12, 12 and a half
#23
$LAYYYTER
styofa doing anything
AnasAbdin

â

Discoholic đŞŠ
RMH

ellievsbear

Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Mike Driver

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Sweet Seals For You, Always

JBB: An Artblog!
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
h
i don't do bad sauce passes
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One Nice Bug Per Day

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@stsarah
12, 12 and a half
#23

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Do yâall know where the phrase âeat the richâ comes from or do you just repeat it cause you heard it elsewhere?
Itâs not a bad thing, I just saw someone say âwe never said who would eat the richâ and realized a lot of yâall might not have heard the full quote
Itâs from Rousseau and itâs âWhen the people shall have nothing more to eat, they will eat the rich"
And, well, thereâs a lot of people with nothing to eatâŚ
The poor cried,
"We are starving. There is no more bread, and we have nothing to eat."
The rich man said,
"Not my problem you don't work for your bread,"
as if he did not snatch away the grain by his own greedy hands and create filling bread for his own overflowing mouth.
The poor cried,
"We are dying. There is no more medicine, and we're all ill."
The rich man said,
"Not my problem you don't take care of yourselves,"
as if he did not buy all the medicine and raise prices so high
the gods themselves would not
be able to reach.
The poor people
stopped crying,
and the rich man was satisfied...
Until they came knocking at his door one night;
their faces were sunken,
their flesh decaying,
their eyes sightless.
They were monsters
of the rich man's
own making.
As they devoured his flesh,
the rich man cried,
"Please, spare me!"
The ravenous zombies said,
"Not our fault
you fattened yourself
for slaughter."
The Mighty Nein Portraits by Hunter Bonyun
Stunning
#fancy #gotmynailsdid #icanttype (at West Vancouver, British Columbia) https://www.instagram.com/p/B4JjXhEhJqF/?igshid=18bwn6lghzv7u
Weekend well spent! #stormcrow #stormcrowtavern #exitthegame #pumpkincheesecake #rainydaycoffee #saltedcaramelcake (at Storm Crow Tavern) https://www.instagram.com/p/B33FtlkhM-0/?igshid=tif9ra45s4k6

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When i was a kid my mom and i had a code word to let her know when i needed her to say no. For instance if a kid at school asked me to come over and stay the night but i really didnt want to, id call my mama and ask her, and then end it with âplease, Mom?â I never call my mama Mom, just Mama or Moomoo, so she would know immediately to say that I was grounded or had too much homework or some other bullshit. We also had a system the other way around, so if i called her to see how her date was going and she needed an out, she would call me babydoll and id tell her i heard scary noises and was frightened and needed her to come home or something. Anyways, my point is that every family should hqve a system of codes to keep them safe. Go do that.
Dude. Family life on point.
How to spot signs and symptoms of Breast CancerÂ
Reblog to literally save a life
whish they told us this in school, all they did was say âfeel for lumps, you will know when you feel itâ
Was Halas trying to make his own Laughing Hand? He had the heart in his possession, maybe he was trying to make an indestructible doom servant of his own.Â
I think Halas turned HIMSELF into the Laughing Hand. To attain immortality.
âNo, no one hears the singing bones And no one sees the crying ghosts And everyone thinks Iâm alone All aloneâ (x)
Good Good Mister Clay đ¤
[ID: A stylized, animated drawing of Caduceus Clay and the Wildmother in profile. Caduceus is a pink firbolg with a cow-like nose, a short beard, and very long, flowing pink hair that is shaved on one side. He wears light green robes with very long, flowing white sleeves. There are pink flowers and a small mug of steaming tea in one hand as he looks forward and smiles serenely, blinking softly. His hair moves as though in a gentle breeze, and petals continually fall from the flowers.
Behind him is the Wildmother, who has brown skin and long white hair that moves in waves. Both of her arms are golden and skeletal, and her chin is in one of her hands, while her other arm rests on Caduceusâs head. Her eyes are covered by a teal hood that appears to be growing oyster mushrooms on the back, with large green feathers below them. Below that, a ribcage with a few magenta flowers is visible. Here, her robe hangs in tatters and strips, into which have been woven a mammalian animal skull, a bird skull, and a jawbone. Red lines swirl around her head as she smiles a little. From one edge of the robe, pale green, capped mushrooms continually sprout up and then wither again. Meanwhile, tiny white butterflies flutter around the flowers and skulls. The background is black. End ID.]
Parenting.
hallbeck.com
THANK YOU
I love this one personally.
It gotta better
THISđISđSOđIMPORTANTđ These comics RADIATE good dad energy and I am LIVING for it!
YES YES YES YES YES

