Menelaus whenever he has to make a speech:

It could be worse. I could be separated from my wife, stuck on a 10 year long naval voyage

The Bag of Winds Aeolus gave to Odysseus was actually a leafblower.

Eurymene doodles because life is stressful

The Memories Bring Back You

(AO3 Link)

———

Telemachus would look through his father's stuff as a child—at eight years old, he'd wonder who this man was that his mother always talked so much about. He'd uncover all the cases and trunks from where they were stashed away, blowing off the dust from old possessions: portraits, armor, jewelry, carvings, prizes, all the things that were left behind as memories of a man who seemed to be too legendary to be remembered through mere trinkets.

He'd pick them all up and examine them, one by one—he'd trace his finger over grooves in golden goblets, admire the smooth strokes of color on folded tapestries, rummage through the collection of owl-shaped carvings—it was all so fascinating to him.

He'd sit there for hours, until his mother found him and sat beside him, giving him a rueful smile.

“Want to know how that happened?” she'd ask, nodding at a cracked clay pot.

He'd beam and exclaim, “I wanna hear the story, Ma. Tell me the story.”

That was all his father was to him—a story.

So she'd lay his little head in her lap and stroke his hair sweetly, twisting and turning the tale, weaving it into something he could listen to over and over again, and still beg to hear it once more.

“So he—”

“—he spun his sword around and shattered the clay's edge,” he'd interrupt, grinning and showing the gap in his smile where his last tooth had fallen out. “Your father said he lost his last tooth when he was twelve,” his mother had said. “It seems you have done the same.”

“You know it already,” his mother would chuckle. “Why do you keep asking to hear it?”

“Because I want to, Ma,” he'd whine. “And I like your stories.”

So she'd continue telling her tales, and Telemachus would continue exploring his father's possessions—every day of every month of every long, long year.

Sometimes, he'd uncover an elaborate cloak or brooch or sandal, and hold it in front of a mirror.

It looked out-of-place next to him—no, he looked out-of-place next to it.

But he'd try it on and look in the mirror again, trying to picture himself sitting on a throne or wielding a bronze spear. He couldn't. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't imagine himself like his father. Like ... a legend.

But ... maybe if he kept it on, he could pretend.

So he'd walk out of the room and run into his mother, who'd pause and stare. “Are those ... are those your father's clothes?” she'd ask, her voice but a whisper.

He's scratch his head, suddenly itchy in the kingly clothing unfit for a seventeen-year-old boy who was hardly a prince, and admit, “…Yes. I just—I found them and wanted to try them on—maybe I should take them off—”

“No. Telemachus.” His mother would walk up to him and gently place her hand on his cheek, looking up at him with eyes of sorrow-tinged memories. “You look just like him.”

It was those moments, those little hints of recognition in her eyes, those whispered words that echoed louder than a bard's song, those loving memories she'd recall—it was those moments that Telemachus treasured deep in his heart. Because it was at those moments when he felt the slightest bit of hope—if his mother had faith, and if his father loved her as much as she'd say he did, then ... maybe he'd come back.

He'd come back.

He'd come back.

The three words that kept them going, three words that were the strings that bound the last entrails of hope to their hearts. He'd come back, he'd come back, he'd come back.

But Telemachus wouldn't truly believe those three words, not until another few years had passed. Not until he ventured across the wine-dark sea, away from home shores for the first time in his life.

He had decided that it was only fitting to wear one of the royal purple cloaks when visiting his father's old friends. Maybe they'd remember their comrade at the sight of it. Maybe they'd recognize it, and it would give them hope as well.

Or maybe ... maybe they'd see Telemachus for more than he was, and they'd appreciate him as an equal rather than a failed prince—a failed son.

Surprisingly, and to Telemachus's utmost happiness, they had seen him as an equal—but not because he was Odysseïdes, the legacy of the famed Odysseus. No. They had seen him for himself, and appreciated him all the same.

He wondered if his father would do the same, should he return. He could only hope. Just like always.

His question was answered after he came back to Ithaca, sitting in the swineherd's hut and staring at the stranger sitting across from him in tattered rags.

Something about him seemed … familiar.

He thought, and he thought, and he thought, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not recall what—or who—this man reminded him of.

At least, not until the stranger whispered in a voice heavy with sorrowful affection, “You’re wearing my cloak.”

His cloak? But—

And the man’s face had changed. Instead of the old, frail beggar from before, he had transformed into a strong, handsome man …

Who looked so much like Telemachus.

Or did Telemachus look like him?

The prince was speechless. His mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, racing, disbelieving. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t.

“Y-you’re a god,” he sputtered. “That’s the only way this can happen. You’re a god, and you’ve come here to make a fool of me once again. This isn’t possible. You aren’t—you aren’t possible.”

“Telemachus,” the man said, and oh, his name sounded so beautiful when he said it—so delicate, so gentle, as if the name had been chosen by himself. “Telemachus. It’s me, my son.”

Son. Telemachus could barely breathe.

The man outstretched his arms, a stream of tears falling from his eyes. “My son, my pride, Telemachus—I’m finally home.”

