a direction: toward den or home, toward the kill lovingly taken or the bowl lovingly given. Look once more. There is no human drama in my eyes now — only depth, like a riverbed where stones remember every footstep. The last scrap of thought, the tiny librarian of my life who loved lists, things and order, exhales and steps back through the doorway we are leaving open. I feel it go, and where it is gone there is fullness, a pulse that answers the creature’s call without translation. This is not a loss. It is not my obliteration. It is the solving of a long, clenched equation. I am not lessened. I am finally the shape I have been learning. Look into my eyes, one last time. I am awakening. — Shimi & Critter @shimi.bsky.social

New zine: “Look Into My Eyes One Last Time”

A final love letter to the self I shed
A prayer for the creature. Becoming
A reckoning, a surrender. Homecoming

This is my deepest wish laid bare—needle, fur, breath, & mercy. Being held with a care I never found.

#AnimalHRT #Therianthropy #ShortStory

6 months ago 564 243 37 5
hey there. little one. i’ve been trailing your scent through the wasteland for days. don’t run. i’m not here to hurt you. i’m here to tell you—you’re not wrong. all your life you’ve twitched at shadows, felt eyes where there were none, ached like something was missing just under your skin. they called it dreaming. they called it madness. but i’ve seen it. i’ve seen you. and you’re real. not some soft mistake. not a too-bright child who never learned to settle. you are claws. you are hunger. you are song written in wet leaves and dirt. you are what came before language. don’t you remember? when you used to listen with your whole body? when you could read the sky like scripture? when sleep came only after circling down, nose to tail, heart to moss? you used to know these things. before they taught you to be still. before they filed your teeth and stuffed your mouth with plastic. before the quiet got so loud you forgot how to feel. but i didn’t forget you. and you didn’t lose it. it’s all still inside— the instinct, the kin-sense, the aching need to run without name or reason. the snarl that isn’t anger but love with no words. you’ve tried to play nice. tried to keep your head down, your tail tucked. but i see you. i see what’s under the mask. the beast that paces. the soft creature still watching the trees for a signal. for a friend. for a way home. listen. this world isn’t safe. but it was never meant to be. we weren’t made for steel boxes and lonely kitchens. we were meant for packs. for muddy paws and rib-warmth and eyes that say i know you. i don’t promise ease. but i promise this: you are not alone. you were never alone. so rise. panting, blinking, wild with grief— but rise. and when the night presses in, don’t whisper. howl. howl into the void until something howls back. and then run to it. run to the ones who remember. run like your name depends on it. because it does. i’ve waited so long. we all have come back. come through. come home. — Shimi & Critter

hey there. little one. i’ve been trailing your scent through the wasteland for days. don’t run. i’m not here to hurt you. i’m here to tell you—you’re not wrong. all your life you’ve twitched at shadows, felt eyes where there were none, ached like something was missing just under your skin. they called it dreaming. they called it madness. but i’ve seen it. i’ve seen you. and you’re real. not some soft mistake. not a too-bright child who never learned to settle. you are claws. you are hunger. you are song written in wet leaves and dirt. you are what came before language. don’t you remember? when you used to listen with your whole body? when you could read the sky like scripture? when sleep came only after circling down, nose to tail, heart to moss? you used to know these things. before they taught you to be still. before they filed your teeth and stuffed your mouth with plastic. before the quiet got so loud you forgot how to feel. but i didn’t forget you. and you didn’t lose it. it’s all still inside— the instinct, the kin-sense, the aching need to run without name or reason. the snarl that isn’t anger but love with no words. you’ve tried to play nice. tried to keep your head down, your tail tucked. but i see you. i see what’s under the mask. the beast that paces. the soft creature still watching the trees for a signal. for a friend. for a way home. listen. this world isn’t safe. but it was never meant to be. we weren’t made for steel boxes and lonely kitchens. we were meant for packs. for muddy paws and rib-warmth and eyes that say i know you. i don’t promise ease. but i promise this: you are not alone. you were never alone. so rise. panting, blinking, wild with grief— but rise. and when the night presses in, don’t whisper. howl. howl into the void until something howls back. and then run to it. run to the ones who remember. run like your name depends on it. because it does. i’ve waited so long. we all have come back. come through. come home. — Shimi & Critter