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Could I please get a dice background ? I really love dark greens, grays, and blacks :) !
Love it!
Minty Fresh
Iâm down
this is the money dog, repost in the next 24 hours and money will come your way!!
ehh what the hell
OH MY GOD SO NO FUCKIN BULLSHIT I SWEAR To GOD. I reblogged this an hour ago and IM NOT Lying My Tax Refund which I did in late march popped into my Bank Account, and it was a Decent sized amountâŚâŚ
WHAT THE FUCK Is THIS MAGIC!??!?!?! Im trying this again IM NOT BSing hahahaha thats actually pretty cool xD
yooooo
yoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
FUCKIN YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
no BULLSHIT I KID YOU NOT! Look what I found while walking HomeâŚ..
OH MY GOD
OH MY F*CKIN GOD
THIS POST FUCKIN WORKS?!?!?! THIS IS PAST A COINCIDENCE NO WAY!??! NO FRIGGIN WAY!!!Â
Im Going to reblog this every day to test this, its MAGIC ITS FRIGGIN MAGICÂ
I need to believe in the heart of the postâŚ
Oh? Well⌠*reblag*
i reblogged this and now my uncle is giving me 250 to dye my hair nani the fucko
I have nothing to lose
my palm was itchin today not riskin it
I always reblog the money posts cause I canât afford not too lol
It works. I just got $300 for no reason.
Money dog is my friend
Money dog is the shit
I believe in the money dogđ
I believe in the money đś
Bless me pls money pup đđ
Just woke up đđż
Ppleaseđđđ˝
Doing this again because last time I reblogged this I got $50
canât not reblog the money dog
I could use some money, might as well trust in the money post
hey everyone thanks for coming to the show weâre Arlene Titty Pills
Betty Biopsy
Cynthia Car Accident
Virginia Gave Blood
Sylvia Tetanus
Beatrice Diabetes
Mamie 6 Month Followup
Norma Pneumonia in the house đ¤đť
samâs puns + reactions
bonus:
Yes Queen!

