#halloween trick or treat

[gardenergulfie]

Trick or treat!

Trick! They look like jelly but they're actually sea slugs!

[thathalloweenyfeeling]

Goblins on the doorstep Phantoms in the air Owls on witches’ gateposts Giving stare for stare

[hypocriticaltypwriter]

Trick or treat!! 👻

Oh my there's a lot of kitties in my inbox tonight! I hope this is a good omen on Hallows Eve!

Treat for you my dear friend! Happy Haunts! 🍭🎃

[schmenty]

trick or treat! 🪰

You get this vintage slut wagon. Whether that's a trick or a treat is up to you 👍

[cyberr-v0id]

Reminder that my blog is open to trick or treats

[peachypede]

Trick?👀🎃

(I’m a little late and I’m deeply sorry, but I hope I spawned in)

This’ll be the last one I do!! Thank you guys for being so nice and sending me these 🥺❤️

The wheel chose Aman ❤️

Aman got his prosthetics in his early teen years so he would have more independence. The whole prosthetic system i have in mind for him is pretty much the Full Metal Alchemist Automail stuff. It hooks up directly to his nervous system so they act like a normal arm and leg. The surgery to get them is the worst part, but reconnecting new prosthetics also hurts a lot.

Aman recovered fully from the surgery after two years and was able to finally do the Treasure Hunt for Naranja-Uva by the time he was 15. (Hassel and Brassius had a hard time watching him recover and were there by his side for the whole ordeal.)

[kelofmindelan]

Trick or treat pls~~

I wasn't sure which trick or treat you were looking for, so I did both!

For an art project I was part of, I wrote a mythology inspired story called 'The Weaver's Daughter' which is using the story of Arachne (so content warning for spiders). But I think you'd like it!

It is dangerous to claim to be better than a God. Whether it is true or not doesn’t matter.

Because the truth is there are many mortals who are more skilled than the Gods at their chosen trade. The Gods were the beginning and the source of inspiration. But mortals are hungry for greatness in a way that the Gods can’t understand. The Gods are immortal which is both comfort and boredom. They are so convinced that being first makes them best, they so rarely try.

But to be mortal is to know that death is waiting for you. And that after death comes the forgetting. They can see the neverending life of the Gods, hear the legends of heroes who achieved greatness, and they fight for their own little piece of it. Knowing the end brings an intensity which is infused into everything they do. Their joy is brighter, their sorrow deeper, and all of that streams out of their creations with a light that blinds and haunts.

But the smart ones know to stay quiet and humble. They know to praise the Gods and offer their gifts, to claim that the Gods were their inspiration and the source of the greatness. Whether or not they believe doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they say it so the whispers that eventually reach the bored and jealous Gods confirm the story that they have told themselves for generations. It is always possible to be better than a God. But to whisper it is to invite death.

My mother was always too proud to be smart. She got her taste of greatness and her slice of immortality, which was exactly what she wanted. But I’m not sure the cost was worth it.

Then again, if she hadn’t been proud and reckless and great, I might not be here. So perhaps I am not the best judge.

Everyone knows the beginning of Arachne’s story.

She was a simple peasant with a knack for weaving and the desperation that comes from trying to keep both men and hunger from the door. As long as she wove, she could sell. As long as she could sell, she could eat. As long as she could eat, she did not need to marry. So she wove as if her life depended on it, for, after all, it did.

But as so often happens, as she wove, she improved. As her skill improved, she began to experiment with new techniques. She had no teacher to define the rules for her, so she invented her own rules of creation only to break them and begin again. She spent a month learning how to weave every shade of grass only to spend the next month capturing each night’s sunset. Her work was beautiful and exquisite and filled with a love for the world and her craft.

It wasn’t long before she lived in a nicer house than anyone else in her village filled with comforts and gifts they couldn’t afford. So one sharp jealous tongue whispered that Arachne thought she was better than the Gods. Another barbed tongue repeated it to a poisonous voice that dripped in many ears. When it had spread far enough that no one knew where it had begun, a crowd faced Arachne and asked if it were true.

“Minerva may have invented weaving, but I have perfected it and I did it all by myself,” she said boldly, head held high as she faced her crowd of accusers.

It is dangerous to claim to be better than a God.

The next day a woman stepped inside Arachne’s workshop, dressed in olives, clouds, arrogance, and rage. She challenged Arachne to a duel. A weaving competition to decide who was truly the greatest weaver who had ever lived. My mother agreed without a second’s hesitation.

