#ulysses early

[muckleberri]

ULYSSES EARLY: generation u spare.

childish, coward, hopeless romantic, virtuoso, green thumb ltw: the perfect garden

[ltwilliammowett]

Ulysses deriding Polyphemus, detail of ship, by Joseph Mallord William Turner 1829

[datura-tea]

ahh i want to talk about moz and her first love, her childhood friend and teenage sweetheart, gabriel rico :'0

[shatteredzydrateteacup]

Sooo… I did edit a version of the live recording of UDAD together with the higher-quality audio from the Dropbox. Enjoy!

[sivavakkiyar]

you know Jung wrote a letter to Virginia Woolf where he recommended that she study Molly’s soliloquy? You know to learn how to write women? That’s as bad as Ezra Pound writing to Langston Hughes telling him what Black people “really” sound like (that happened). Remembering this I am overcome with sympathy for the joyce haters

[iincantatorum]

worldofsenelfy

Ulysses being everyone's octoboyfriend.. 😂

Ulysses: “I can only have up to 8 at the same time, for reasons you can figure out on your own.”

@worldofsenelfy

[nemfrog]

"Ulysses giving wine to Polyphemius." A book of famous myths and legends. 1901.

Internet Archive

[ceilidho]

prompt: (loosely based on Brahms from The Boy) you buy a house. you start to suspect you're not alone in it. [PART 1] tw: death of a parent, someone living in your house

-

Lightness; there were cracks in the floorboards and light glittering up from beneath them, which is what you first notice about the house.

It would be poetic if it meant anything. Instead, you are forced to pry the planks of wood out one by one at dawn when your fingers are trembling with exhaustion and your clipped nails throb—and, of course, there’s nothing remarkable beneath where the light shines through.

A piece of glass from a picture frame—all right, so you wonder how a piece of glass the size and width of your hand gets caught beneath the floor with the ashes of the photo once held behind it, but it’s half-six o’clock and you’re still yawning from the long drive the day before—catches a glint of light, and, well, you sigh at the blood welling over your nails from having pried off the floorboards with your bare hands. 

You’ll replace the boards later. Maybe bandage your hand.

It’s so quiet outside this early. Everything smells just as it should.

It had taken years of scrimping and saving, storing every nickel and penny away in your piggybank to buy your first house. The foreclosure process takes about ten months, every second during which your nails bite into your palms when you close your fists. Your entire life savings goes into the downpayment. It quite literally takes your bank account, holds it upside down, and shakes until every coin falls out. 

It’s yours though. A house all to yourself after years of living in apartments—you’ve spent decades living out of a suitcase, your parents changing apartments every year almost, never settling in one place. Buying a house wasn’t a nice-to-have so much as a physical necessity for you. 

It’s an old house—plenty of character, as the real estate lady charmingly describes it when you showed you the place. You don’t have the money quite yet to replace the old windows, repair the drywall, brick up the chimney that you won’t use, or change the flooring, but since it’s just you, you don’t mind taking your time. The previous owners hadn’t really kept the place up; there’s even a panel at the back of the closet in your room leading into the walls that needs to be replaced.

Later, when folding your clothes into new drawers that smell of new wood and old wood, you startle, thinking you’d packed your mother’s underwear along with your own; you thought you’d donated everything after she died. The thought is nauseating (a cold sweat breaks out) until you recognize the pattern on the blue cotton as your own and you crumple the fabric between your fingers for a second, dried blood and all. 

Dawn is rising outside, emptying out the house until it’s just you and the fifteen pairs of underwear you’d packed days ago. Everything else is sitting out on the patio in cardboard boxes. When you finally get the rest out where it can breathe, morning has settled into midday. 

When you finish putting your clothes away, you’re careful not to move for another few minutes until your hands stop shaking and your jaw unclenches. For breakfast, you fix up an omelet with spinach and a glass of cranberry juice. A friend calls not long later, but they mainly speak about their husband and how the living room will look once it was stripped of the gaudy floral wallpaper and repainted. Your friend hasn’t even seen the house yet, only pictures of the house from when you had searched it on Google Maps and tentatively held the idea glass-like in your head for several days. 