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âHorsemanning, or fake beheading, was a popular way to pose in a photograph in the 1920âs. Sometimes spelled horsemaning, the horsemanning photo fad derives its name from the Headless Horseman, a character from âThe Legend of Sleepy Hollow.â
(x)
HUMAN BEING ARE AND ALWAYS HAVE BEEN SUCH HUGE FUCKING DORKS OKAY.
#i love things that prove humans have had weird fads forever
people forget that memes existed before the internet
Planking was dumb, but THIS. THIS I can get behind!
a hypothetical d&d party
The bard is mute.
Itâs not the first thing people notice about her, usually. The first thing is generally that sheâs young, and female, and lovelyâthe first thing people notice about their entire party is that theyâre all young, and female, and lovely, and thatâs gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they havenât noticed the the paladinâs hammer or the rangerâs axe. It comes up rather quickly though, often enough. Whoever heard of a bard who canât sing?
She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her. She dances quick, except when sheâs tired, when sheâs scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.
She doesnât tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and itâs easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water. The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.
.
The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming. Sheâs small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning. The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlockâs familiar. The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.
Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow. Sheâs kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse. She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.
Sheâs never told the story of how she met the warlockâs mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesnât know herself. It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well. The prince wasnât meant to be cruel, the warlock says. The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmotherâs house. The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse. The powerâs an apology of sorts.
.
The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous. She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and sheâs got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isnât in the tower any more in the first place. She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.
There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witchâs endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream. The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didnât mind it as much when she talked about it. She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witchâs books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which sheâs told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes. Itâs a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesnât exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.
Her hair is too short. She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced. Â
.
The ranger doesnât care about princes, which makes one of them at least. Then again, the ranger doesnât trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them. She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.
She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldnât help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts canât see color and redâs just another shade of gray if the lightâs low enough. She never uses her axe against trees. She doesnât need to. She can find a path through any brush without it. She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girlsâ hair.
Her wolfâs mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolfâs mate before that, and the mate had an old womanâs blood on his teeth when it happened. The rangerâs blade found the wolfâs motherâs throat. The rangerâs mother sent her out into the woods in the first place. Itâs not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth. One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it wonât. In the mean time, thereâs flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.
.
The paladinâs hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse. Sheâs not undead, mostly. The undead are her job. She knows that much.
She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and thereâs judgment to lay out in the world. Her grip on her warhammerâs all wrongâshe holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to. Her armorâs all dwarven make, and her shieldâs black and red and white like snow.
She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each othersâ faces, everyone still nods. She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queenâs domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away. She woke up to somebodyâs lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin. She doesnât like princes. She doesnât like necromancers.
She likes sunlight, and summer, and colors that arenât black and white and red. She likes the way the bard grins when she whirls into a dance, and the look in the warlockâs eye when she sets her feet to say no, and the wizardâs laughter on high with a Fly spell, and the rangerâs gentle fingers braiding flowers into everything she can touch. Â
The archer is all flame-haired and brown cloak, bear-skin pelt over one shoulder. She knows the way of the woods, where the ancient ruins lie, how deep to dig and when to walk away. When she shoots, her whole body goes taut as the string, her anger quick to snap and let fly. Her arrows never miss. Never. Â
She was young once, had a mother and a father, brothers and a clan. But families turn on each other and little girls are expected to grow into silent women who give their bodies to whatever man claims them. There was a witch and a potion and the others have lived their own version of this part of the story, so they pass the wineskin to wipe the phantom taste of tart from her mouth. When the war came â death is never satisfied with a happy ending â the fire burned the last of her illusions as towers crumbled and boys she thought were friends became men who killed without remorse.Â
Will-o-the-wisps cling to the hem of her cloak and, on some nights when the moon is bright, they light the partyâs way, ringing their campsite and casting shadows as tall as stones.Â
The fighterâs armor is light, his sword curved with a single-edged blade, silk-wrapped pommel always at hand. His eyes are hooded, haunted by death and blood and battle. Heâs long ago quit praying to his familyâs gods; thereâs no great dragon to save him, no ancestors to offer advice.Â
No one asks his story and he doesnât volunteer more than a name thatâs not his birth one. They know, can see the scars when he bathes in the river, can hear the nightmares that leave him sweating and awake in the odd hours of the night. No one presses him; heâs saved all their lives multiple times with his quick thinking, impromptu plan, his ability to be what he needs to in order to get the job done. What else do they need to know?Â
So he travels with them, little empty cage on his belt loop, lotus flower comb tucked in his pouch, and a dragon tattoo on his arm. Sometimes he hums old songs about sowâs ears, silk purses, coursing rivers, and the dark side of the moon. And heâs the first to engage their enemies, every time.Â
They claim the sorceress gains her power from some ancient, draconic source. All white hair and skin, all blue eyes and ice - its easy to see the hardened stare of a silver dragon in her eyes. She wears light armour of dragon scale and unleashes halestroms of ice and snow.
She walks with her shoulders taught. She speaks with the grace of a Courtier. She pushes herself to the breaking point anytime she can - those closest to her wonder if this is in some sort of act of self-harm.