Hey There Little One

9 months ago 1091 465 49 14
Maystelid 2025 1. European Badger 2. Least Weasel 3. Fisher 4. American Mink 5. War dance 6. Stoat (summer) 7. Formosan Ferret-Badger 8. Climb tree 9. American Badger 10. Marbled Polecat 11. Sea Otter 12. Ferret 13. Catch fish 14. Sable 15. Steal egg 16. Ermine (winter) 17. Giant Otter 18. Pine Marten 19. Tube 20. Mountain Weasel 21. Hunt 22. Wolverine 23. European Mink 24. Tayra 25. Lesser Grison 26. Striped Polecat 27. Hog Badger 28. River Otter 29. Dooking 30. Honey Badger 31. Yellow-throated Marten

Maystelid 2025 1. European Badger 2. Least Weasel 3. Fisher 4. American Mink 5. War dance 6. Stoat (summer) 7. Formosan Ferret-Badger 8. Climb tree 9. American Badger 10. Marbled Polecat 11. Sea Otter 12. Ferret 13. Catch fish 14. Sable 15. Steal egg 16. Ermine (winter) 17. Giant Otter 18. Pine Marten 19. Tube 20. Mountain Weasel 21. Hunt 22. Wolverine 23. European Mink 24. Tayra 25. Lesser Grison 26. Striped Polecat 27. Hog Badger 28. River Otter 29. Dooking 30. Honey Badger 31. Yellow-throated Marten

I've had this idea for years now, but I wanna make it official, so I whipped up a drawing prompt for Maystelid!

I've included a mixture of various species and mustelid-related activities

#Maystelid

11 months ago 311 129 14 9
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〖Madness from the Sea 〗

Finally managed to make a Cthulhu piece after struggling with sketches for years.
Prints etc @ CoeyandShy.com

2 years ago 472 136 8 3
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📣 Dying to join an art-focused community, but hate keeping up with discord text channels?

I've made a new server that's styled like an oldschool forum. No text channels, no voice. Post threads to share your work, ask questions, and wonder about the creative process! discord.gg/BwhFfmYm

11 months ago 35 7 4 1

there’s a thriving forum community on chickensmoothie still!
they only allow PG-13 language/content but it’s a great place for people interested in art and adoptables

11 months ago 1 0 0 0
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i went to tomo arts market today and was so touched by the amount of people who showed up to buy original art in toronto 🥹

11 months ago 141 22 5 1

ordered a bunch of stuff!! 😈 i was gonna get the mushroom veil piece but I fell in love with the way the mothman's antennae escape the circular border so i went for that instead ❤️

11 months ago 2 0 1 0
A block print of a shady, cluttered cemetery where ghosts flit about.

A block print of a shady, cluttered cemetery where ghosts flit about.

9 small wooden tokens. From left to right top to bottom: possum with babies on back, a snail, a graveyard with ghosts, a cat in a spacesuit, a raccoon head, mothman, a bat, Fresno nightcrawlers, a monster with spikes around an eye.

9 small wooden tokens. From left to right top to bottom: possum with babies on back, a snail, a graveyard with ghosts, a cat in a spacesuit, a raccoon head, mothman, a bat, Fresno nightcrawlers, a monster with spikes around an eye.

Shop update is live!
Link is in bio

11 months ago 34 16 2 0

this makes me so happy, i love the new lineup!! i’ll have to order some eventually ❤️

11 months ago 0 0 0 0

Oh I am SO excited for these, i like the various critters and ghouls a lot!

11 months ago 1 0 1 0
A composite of four photos of ceramic pieces. One is a wolf skull pendant, another is a saber tooth cat, another is a deer, and the last is a white dragon.

A composite of four photos of ceramic pieces. One is a wolf skull pendant, another is a saber tooth cat, another is a deer, and the last is a white dragon.

The shop update is tomorrow! All of these ceramic pieces and more will be available tomorrow, April 30th at 12pm Eastern time!

