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"but they are not canon"

Do I look like I give a fuck

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fanfiction is so beautiful because what do you mean i can read the same characters falling in love 92737389 times in different scenarios and not get tired of it.

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i hate it when a ship is so popular fhat you cant go into a character tag without seeing the other guy too... i dont want him. go away

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really annoys me when my mutual's art doesn't get 10 billion notes. none of you have good taste. pony up and reblog

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It’s a balancing act.

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favorite past life moment this season?

there’s so many good moments but I rly like when ethubs argued right in front of gem and grians salads

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I hope they play fein

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Day 17

Me when I start a daily bad boys blog but take two days to draw everything

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While drawing this, my friends asked me if I was drawing fanart or OCs =))) I took a moment to think and then answered "Um, both??" =)))

Like, Epic fandom has a pretty interesting trait which is... When drawing fanart for Epic, I'm also making personal art =))) Because each fan has a different POV, a different amount of knowledge about Greek mythology as well as different personal interests, from which different "designs"/"ideas" are born even though it's the same character. This makes the content in the fandom quite diverse in terms of both design and side stories - which are not in Jorge's music album.

In short, this interesting trait makes me like making fanart for Epic sm =)))

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I was struck with inspiration

Make the lighthouse menacing

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WTSS fanart

I love this fanfic so much aAaaaAAAA THEYRE SO GAY

(I really love this scene in particular)

@ariyourfavsheep

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I was gonna do something that i actually have to do but then my brain said yes but what if you do that drawing youve been meaning to do for weeks

Definitely what i was supposed to be doing

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Rumi wallpaper for funsies and totally not because she's so pretty, handsome, amazing, awwjdkl

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Darkstalker

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Presenting to you my writing cycle

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I got part two of survivor au

And eurylochus :D

Polites staggers down the dunes and onto the beach as fast as he can. The sand throws him off balance, and he almost falls. Almost.

The pain in his head gets worse every moment he is standing upright, he leaves a trail of blood behind him. If he thought the scene- the murder in the cave was bad-

It was- it was simple, compared to this. All twelve ships, dashed to pieces against the sand and jagged rocks. Bodies strewn over the beach, none moving.

The waves lap oh so gently at his ankles and he stumbles through the bodies of his comrades, through the corpses of great warships. Every jagged edge is the dark red of blood, every body is twisted in some odd way.

The god that visited must have been Posidon, then.

Polites stares in horror. And then, you lived though. He clings to that thought. He barely lived, but he lived, there must be at least one other survivor.

And there is. The lamb leads Polites to him. To his limp body that lies half protected from the slaughter behind a large rock. His left leg is twisted in such a way that it must be broken, and there is a huge splinter of wood lodged in his side. His general's helmet protected his head from the rock.

Polites shudders as he stares down at Eurylochus. Then he sits down besides his friend and begins to tear up his own chiton- Eurylochus' was already too torn to use properly, and the cloak he knows would have been the wrong material to properly bandage a wound.

It leaves him sat in just a skirt and what remains of his armour, but through the clear clarity and the wall of emotion and the adrenaline and pain and shock, Polites doesn't feel the bite of the cold winter night. If he did he wouldn't care anyways.

His hands shake when he pulls Eurylochus into a better position. His hands shake when he grabs the bit of wood and wrenches it out of his side with all the strength he can muster.

Polites was already covered with half dried blood. Another layer of fresh blood joins it as he wraps the cloth around Eurylochus' wound.

He then removes his friend's cloak and ties it around his own shoulders to keep it out of the way. Don't let him become just another body. He would leave it, but it is winter and they'll need it later if they're to survive.

And Polites does not wish to return to the scene of Posidon's massacre. So many deaths. For a few sheep.

He glances at the lamb at his side and she watches him with those dark eyes. Her wool- though dirtied- seems to glow in the moonlight. Like a beacon. Polites dares a smile.

Then he is pushing himself up again, and pushing the pain down- please stay down until i know Eury won't die, please stay down until we are safe- and wrapping his trembling arms under Eurylochus' arms and around his chest, and dragging him up the beach.