Your friend says in a voice molasses thick, “I’ll visit as soon as you’re tucked in down there.” It makes you rub your nose against your sleeve.

The pictures online had been splotchy and dim, barely recognizable when held against the lightness of the house full-formed. Your friend had sent you off with cream and lilac paint swatches, wooden coasters, and a copy of Ulysses before you had packed up the last of your things into the back of your car and the sky had been aglow with sunset. A large sunset that dribbled down the horizon and slid all slippery smooth into twilight. Your friend’s face had been lovingly shadowed in their goodbye, the sort of shadow that cut her jaw just so, and made one seem so private and longing. Like an instance of specific longing. 

It’s a good morning though, and you bite the inside of your cheek through the whole phone call, not stumbling over frequent ‘I love you’s and ‘I already miss you’s, but feeling like maybe you should. Anyway, your friend hangs up long before you know whether to carry those thoughts out. 

Then it’s still again in your unfurnished little bedroom—in one corner, there’s a rolled up carpet and end table that you’d brought in earlier, but they sit there unaltered and you think that maybe later you’ll get around to doing something with them. 

No one else calls while you eat breakfast, cutting the omelet into irregular triangles and putting enough hot sauce to make your eyes water. Which they do, but it’s good. After eating, you grab a mug out of one of the boxes on the patio to make a cup of instant coffee.

You fix the floorboards back after, nailing them back in place while sipping the lukewarm coffee that is still so, so good. So, so good to you because it’s early, so on one hand it’s comforting, habitually speaking, but also because the house is so new and old that sometimes you breathe in and feel lightheaded, or like your heart might tremble so violently that it’ll reduce itself to dust. 

So, coffee is good. Keeps you steady on your feet when you’re climbing back up the stairs to lug more boxes into the bedroom. Boxes of books you didn’t want to unpack, so they sit under a beam of sunlight in front of the one window in the room and you sit yourself down next to it, curling your legs underneath you and resting your head against the box. 

Strange, that the house is so warm when it’s nearly the end of October and it’s not like this city is all that different from the one you left. That the shard of glass you’d found beneath the floorboards could fill you with such a dizzying amount of melancholy (you still have it in the pocket of your sweater, which had deep pockets, deep pockets that apparently you use to carry around pieces of glass); again, though, the house is so warm and your bones are oozing out onto the carpet you unroll. Everything in you feels molten and fluid. 

Your spirit roars into the light of this new town with its new air, its new terrain, its new immediacy. Stepping out into the street outside the house, you feel every nerve in your body tremble in the realization of this new sensory landscape. Your fingertips buzz—you could reach out and touch every surface you pass: the wood-grain of a park bench, the sleek chrome of a chain-link fence. 

The town feels unreal in a sensuous way. When you go out to explore the town after unpacking the majority of your belongings, you can’t help being drawn down streets and up alleyways, eyes trailing over the russet bricked houses and hedges dotting the front lawns. 

On the corner of a street, nearly three blocks from your house, there’s a café with houseplants almost spilling out of the door and windows; you duck inside and order a coffee and a bagel before tucking yourself into a corner by the window. 

On the street across from the café, a woman in a yellow raincoat walks by. 

“Drip coffee?” 

You look up from your seat, startled almost by the voice, at a young man. He has a flare of freckles and an unsure smile.  

“Yes, sorry,” you mumble, taking the mug from him and tucking yourself back against the window in almost the same moment. 

To be sitting in plain daylight without company or a book or your phone out in front of you feels absurdly barren. Anyone might walk by and perceive the desperation that seems to pour off you. Even the few other occupants in the café are occupied with something or other, eyes pulled down to their tables or to someone sitting across from them. 

For a spell, walking home in the daze of the possibility of new peace, you feel light; to be poised on the verge of new possibilities and peering out over the edge, cautiously but with a ray of hope. Even the air feels fresh.

