Confusingly, however, the term was retrospectively employed (possibly by the Greeks themselves) to also refer to the wingless lion-bodied statues of Ancient Egypt. These aren't the same thing as the Greek monster, and it isn't known what the Egyptians actually called them. They were usually, but not always, male and, judging from the statuary, were probably perceived as good and noble beings, unlike the much more hostile Greek creation.
It seems to be the case that, in D&D, the male or "androsphinx" was based largely on the Egyptian creature (albeit with the addition of wings), while the female or "gynosphinx" has closer links with the Greek version.
From 4E onwards, sphinxes are semi-divine entities created
to guard sacred treasure. They clearly have a physical/organic form, and even
register as magical animals (rather than celestials) to the relevant spells,
but, so far as we can tell, they do not reproduce as animals do, and are
apparently immortal. In earlier editions, however, they are clearly just rare,
but unusual, intelligent creatures tied to the mundane world.
We’re told in the first two editions that male sphinxes try
to avoid the females, but that the reverse is not true. This is, as we might
expect, a different setup to that seen in real-world animals. Mammals that live
solitary lives, as sphinxes do, have their own territories, whether clearly
demarcated or otherwise, from which they exclude members of their own sex. But
they do typically overlap the territories of the opposite sex and for obvious
reasons. They may ignore opposite sex individuals outside of the breeding
season, and stay apart from them as much as they can, but they do not actively
avoid them. Sphinxes, or at least the males, apparently do just this.
This implies what could be described as weakly polyandrous
mating system. Polyandry occurs when a single female mates with as many males
as she can, but the male does not do the reverse. It’s common among insects
(think honeybees) but rare among mammals – some examples do exist, such as
marmosets, but their social life is very different from that of sphinxes. We
can also say that it’s ‘weakly’ polyandrous because the rarity of sphinxes
means that, in practice, it’s going to be hard for any gynosphinx to find
multiple males to mate with, no matter how much she’d like to, so that, in
practice, they’re likely to end up with serial monogamy.
At any rate, this setup does raise a few questions. For one,
the gynosphinx must overcome her partner’s reluctance to associate with her
somehow. Magical enchantment seems unlikely, given what we know of the
creatures, but simple pheromones may well do the trick.
The second, and harder question, concerns the sphinxes’
sexual dimorphism. Sphinxes are among a relatively small number of D&D
creatures (at least, post the 1E versions of the evil humanoids) where the
males are sufficiently different from the females for the two sexes to have
separate stats. Indeed, the physical differences (and to a lesser extent,
mental and cultural) between them are really quite dramatic.
Obviously, this is true of many real-world animals, from
lions and deer to gorillas. But in these animals, the males are larger because
they are polygynous, and compete with one another for mates. With sphinxes,
it’s the females that compete, so they should be the larger or more magically
powerful – but they’re not. Even if we take serial monogamy as the practical
outcome of the mating system and argue that gynosphinxes do not, in practice,
get the opportunity to compete with one another for mates very often, the two
sexes should be similar, as tends to be the case for monogamous species.
Which may perhaps be due to a divine, rather than
evolutionary, origin. We could also question why it is that the signature power
of the sphinx – its devastating roar – is possessed only by the males, and not
the females. It’s clearly magical, so there’s nothing that would clearly
prevent females from possessing it, and being smaller, and less well-defended
in other respects, you’d think it would be more useful to them. One possible
explanation here is that, while the roar is boosted magically, it requires a
larger lung capacity to initiate it, and the gynosphinxes aren’t big enough.
But it’s a stretch.
How loud is a sphinx’s roar?
One problem in answering this is that ‘loud’ isn’t really a proper scientific
term, and can mean different things in different contexts. But, if we use the decibel
as our yardstick, we can be surprisingly precise about the sound level of an
androsphinx’s roar: it’s just over 190 dB.
How can we be so precise? Because, as it turns out, the
maximum possible sound level in an Earthlike atmosphere at sea level is 194 dB.
That drops with altitude, and can even change with the weather, and it doesn’t
apply underwater (in fact, the underwater decibel has a different definition from
the air-based one and isn’t directly comparable). The reason for this is that
the sound pressure level, which is what the decibel is actually measuring,
can’t exceed the atmospheric pressure of the gas the sound is travelling
through. This is the loudest sound it’s possible to make, and the androsphinx
can definitely make it.
But it is perfectly possible to put more power into making a
sound than would be required to hit the 190+ dB limit. Where does the extra
energy go if you do this? It creates a shockwave, and that can be almost
arbitrarily powerful. (Which is why, in a sense, an atomic bomb or a volcanic
explosion is ‘louder’ than, say, a hand grenade, despite both having the same
sound pressure level). The resulting shockwave, depending how powerful it is
can… well, knock things over, crack stone, and so on.
Which is exactly what the androsphinx does.
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