*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~
“Your tapestries are so
fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess
Arachne tosses her
head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,
“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”
The merchant blanches
and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.
Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his
time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”
He pays her for her
wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with
grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled
hands curled over a cane.
Arachne is not stupid,
but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes
and declares, “Athena should thank me,
since my talents earn her so much praise.”
She pushes past her and
keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the
They will tell tales of
her hubris. They will all be true.
The next day she bumps
into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.
“Know your place,
mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and
Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is
say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.
She will not lie.
“I do,” she says
coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”
She is not honest as a
virtue, but as a vice.
Athena challengers her
to a weaving contest. She accepts.
Gods are not so hard to
find, if you know where to look.
“It’s a volcano,” the
baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking
money from someone who’s clearly not all there.
She grabs her bag of
sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,
“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”
“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the
first dozen times.
“Thank you for your
help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.
She walks. She grows
hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The
sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s
tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to
But Arachne does not
believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales
will be true.
She ties a scarf around
her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to
her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and
begins her slow ascent.
The muscles in her legs
and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white
dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body
and drips down her back.
“What are you doing?”
Arachne turns her head
and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily
to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She
swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”
The creature tilts his
head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be
smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”
“Is it true?” she
repeats, refusing to flinch.
“Yes,” he says, looking
at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”
“There’s some sweet
bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”
His hands are big
enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead
he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically
small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks
his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the
second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”
“I’m the weaver
Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”
They tell tales of
They are not true.
He’s got a broad,
angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,
and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs
only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,
replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.
“Had your look, girl?”
he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a
“Yes,” she says, and
doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.
His lips quirk up at
the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside
the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that
she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,
girl. What do you want?”
She slides her pack off
her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have
woven her a cloak.”
He raises an eyebrow
and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands
could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
With a gust of wind the
oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place
stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her
husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,
richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of
Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.
“Let’s see it then,”
she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.
It unrolls beautifully.
It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.
The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up
along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and
her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced
artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.
Her lips part in
surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus
says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take
The goddess smiles and
Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite
is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the
goddess says, “you have my attention.”
Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,
“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”
Their faces somber.
Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will
lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”
“I know,” she says,
“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”
There are no tales of
their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why
wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both
Gods hate being made to
feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say
Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins
the weaving contest.
“Clever girl,” Hephaestus
Aphrodite stares at her
reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus
left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,
not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench
upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at
her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave
me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”
A gown as exquisite as
the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
The contest goes as
expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.
The goddess’s face goes
red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the
death blow coming for her.
The blow comes.
Death does not.
She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s
volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no
hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –
She doesn’t believe in
defeat, in loss.
It was a terribly long
journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she
has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in
between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of
sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.
Athena’s cruel joke of
allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow
color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.
It takes seven years
for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that
time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s
a large insect, but not that large.
She arrives just as the
sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the
earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.
Arachne doesn’t return
to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries
and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for
and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.
“Huh,” Brontes looks
onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”
She cautiously skitters
down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that
a piece of a honey bun?”
She looks up at him,
waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand
His face slowly fills with
a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?” She
jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his
massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”
She jumps down, landing
in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running
after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too
small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for
several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself
out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”
There’s that same
breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,
that you had to yell?”
Arachne sees the exact
moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made
entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush
down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”
She warms at that, that
Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven
They’ve told tales of
They are all true.
Brontes points at the
web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the
goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”
she says, “but I know someone who can.”
Then they are in front
of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess
Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”
returns, “I need to see Persephone.”
The man’s face stays
cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck
in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available
for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please
come with me.”
Arachne weaves a dress
for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.
“I can take you
somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”
Arachne pauses at her
loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you
like me to leave?” she asks instead.
Aphrodite scoffs, “Of
course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the
spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the
goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a
moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”
She looks up at the
goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else
would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”
To declare your company
equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.
They tell tales of her
“An excellent point,”
Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.
My reason of how I cannot draw Mark fuckin’ Fischbach’s facial Region.