The lightness, of course, cannot last long.

Days before you left, someone told you that it’s common to have nightmares in a new house. You prove them right on the first night. 

In the wake of a bad dream, you pad into the kitchen, illuminated only by the moonlight, for a glass of water, reduced to only the silvering edges of your skin in the dark room. 

Occasionally it happens that you dream of your mom, in her blue jeans and raincoat again, standing outside the old coffee house from back home. She always looks well rested, and that always stings somehow—it makes you feel like you’re unraveling, even in a dream. She never says anything to you or even looks your way, but you know that she knows you’re there, and that dawdling energy, obvious indifference, is all a measured hurt. You dream of your mom staring off into the red-gold distance, honey-gold herself, irreducible in this place. 

Then, you wake up, panting and squeezing your eyes shut. 

You pour yourself a glass of water, but the tears don’t stop, coming out of you like a divine flooding. 

The two of you hadn’t been on speaking terms in the months before her death. In fact, you hadn’t even known she was dying. You remember you had an argument almost a year before, but for the life of you, you can’t remember what it was about. It was that inconsequential. That inconsequential and still she let it simmer and fester and didn’t bother to tell you that she was dying until it was too late. 

You scrub your eyes with the back of your hand, smearing the salty tears across your skin. In the moonlight, your grief seemed inescapable, layered under the lowest level of your flesh. All the loneliness of lonely dwelling catching in your throat, bursting out like the last release of breath of a woman beneath the swell of a cresting wave. The moon is not a comfort; the sky rounded in with its indifference, wholly incapable of putting any sentiment to rest. You feel languid in this old grief. 

Unable to bear being inside, you venture out onto the porch for a bit, closing only the screen door behind you. There’s a single light still on in your bedroom, the house otherwise dark. You sit in the cool breeze until your tears dry. 

There is something entirely relaxing about watching a breeze push all of the trees to one side—like the world moves with one breath, one thought. Back when you lived in the city, you hadn’t lived in such close proximity to nature, used to the concrete landscape. In the city, everything seemed to exist at opposing speeds and modes of existence—everything perpetually at odds.

You stare out into the street and drink your water, leisurely pacing around your front lawn. Just taking in the feeling of being settled for once. It’s a safe neighborhood. It’s an old house, a real fixer upper, but it’s a neighborhood where you can just walk around at night. 

It takes a while to unwind, to shake off the nightmare. You know it finally has when a yawn forces its way out of you and your eyes water again, from exhaustion this time. Draining your glass, you turn around to make your way back inside. You pause. Your foot hovers in place.

Then, in the shadowy depths of your house, you think you see something move again.

[villainsally]

does anyone on the smp have a good/stable relationship with their parents?

ven, aax, addie, galahad, haley, ulysses, caspian, chaos, wolf: dont have enough to evaluate on

dont know enough about ari to really evaluate but from what ive seen took on too much responsibility from her mother early on

athena's parents are just gone, cursed and missing

centross' parents were gonna sacrifice him

icarus...uhhh... yeah thats not a good relationship

seven, momboo, and ocie dont have parents

will's parents were gone/husked for most of his life but he seems to have a good relationship with his dad now

jamie and easton and oscar have good parents.

[muckleberri]

ulysses' traits are childish, coward, hopeless romantic, virtuoso, and green thumb. he wants to grow the perfect garden.

[eupheme]

— fold into me

ulysses klaue x f!reader

rated e - 2k

tags: sleepy morning sex, nightmares, pinning down / body restraint, light d/s, fucking the thoughts from reader, teasing, edging, sort-of v. light degradation, PiV, vibrating appendages, oral fixation, implied creampie(s)

a/n: inspired by this post, I read it and had crush me thoughts

Klaue doesn’t want you to worry. In fact - when you’re in his bed, he doesn’t want you thinking at all.

Klaue can hear you worry.

It settles over him, a silent weight as heavy as the gaze that drags over his profile in the soft, early morning.

You shouldn’t be awake. Not yet.