He doesn't bother to check if anyone else is alive. Polites closed himself off to survive in the war, and he does so now. He can feel the guilt later, after the adrenaline and fear and pain and shock and horror and relief and hopelessness and everything else that may come.

His mind starts getting hazy halfway up the beach- Polites really needs to fix the damage there- and his movements become more mechanical, more instinctual. Left foot, drag, right foot, drag, left foot, drag, right foot- all backwards up a slope, straining his back and his arms and his legs, carrying himself and his best friend away from death, when he can barely stand himself.

Don't become another body. Ithaca's waiting.

~~•~~

Eurylochus wakes up to a sharp stabbing sensation in his side and the loud pattering of rain above him.

He feels like he has been run through with a sword- a feeling he knows from one too many close encounters during the war. But- but that wouldn't make sense, they'd been fighting a cyclops. Unless one of the other men had stabbed him by accident or something during the panicked rush back to the ships- though that wouldn't make sense either, none of the Ithacan soldiers would be so clumsy.

And if that had happened then he would be below deck on one of the ships- the rain wouldn't sound so close-

Oh. Oh yeah.

It takes a moment for him to remember what had happened. They'd left as soon as the cyclops started screaming for 'father', it's phrasing implying that its father is a rather powerful god.

Eurylochus had been reluctant to leave Polites and the others behind- well, their bodies. He didn't want them- didn't want Polites- to be left wandering the banks of the Styx for the rest of eternity, unable to finally rest.

But also the cyclops was screaming for its father, and the crew couldn't afford to stick around and find out who that is. Not that they'd been given a choice in the matter.

Eurylochus had hung back slightly, guilt overriding his fear. He hadn't been on the boats or around them when the huge wave that looked like the jaws of some terrible beast had dashed them up against the beach and jagged rocks.

A violent death for a fleet of good men.

He had seen it coming and hid. He hid. This wasn't something he could stab with his sword. It scared him.

Still, Eurylochus had thought he was going to die. And now he is not dead.

There is the pattering of rain above him, and a chill in his bones, and he can feel bandages around his middle and one of his legs and something warm and heavy lying on his chest. Like a dog.

Eurylochus cracks his eyes open slightly and stares at the rocky overhang above him, sheltering him from the pouring rain. The thing on his chest- its a sheep. He doesn't know how a sheep got here, but it's also got cloth wrapped around one of its shoulders and red stains its wool.

One of the cyclops'? Eurylochus frowns and sits up, tumbling the sheep- lamb- into his lap rather ungraciously. It bleats at him indignantly. One of his legs spikes with pain when he moves though, so he barely pays any attention, letting out a muffled cry.

His bandages are torn cloth, like the lamb's, and what he had thought before was a blanket is actually his cloak. The overhang is small, barely big enough to keep Eurylochus dry. His left leg is splinted, so he assumes it was broken. He was never the best at telling how injured he was.

A figure lies beside him, half in, half out of the rain, which cannot be good for him. A figure that Eurylochus thinks he would recognise anywhere.

"Polites?" He asks tentatively, reaching out for his friend. Polites doesn't stir. It looks rather like he found Eurylochus and brought them both here and then collapsed,"Polites?"

He had believed Polites to be dead. His injuries had been bad enough that they had all thought him dead. Eurylochus doesn't know how damaged he is, how he got here. Doesn't know how long Polites has been lying there, still and pale and cold.

"Polites!" Eurylochus cries again, shaking him a little more this time, "Polites!" He starts praying to any god he can think of that might help when he pulls his friend out of the cold rain and into his arms. Eurylochus shudders at the sight of all the dried blood, and calls Polites' name again and again as he wraps the cloak around him and holds him close.

He is too cold.

Eurylochus only dares to hope when he feels Polites' breath against the side of his neck. It's shaky and uneven, sure, but there.

And, by some miracle, they're both alive.

At some point in the night the wind shifts, and their rocky outcrop is no longer enough to keep them dry. Eurylochus presses them as far into the corner as he can, holding Polites close, the lamb a spot of warmth resting between them, against his stomach, the cloak the only thing keeping the heat in their little huddle.

Its unfair. They survived a decade of war for this? Really?

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he won’t stoop to that level