Not that she would be the first among them to harm herself.
âCloseâ was a relative term, as well. She never spoke of her emotions. She never spoke of her past. There is a sense of restlessness in her cold demeanor. A sense of a violent river churning just beneath a sheet of ice.
She hates herself, but she hates her powers more. Late into the night, when the last of the campfireâs embers dwindle, she allows herself just a moment of rest. She lets the facade fall. Her eyes are haunted, and the grief she feels is unbearable. But then comes the guilt. And then the anger.
She cannot undo what sheâs done, she finds no relief from her sisterâs ghost. But the battlefield⌠thatâs somewhat cathartic.
-
The monk comes from power, and in a twist of bitter irony, was given none at all. She shares the archer-druidâs history of being pawned off to men, though she did once dream of romance.
She was to be married off to a friend of her fatherâs, a man twice her age with eyes that lingered far too long and a snake- tongue that whispered threats. She instead fell in love with a street rat who promised to marry her.
She was young and in love. She believed him. But when her âhonourâ was gone, he vanished into the night. She was abandoned to marry an old man who controlled what she did, what she could wear, who expected a servant to be at his beck and call.
She was no servant. She fled riches for rags, seeking asylum in the desert. She found it in the monastery that lived within the tiger cave, and discovered her own power.
The only one she trusts is the tiger that shadows her. Impulsive, blunt, and brash - the monk lets no man treat her like a prize to be won.
-
The cleric knows many things.
It would seem infinite knowledge is at her finger tips, her bag filled with books and little else. The one thing she didnât learn from leather-bound pages is to never make deals with monsters.
She traded her soul for anothers. She walked the halls of a mansion-turned-prison with a volatile, violent beast. She found her faith in the library, the one place where something lived that was more fearsome than her captor.
It takes a certain mental fortitude to escape a cursed beast. It takes even more to stand on even ground with Illsensine. Her experience both makes her a master manipulator, and impossible to fool.
She is master at things sheâs never practiced. She has inexplicable sight into things that once were. She even knows the crevasses in the minds of others.
She knows knowledge is power. And she knows many dark and terrible things.
Another wizard joins them after a time. Her eyes are sharp like the clear blue crystal on her neck and they glow in harmony when her magic flows from her fingertips. She has notebooks full of a language none of them understand and there are days where she caresses the pages of a journal as if a long lost lover seen for the first time.
Occassionally, she will speak of another land, of flying fish and a great power made up of their ancestors that makes hers pale in comparison. She is the last of a race, she tells them, hands clutching the journal. There were others that came in false peace and took her and the power that fuelled their whole world. When she returned, only a single man was left, their long lives having caught up to her people. He taught her much, retaught her the language of her people, but she could not give the gift of healing and long life in return and he eventually passed away. She had no princes to ruin her world, just a man that failed to save it and spent his life atoning.
After those nights, she reads the journal for hours, hands clutching the crystal shard around her neck and the tattoos of the faces of her ancestors glowing on her shoulders.
⌠. .
Their druid seems to blow into their lives with a gentle breeze that doesnât match her hard eyes. She doesnât speak their language, but they recognize suffering that seems familiar to them and she seems to as well. When they fight, she never attacks first, merely defends and they believe that is what she will only do up until their bard is nearly killed. A cold light of certainty comes to her eyes then and the fight ends quickly.
Her forest gods whisper to her and the only times they see her smile is when the animals gather to her. She covered her markings, but theyâve each seen and recognized them for a hunted race and say nothing. It isnât their place.
⌠. .
Their first rogue is a young girl with eyes like a dreamers right until she kills you. Many mistake her for a bard with her soft laugh and tales dripping from her tongue, but she smilingly shakes her head every time and says that the instruments were always better played by her boys.
The professional name she carries is the Mermaid and when their wizard asks why she replies that it seemed fitting. When mermaids kill, she elaborates, they donât mean anything personal. They are only trying to drown you. She wears soft blues that fade into deep blacks like a night sky, has stars carved into the handles of her daggers, and always sleeps with the windows locked.
When their bard asks where she wishes life would have taken her to instead, she says that she liked the idea of piracy. Red-Handed Jill would have been her name and every boy dreaming of adventure would know that she was the shadow that followed.
⌠. .
Their second rogue has weary eyes like the sky when you cloud gaze and she says the most peculiar things sometimes, but her face goes shadowed when she sees lazy smoke rings and she hates riddles and questions, so they donât ask.
Iâm lost, she says, but Iâve forgotten where Iâm going, so I suppose thatâs not a problem. She drifts with them like a wandering tendril of smoke and smiles when she catches a glimpse of a cat or a top hat.
Her oddest trait is that she scratches out every heart she sees, whether itâs on a page or carved into a tree around the names of lovers. The world could do with less hearts and dreams, according to her.
⌠. .
Their necromancer hates what she does and it is only that and her story that allows their warrior to tolerate her. She spent her life being tricked, by her first love and then her second and she made a deal with the God of death for them, only for them to abandon her for other girls to trick. She serves her god still, but does her best to twist his commands as best she can.
Sheâs made up of loud scoffs and jeers, but in her quieter moments when another one of them is hurting sheâll murmur that heâs not worth it, no matter who he is. Let him fade to ancient history, where he belongs.
Bard - Ariel
Warlock - Cinderella
Wizard - Rapunzel
Ranger - Red Riding Hood
Paladin - Snow White
Archer - Merida
Fighter - Mulan
Sorceress - Elsa
Monk - Jasmine
Cleric - Belle
2nd Wizard - Kida
Druid - Pocahontas
Rogue - Wendy
2nd Rogue - Alice
Necromancer - Megara
My favorite thing about this post is that I got to guess who each person was and then had an answer key at the end.
When the assassin joined them, she brought her twins with her. They had the same violet eyes as their mother, and the same stony silence. The woman herself might have been a ranger for how well she knows the forest. She can kill and dress a man as neatly as a deer. The others do not ask what becomes of the bodies.
She sleeps only two or three hours at a time, scarred fingers wrapped around her wrought-silver dagger. Anyone who tries to touch her in her sleep would pay in blood. Her poisons, made from the roots and stems collected by the twins, are almost as quick as her blade.Â
She has little use for mercy, she tells them, in a voice that never quite lost its fae-given music. The fae who showed her mercy only doomed her to awake in bondage to a man who had already fathered children on her. She touches the moleskin bag that hangs around her neck. The finger bones inside clack, and she gives a rare smile. In vengeance, there is freedom.