I cannot draw guys for shit, no matter how damn hard I fuckin’ try. This guy’s got the face of what many would depict as a greek god, or like a roman statue. He’s got a very defined facehole, with a jaw that could cut the string of life like in Hercules. He has a chiseled jaw that could decapitate a stone statue’s head, and it’s just…
SO FUCKING HARD
@markiplier HOW DO YOU LIVE WITH A FACE THAT WAS CHISELED BY THE LORDS OF THE COSMOS
HOW DOES YOUR FACEHOLE DEFINE JUSTICE
HOW IS IT SO… DEFINED
WHAT IS YOUR FECKIN’ SECRETS
I NEED TO KNOW
FOR 18 YEARS, I’VE BEEN SHEDDING BLOOD, SWEAT, SOUL FLAKES, AND TEARS TO MAKE MY ART NOT JUST DETAILED TO THE T, BUT TO MAKE IT ABSOLUTELY PERFECT
YOUR FACEHOLE FRUSTRATES ME, MARK
THE ONLY THING KEEPING ME TO YOUR CHANNEL IS DICK JOKES AND MEMES
THIS IS HOW FAR I COME
TO BE BESTED YET PLEASED BY A MAN OF DIFFICULT FACIAL REGION GEOGRAPHY AND FEATURES
I’M GOING BACK TO DRAWING HOOTTUBES SHITTING STARS NOW
Your myth retellings are gorgeous. Would you tell another please? Maybe something with Hermes?
Pandora is made from
earth, shaped by the hands of Hephaestus and made in the image of his beloved
wife. Aphrodite gifts her with grace and charisma. Athena teaches her to weave
and bestows cleverness upon her.
She stands in front of
Hermes, and the god frowns and touches her with a single fingertip on her chin,
moving her head one way than the other. “They’ll eat you alive,” he says, and
she doesn’t understand.
She tilts her head to the
side and smiles a vacant smile. All of the cleverness in the world will do her
no good without any context. “We are the same,” she says, pressing a hand to
Hermes’s chest. She is made from earth and has the skin to mach. He is a
celestial god, and his skin is the same rich shade of brown.
He did not ask to be born
any more than his mother asked to bare him. His creation, just like hers, is at
the whims of Zeus. All for some little lost fire, all because Prometheus wanted
his people to be warm, and, well, he is the god of the thieves after all –
So he gifts her with
deceit, with selfishness, with cunning. Her smile leaves her face all at once
as she’s filled with self-awareness. “He’ll be angry with you,” she says, “I am
not what you were supposed to make.”
“Gods have short
memories,” he says, and doesn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice. “Do
not worry about me, gifted child. You have larger problems than my fate.”
He has turned her from
something pure into – something more like him. Her face darkens even further as
her perfectly crafted mind slots all the pieces together, and he can’t help but
find her lovely. It’s how she was made, after all. “I can’t stop it, can I?
Whatever they’re planning for me to do?”
“No,” Hermes says, “but
now you might be able to survive it.”
“Will I want to?” she
asks, and he doesn’t answer. She doesn’t expect him too.
She hides from everyone,
lives in a cave at the edge of the city. The gods had called her the first
woman, but that’s not true, she can see.
There are women. They
smile and laugh have work roughened hands. She aches to join them, but she has
the beauty of a goddess. They will know. If she joins them, they will know she
is not of them, and it will set into motion whatever trap Zeus has planned.
She is not human, not in
the same way, molded from clay by a god’s hands. But she is of humans, and not eager to bestow upon
them the harm she’s destined to bring them. She bathes in streams where only
nymphs reside, steals into the city in the cloak of night and pilfers from the
“When they said they sent
my brother a wife,” a low, amused voice says too close behind her one night, “I
had not expected a begger.”
She whirls around, hard
bread clenched tight in front of her, an incredibly inefficient shield. Her
breath catches in her throat when she sees him, dark and tall and eyes like the
night sky. He looks like Hermes. Like her. “Who are you?” she demands. They’re
in an alley corner, and of her gifts flight is not among them. She’ll have to
fight him to get away.
She’s not afraid of him.
Maybe another mortal would be, cornered in the middle of the night by a man she
doesn’t know. But she’s no normal mortal woman, and besides – he has something
comforting about him, like the hearthfire attended by Hestia. Something warm.
“I am Prometheus,” says
the man, and no wonder he reminds her of fire. “What do they call you?”