“Father.”

And finally, after twenty years, father and son gathered all the memories, all the stories, all the similarities, all the differences, all the struggles and all the hope, everything—and embraced each other once again.

No, Google Docs, there is a distinct difference between "cussing" and "cursing."

Calling google ‘googie’ is such a power move imo

Tis indeed! Thank you for this addition. Here are some photo examples of the Googie style.

IT HAS A PROPER NAME?!

posts that provide surprise knowledge, balancing out posts that provide net zero knowledge gained, what a rich ecosystem we live in

Yes! It's named after Googie's Coffee Shop, which was a small chain of diners in Los Angeles in the late 1940s all of which were early examples of the style.

magnificent beast...

definitely not a cursed hero, mhm

I love voting season and pathological demand avoidance.

Me: “oh hey gotta remember to vote :)”

25 consecutive instagram adds/posts: “VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE >:(”

Me: “…well now I don’t wanna”

My favorite thing in the world rn is that almost every one shot of Odydio I've read are written from Dio's pov because you know if you write from Ody's pov you're in for a ride

Ok but- so real.

His inner stream of consciousness just. keeps. GOING! HE DOESN'T SHUT UP!

However, his inner monologue is so dramatic. It's hilarious.

Like- Dude. Yes, they're hot, but you're not gonna die from your attraction to them just because they're kicking someone's ass! Suck it up! Quit being a baby!

this is how god games went right

An Ornate agate sword hilt with inlayed gold disks. From tomb 81 (Mycenae's chamber tombs excavated by the Greek archaeologist Christos Tsountas 1887-1898).

I have had. A vision.

i need to stop sprinkling diomedes trauma into this odydio fic. that is NOT the point of the story we dont need that right now.

ive decided that actually, yes we do

My reactions to this post in order

A squishy Diomedes sketch because I felt introverted at a birthday party for an hour or so (Odysseus is squishing the war-boy’s cheeks btw)

And I didn’t have an eraser so it’s a bit messy

He fits right in

(Book 19, Johnston)

Odysseus really said "He was in the coolest tunic ever. Everybody was jealous. All the women were in awe in how cool it looked." while in disguise just to tell Penelope how amazing her weaving was

On the Topic of Telemachus’s age:

First off preface lmao I’m a stranger on the internet if you want to see this and be like “I don’t care” more power to you this isn’t to condemn it’s more like my explanation? I guess? Of why Telemachus being represented as an adult is important to the context of the story and also to me.

Like obviously once again I acknowledge artistic interpretation, and Telemachus being young is important to the story as well and is part of the role he serves as a comparison to Odysseus, but like sometimes the way some artists draw him makes him look pre-pubescent and like… I understand what you’re doing, and honestly I respect it and I hope you are having fun, but I am holding your hands when I say that him being a young adult with that attitude is so so so important to his character and his relatability.

Adulthood isn’t something that magically appears one day, taking all of your dreams, immaturity, and weakness away. Telemachus embodies that- at twenty years old, he should be inheriting a portion of his father’s house and assisting in its running. He should, for all intents and purposes, have been a full and functional independent adult looking at purely his age. However, he is both literally and mentally stuck in limbo- his father is lost, so he cannot inherit in the case of his father’s death because Odysseus’ status is MIA, and internally he knows (literally mentioned book 1 of the odyssey and in Legendary) that if he reaches for that authority as an adult, the suitors will kill him. He doesn’t feel like he can, or that he is even on equal standing to the suitors as an adult man, he cannot see himself as one like they are, and it’s why he imagines his dad doing it instead. He wants to be saved, a childlike desire, even though he has advanced to a point where he himself can do something physically. That’s why, in the odyssey, Athena tells him explicitly that he can do something about the suitors, and lays out a plan for him. She says that he is no longer a child to his face, and the Telemacheia thus begins to be a coming of age story in which he matures, and later is registered as a threat of the suitors. He is a young adult yes, and he still has aspects of his young self (idealization of his father, daydreaming, him being quick to frustration), but him being an adult who realizes that he can do something and can understand the way he is childish is important and central to his character arc.

His arc is him growing into his skin, adulthood no longer being something that fits him like loose clothes and only a description of his physical state, but something that now is tailored to him, something that feels close to right.

Honestly, I think this aspect of him being an adult while still holding onto these aspects of childishness is where Legendary and We’ll be fine falls short in adapting his character. I understand why, because while he is introduced he is not the true central character of the Saga- it’s Athena and how he affects her, that’s what’s most important. Also, once again, he was just introduced. He’s not matured yet, but he’s realizing he needs to. I still love the songs and the saga, because it’s a good adaptation that poses interesting questions, but yeah. Telemachus is v clearly a young adult and that hasn’t translated over sound yet, which I think is why this whole age debacle is happening alongside the uwu-ifying of the man.

TLDR: Telemachus is a young adult and he acts like it due to his blend of childishness and slowly gained maturity. You can draw him and see him as a child if you want, have fun with it, but at least internally understand how his 20 years of age plays into his arc a of him maturing into manhood outside of your own interpretation of him :D