If you listen to my mother, she won that competition fair and square. She wove the Earth and humanity and legends where the Gods were beaten until the people wept to see it. Minerva in her rage struck my mother down and cursed her into the form of a spider so that she could weave for all eternity.

If you listen to Minerva, she won that competition fair and square. She wove the cosmos and the Gods and legends of creation until the people wept to see it. Humiliated and devastated, my mother hung herself as she couldn’t live without her pride. It was an act of mercy that had Minerva change her dead form into a live spider so that she could weave for all eternity.

But I am not here to tell you which story is true. I am here because so many people see this as the end of Arachne’s tale. She is the warning against hubris and the creation of arachnids, the mother of millions and the artist of eternity. But if that were really the end, how could I be here to tell it?

Whichever story you choose to believe, what comes next is the same. Arachne did not ask to become a spider. She still had all of her knowledge, yes. But her knowledge was stored in how the threads felt against her human hands. Her sense of color was stored in how humans saw through their eyes. She had her memory for patterns and what she used to be, but was forced to start again.

She did not yet know she was immortal. What she did know was that she was hungry. Minerva’s final gift was the knowledge of how she could sustain herself, but it took work to put it in practice. Once again, she learned to weave so that she could eat. This time, she did not have to sell or even impress. The path was more direct than what she had done before. It was also less satisfying.

As the years passed, she had children. She watched them grow, age, and die. She watched their children do the same. She watched new spider breeds rise and fall and rise again as her children’s children merged and mingled and changed. Throughout it all, she wove. She stayed.

Time passed, and Arachne discovered skill in her new body. There was an elegance and a purity to her designs she had never managed as the human she had been. Each web she made was a new masterpiece. Made all the more precious by how quickly it was blown away, never to be reproduced or seen again. But even then, she had not lost her hunger for greatness. Instead, she made a new discovery. The Gods claimed that title through their acts of creation. Could she not do the same? Who was she now if not a new God?

She began a new kind of weaving. Chevron weave for skin with herringbone nails. Rya knot hair flowed down the back while soumak stitches made the features. Then she invented new patterns and jealously guarded their names as she wove organs and eyes and a heart. As she tied off her last stitch, she breathed life into her creation. She named it Amphiyfansi.

My first memory is of her glee in her creation. I was both her child and her masterpiece, and I felt that knowledge thread through me in the name she had given me. It was one of the many contradictions at the core of me, spun as fine as a cobweb and as strong as a tapestry, newborn in the shape of the grown woman she had been.

My first desire was to weave. It had taken all of her knowledge and skill to create me, but her breath had given me her memories. I had visions of making myself dresses the color of sunset and shawls in all the shades of grass. I could not create material as she could. But I had fingers to dye and shape it. So while she sat and gloated, I began to weave.

I of all people should have known that it is dangerous to claim to be better than a God.

As she had before, I taught myself to weave. I married memory and curiosity until they were so intertwined, I could not tell the difference. I did not have a mortal’s intense need nor a God’s fierce pride. I did not weave to eat nor weave for fame. I was alone of my kind, but I did not yet understand lonely. All I knew was to weave. So for the absolute purity of the thing itself, I wove.

When I showed my finished work to my mother, I was so proud. “Look,” I said. “Look what your spider webs can be when I dye them the colors of the ocean and make them into a warm scarf.”

“You think you can improve on my spider webs? The ones that made you?”

“I am the sum of your parts, both spider skill and woman’s memory. With my hands, I can combine them to create something bigger than both. If this is where I have begun, who knows where I will go?”

With the speed of ages, she tore my arm from my body and ripped it to shreds, ignoring my screams as I sank to my knees in shock and in pain. For the first time, the emotions in her memory flooded into me until I was nearly blinded by rage and hurt and anguish and pride.

“I will leave the other as a mercy. It was more mercy than was given to me. Go. And weave.”

I did not see her leave. When I opened my eyes, I could only see the tattered remains of myself on the floor in front of me. Slowly, achingly, I gathered them together. With one hand, I could not yet spin myself a second one. So for now, I created a simple spider’s web to cover the loss. I did not know if it would help. But the parts of my memory that were human insisted something should be there.

I left the cave of my mother, wandering until I found a place that felt like it could be a home. I have all of my knowledge, and the memory of what I used to be. I have the story of a woman who learned to be a spider as my guide. I will learn to weave with one hand and I will see what I will become. But never again will I forget.