“You are meant to be in
the deepest pits of Hades’s realm,” she snaps, and shifts her grip on the stale
bread so that she can throw it at him. He’s the whole reason she’s here to
begin with, him and his thievery.
He shrugs and walks
closer to her, watching her like one would watch a wild animal. Good. Here, in
this dark alley where no one would find a cooling body until morning, it is he
that should be afraid. “Gods forget,” he says, “and Hades had grown cold in his
place beneath the earth.”
She pauses, considers. “You
stole fire for Hades?”
“No,” he corrects, “I
stole fire for the people. But Hades benefited as well. Enough that he was
willing to forget the terms of my
“What do you want?” she
asks for the second time. “Why are you here?”
He stops, too close to
her, “The question is why are you
She steps into his space
now, following him as he backs away from her, “I am here because of you,
fire-stealer, because gods may forget but they do not forgive, and I am the
punishment they have unleashed upon the world.”
“What a punishment you
are,” he says, looking at her lips, and she forgets to hate him only long
enough to kiss him.
Hermes watches her,
watches them. He doesn’t know Zeus’s plan, if this is part of it or not, but he
watches her, and he worries. He thinks it is, he can see Aphrodite’s magic
clinging to Pandora, but he doesn’t know why.
He would go to his
mother, but she’s always difficult to find, Gaea preferring to live in streams
and rivers rather than face the man she bore a son for. But his mother’s
father, on the other hand, is always in the same place.
greets, touching lightly down onto the earth, “How are you?”
“How am I always, boy?”
Atlas grunts out, legs and arms straining as he holds up the sky above the
Hermes lips quirk up the
corners. Some days, he thinks he’s more Atlas’s grandson than he’s Zeus’s son. “I
need some advice, Grandfather.”
Atlas raises an eyebrow, “I’m
So Hermes tells him
everything, from beginning to end, because he can’t figure out what his father’s
plan is, but Atlas might. He’s known the man for longer, at least.
Atlas nods, slow, and
says, “A bride of gods, a gifted child. I can think of only one reason to
create such a child.” Hermes waits. Atlas sighs and says, “There is a jar,
within Olympus, that becomes sealed when it leaves the realm of the gods. After
that, only a being neither mortal nor celestial may open it.”
“What are they planning
to put inside?” Hermes demands, heart spiking. What are they planning to unleash
upon the unsuspecting earth?
His grandfather smirks, “It
doesn’t matter. What matters is this – what are you going to put inside?”
Unhealthily obsessed with video games, anime, Disney, or some sick combination of the three
One of the most sleep-deprived majors, but also surprisingly chipper (there are exceptions)
Instantly recognizable by their triforce t-shirts or Pokemon Go snapbacks
In spite of everything, they have the highest population of straight-edge asexuals
If you weren’t straight edge and celibate before, then prepare to be, because you’re about to disown all bodily urges and dedicate your life to drawing cartoon animals
Like Animation majors, but cooler and much better taste in fashion. A little less tech-savvy, though
Comic book nerds
Painting & Drawing
A friend of mine once said, “People who love animation go into animation. Then they realize it’s a ton of work and switch to illustration. Then they realize THAT’S a ton of work and switch into Painting & Drawing.”
Highest percentage of colorful hair and weird tattoos/piercings
Listen to music you’ve never heard of
Smoke a LOT, asthmatics beware
Kinda stereotypical stoners or high level artsy kids, but not that pretentious
Somehow even more conceptual and indie than P&D
Behind the ceramics building, there’s a sculpture garden of all the sculptures of students past. Every night, the campus closes at 4AM. They say it’s for security, but I say it’s because the sculptures all come to life at that point. I mean, think about it. The whole “spooky midnight hour” is so cliche, I don’t know anyone who DOESN’T stay up till midnight at least once a week. But 4AM? That’s the true witching hour. The hour that belongs only to the living sculptures (and architecture majors I guess)
Frankly, the least hygienic major
All the males and most of the females have a rank odor after being sweatily hunched over the steaming hot forges for too long
Might be stoners, but the chill, easy-to-hang-out-with stoners
Probably the most like a real family. I always walk by the Glass Studio at night and feel the breeze of warm air from their fire, catch a riff of tasteful classic rock, and hear the echoes of genuine laughter from within. It must be nice to have a home.