11 months ago 170 23 1 0

Your art really speaks to me and I'm excited to buy another wood-burning when your shop reopens! I have one of the untitled monsters from a while back, plus a lino print and some stickers

11 months ago 1 0 1 0
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wolves with friends!! I'm super stoked to share these ones! I loved drawing all the birdies

get them here:
⭐ ko-fi.com/servals/shop... ✨

🌿 #wolf #art #digitalart #adoptable #procreate #wolfart #oc

1 year ago 37 7 2 0
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🌲 four brand new ecoserval adoptables! I haven't made any of these guys in years and really enjoyed creating them! these guys are my custom species that I created a long while ago.

get them here:
⭐ ko-fi.com/servals/shop... ✨

🌿 #customspecies #serval #digitalart #adoptable #procreate #ecoservals

1 year ago 44 7 0 0
A furry paintover by Caim of the cover of Witch Hat Atelier Chapter 85 by Shirahama Kamome. In both this image and the inspiration, a character holds up frames of themself displaying various somber expressions, each frame containing another character in the same pose holding another frame, seeming infinite. The expressions range from angry to resigned, with the original work being likened to the stages of grief. In the original work, the figures in each frame are all the same character: Qifrey. This rendition of the image instead uses the artist's fursonas to reflect alternate versions of the same person. In contrast to the original work, the colors of each section are also different in the furry version, with the backgrounds being deep green, blue, red, yellow/gold, and silver/white. The character in the largest frame is a deer: Ilan, the artist's most recent sona and his main sona currently. He's associated with trees, and his background is green. As the frames get smaller, the sonas featured in the smaller frames of the image are ones that the artist made longer ago in their life, with the two smallest frames being former/retired sonas. The wolf character pictured in the center frame is the artist's childhood fursona, which is also signified by the plush cow the character is holding, and calls back to the inspiration, where the smallest frame is the child version of Qifrey shown in earlier chapters.

A furry paintover by Caim of the cover of Witch Hat Atelier Chapter 85 by Shirahama Kamome. In both this image and the inspiration, a character holds up frames of themself displaying various somber expressions, each frame containing another character in the same pose holding another frame, seeming infinite. The expressions range from angry to resigned, with the original work being likened to the stages of grief. In the original work, the figures in each frame are all the same character: Qifrey. This rendition of the image instead uses the artist's fursonas to reflect alternate versions of the same person. In contrast to the original work, the colors of each section are also different in the furry version, with the backgrounds being deep green, blue, red, yellow/gold, and silver/white. The character in the largest frame is a deer: Ilan, the artist's most recent sona and his main sona currently. He's associated with trees, and his background is green. As the frames get smaller, the sonas featured in the smaller frames of the image are ones that the artist made longer ago in their life, with the two smallest frames being former/retired sonas. The wolf character pictured in the center frame is the artist's childhood fursona, which is also signified by the plush cow the character is holding, and calls back to the inspiration, where the smallest frame is the child version of Qifrey shown in earlier chapters.

"Compartmentalization":

In forestry, we know that trees cannot 'heal'. Instead, they seal their wounds away under layers of themself.

1 year ago 2781 952 35 0

Ohhh my god i’m obsessed

1 year ago 1 0 0 0
6 mini linoleum prints of birds on square paper, from top left to right bottom: a quail, a barn owl with a mouse, a toucan with a small fruit, a loon with laser coming out of its eye, a woodpecker and a stick, and a lammegeier eating a bone.

6 mini linoleum prints of birds on square paper, from top left to right bottom: a quail, a barn owl with a mouse, a toucan with a small fruit, a loon with laser coming out of its eye, a woodpecker and a stick, and a lammegeier eating a bone.

A linoleum print of a woodpecker with a stick, with the original carving to the left.

A linoleum print of a woodpecker with a stick, with the original carving to the left.

A linoleum print of a lammegeier with a stick, with the original carving to the left.

A linoleum print of a lammegeier with a stick, with the original carving to the left.

Latest little prints

1 year ago 214 67 7 1

Perhaps a phoenix? :0

1 year ago 1 0 0 0

signed up for the mailing list!!! ❤️

1 year ago 1 0 0 0

This sounds great!! i’d definitely order one :00 if only t shirts go up i’d still buy one of em ❤️

1 year ago 1 0 0 0
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if anyone would like a ping for when this goes live please reply to this post or sign up for the mailing list here : forms.gle/ysDC2U1TEZay...
Aiming for Early April to go live !
#furryart

1 year ago 115 30 6 5