It is dangerous to claim to be better than a God. Whether it is true or not doesn’t matter.

[abluescarfonwaston]

Trick or treat!! 👻

Oh hey! Here's a box of skittles. I definitely didn't find them in the back of the pantry!

God how old are those things?

[gardenergulfie]

trimck or treatem :D

Treat! Dried seaweed snack!

[thathalloweenyfeeling]

Trick or Treaters 2022, pt. 3

[nowandevermore]

Happy Halloween!

🎃 Trick or treat! 👻

Treat 🎃🎃

Have another from Legends Zero!

Hailey looks up at the blade, its sharp point only inches from her nose, eyes wide. This can’t be the end. She’s only just begun, there’s so much more to do.

“They’re mine,” a familiar voice calls, and Riyu steps up to the left of where Hailey lay; a low growl rumbles in her throat at the other men.

The soldiers lower their swords, looking at Riyu’s face, but avoiding her gaze, “I— I’m sorry, hero. We saw these two lurking near the base of the wall, I don’t recognize this girl; I planned to bring her to the Lieutenant for questioning.”

“Your Lieutenant placed Monotome and I in charge,” Riyu all but snarls, electricity flickering dangerously in the still air surrounding them. She glances slightly to her left, meeting Hailey’s eyes for a second before turning back to the Bleu soldiers, “She looks like less of a threat than the rest of the rebellion; if this is who you’re afraid of then you aren’t ready to fight this war. Now, go back inside the walls before I tell Lieutenant Pine that you’re interfering with my mission.”

“Yes, ma’am,” one of the soldiers gulps, Hailey doesn’t look at the two to know which one. The two soldiers turn and hastily return to the entry gates of the city.

[storyandcookieshunter]

Trick or treat!

Awwe here's some treat for ye, cutie!

[ranbutler-epicsans-moon]

Trick or treat!

⟟ give treat here pick what you want

[peachypede]

Triiiicky trick?. 👀👀👀🍬🍬🍬🍬

Trick = Oc Headcanon!

The wheel of fate chose Pecha!

I like to think Pecha is a bit more high maintenance than she appears/comes off as. Not that she demands things, but she general likes to look her best (which requires some money, she spends quite a bit of her budget on it) and also needs quite a bit of attention from a lover. This isn’t a problem if her lover doesn’t mind, though.

[kelofmindelan]

writer trick or treat! <3

This is the beginning of an Eilonwy fic I never finished, but I hope you enjoy it!

When she dreamed, she dreamed of laughter. Sunlight shone on golden hair as soft hands held her, while another pair of hands made paper into magic. She remembered whispered words of love, of promises, of stories stretching years back in time to a beginning no one truly remembers. When she dreamed, she remembered what it was to be happy and to be loved.

But she woke to darkness.

Eilonwy was a girl of magic, who felt truths without knowing how, and who countered all of that with the stubborn practicality born of surviving. Magic did not feed her when her aunt forgot to feed her yet again, the child’s needs lost in plans for the child. Truth did not open doors of a cell that had been closed on her in the middle of yet another fickle rage. Eilonwy was no damsel waiting for her prince to rescue her because even a world of magic can run short on heroes. She would meet one one day, but she didn’t have time to wait for him to grow up enough to try and save her. So she learned to save herself.

Sometimes Achren would remember her, and then there were lessons. Some of them were in magic. Eilonwy learned how to put out light, how to distract opponents so she could sneak past them, how to create a rope that would bind and burn. Alone in her room, she taught herself how to make light. Some of the scattered lessons were in ancient knowledge – reading and writing and stories of the powerful enchanters that populated the Llyr family line so that some day Eilonwy could be one of them.

The lesson that was the most unintentional and frequent was in power. How to walk so every eye in the room was on her. What tone she needed so that she could speak and reach deep into their core and pull out whatever she wanted them to feel. That twitch of an eyebrow that meant she was angry and the tightening of lips that meant she was about to prove her own power over whoever had tried to challenge her. Achren used this, but Eilonwy practiced it for the day she would be an enchantress and a queen.

Whenever she had been forgotten for too long, Eilonwy would listen at keyholes, whispering incantations under her breath to practice later in her room. Whenever she was caught, she would fight the whipping before being locked in a cell. As she wiped hot and angry tears from her cheeks, she insisted to herself that it was worth it. She refused to learn at anyone else’s pace. She would take knowledge for herself and damn the consequences. It was her own promise.