I dunno, I’ve never met one. They put on some sick gallery shows, though.
In spite of Graphic Design as an art not being super emotional or indie compared to, say, Painting, the GD majors are probably some of the most tortured souls I’ve met
I used to be best friends/date a GD major and watched before my eyes as she was crushed by the world around her from Freshman to Junior year. Honestly I’m not sure if she still goes here. We don’t talk anymore, it’s too painful. I miss her, or rather, I miss the person she used to be. The person she used to be before Graphic Design.
I’m now roommates with a poor little GD Freshman, and I worry about her every day. Not as a lover like with the last one, but as a parent. What will happen to her? How long will she last? Cheyenne, if you’re reading this, run away while you still can.
Gets excited about fonts and kerning.
I don’t really know what kerning is.
Outdoorsy and nature loving hippies
The chillest major, I envy them
Photography IS hard work, don’t get me wrong, but come ON! You travel to a beautiful mountain spring, snap a few pictures, and call it a day
Never need to pull all-nighters
Seriously, I deeply respect Photography as an art and all BUT
Some of them are also outdoorsy and nature loving hippies, the rest are hipSTERS
“I don’t watch ‘movies.’ I watch Films.”
Apparently they have something of a drug problem, i.e., half the class comes in stoned
My friend Chris said one of the film teachers plays Porno he made in class, I’m not sure if he was messing with me or not
Oh boy, Architecture
The coldest hearts of any major
The only nice Architecture majors are the first years. After that last final, something inside of them breaks. At that point they either crawl to a different major in submission, or become as sharp, straight, and lifeless as the buildings which they spend so much time designing
They literally do not sleep
Seriously, I was pulling an all-nighter last week (since the Architecture place is the only place open 24/7) and I swear to god there was an entire CLASSFULL of the Architects up and jamming from 10pm to 7am. I tried to sleep, but the Architecture majors just wouldn’t quit. Also, it was so cold there. So cold. Cold from the hearts of fifth-year Architects. I’m bringing my winter backpacking sleeping bag next time.
Mostly foreign exchange students, especially Chinese, Indian, and Korean
I don’t speak Chinese, Indian, OR Korean so I can’t say much else
Vaguely like Architecture majors, only they appear to have a normal spectrum of human emotions
What is Interactive Design? Honestly I don’t really know. Like making Apps or some shmuck.
Graphic Designers who love themselves
Obviously they’re very very VERY nicely dressed
Calm, confident, but also have fun sides
Most of the textiles students I’ve met are just stop-motion loving Animators
I think the ones that aren’t are probably like grandmas that love knitting or something
Honestly I didn’t know this was a major until like last semester
The only furniture major I’ve met was this Norwegian dude who looked like a greek god
We were once assigned to do a group project together but then he blew me off to go surfing so I had to do it myself. Seriously? Surfing???? Like I’d be mad but that’s a cool reason to blow someone off. Hell, I’d blow people off surfing if I had the easy life of a non-animation-major
“We have a writing program?”
They’re cool though
Get really excited about books. I’ve read only about three or four books so I kind of just smile and nod while they talk
Seem genuinely interested in other people’s stories
I’m not entirely sure what this is
Passionate about social justice and teamwork
Disclaimer: No offense to any of them (except architecture majors)
*At California College of the Arts from my relativley limited perspective as an animation major who frankly has only had minimal interactions with the others
he works the night shift at the busiest morgue in vegas. death has been his sole companion over the centuries, his one constant in an ever changing world. after all, he is the only god that comes when called upon.
Dionysus was the god of the grape harvest, winemaking and wine, of ritual madness and ecstasy in Greek mythology. His name - now thought to be verified as being a theonym - in Linear B tablets as di-wo-nu-so (KH Gq 5 inscription), shows that he may have been worshipped as early as c. 1500–1100 BCE by Mycenean Greeks; other traces of the Dionysian-type cult have been found in ancient Minoan Crete.
The Greek gods had personalities like those of humans and struggled with one another for position and power. They did not love humans (although some had favorites) and did not ask to be loved by them. They did not impose codes of behavior. They expected respect and honor but could act contrary to human needs and desires.