A rare day off, the promises of a day spent together. A nightmare waking you in the early hours instead - leaving you crying out as he’s ripped away by hands that clawed at him. Twining around his legs, threatening to pull him under - into the black depths, while you still reached for him.

They always seem to the come in the days just before he leaves. You can’t help the pit of worry that forms in your stomach - the fingers that rest against his ribs curling into fists, as you resist the urge to reach out and touch.

Craving the reassurance. To confirm that he is still here. That it was just a dream.

You were aware what you were getting into when you first started seeing him. There were secrets of course, but never about what he was. Your world orbited his, never fully joining, but you knew.

The stories and the whispered weight of his name. The deals and the fights and the danger. A twist of tattoos that dip beneath his clothes. The fresh and faded scars, and an arm made from metal.

That he was a bad man.

But never to you.

Your eyes drag over the angle of his nose. Past a strong jaw, the stubble darkening his cheekbones, to be scraped clean when he rises. To the thick fan of dark eyelashes against his cheeks.

And then a sharp glint of blue, as one eye cracks open.

“Should be sleeping,” He rumbles - the thunder before a storm.

Your reply is on the tip of your tongue before he is striking - quick, in spite of the breadth of his chest and shoulders. All you manage is a little squeak before he’s rolling you beneath him.

His weight presses into you - chest, hips, thighs. Pinning you to the bed as you squirm, an arm shoving under the curve of your spine. The other tucking under the pillow, as his cheek scrubs against yours.

“Klaue,” You protest, “I was just-”

“Don’t want you thinking,” His voice is low and rasping with sleep.

You huff, still shifting. But the weight - you have to admit it is nice. Crushing you into the mattress, a silent command to slow down and stop, for just a moment.

And so, you go still.

Taking in the moment. Seeing if sleep will tug at you again. Your hands slipping from beneath to slide up on either side of his ribs. Fingers folding together on his back in an embrace, the slow cadence of his breath warm against your ear.

It is soothing, but you’re too wound up. A skittering beneath your skin. Eyes fixed on the ceiling above - afraid that if they close, if you do sleep, you might dream again.

Your fingers eventually start to trace against skin, and he sighs at your touch. Nails dragging down his spine, the tips working into stiff muscles.

Only to freeze when you press too-hard into something tender - a hidden, half-healed wound - hearing the sharp intake of air through teeth.

The worry slips right back in.

He clucks his tongue at you. Don’t, you’re sure he’s saying. There’s a drag of his face against yours, bristle over soft skin, before it dips lower.

Warm lips press against the pulse point of your throat, the cant of his hips downward. It is now that you feel him - the thick curve pressed into the hinge of your bare thigh - that you squirm for another reason.

It’s difficult, with your legs pinned together, trapped between his parted ones. The hand between his shoulder slipping down and beneath sheets - flattening in the dip of his spine. The weight of his hard cock increasing, where it digs into bare skin, leaving a wet smear behind.

“Klaue.” You sigh his name this time, trying to lift your body against his. Hips to hip, the curves of your skin matching his. Gripping on now, instead of trying to slip free.

You crave him, and he rewards you. Splitting your thighs, his own working between them. Twining his ankles with yours, so much like the grasping hands from your dreams.

Theres another troubled flicker in your mind, before his legs are shifting. Slowly spreading them wide, taking yours along with them.

Opening you up, baring where you’re sticky and slick from the night before. From now - the press of his mouth and his words and his weight, as the need blooms in your belly again.

Your nose brushes his temple, in your search for him. Fingers twisting into thick, greying curls, trying to draw his face to yours.

A low hum of amusement, before he meets you. It’s hungry, your hands moving to wrap around his shoulder. Whining into his mouth when his hips lift and roll, his cock slipping down to press snugly against your cunt.

You swear you can feel every inch and ridge of him, as you clench in anticipation. Eyes closed as you concentrate on the sparks that arc up your spine with each needy buck of your hips.

How each time makes the velvet skin more slick, until he’s glistening with you. Nudging against your clit, teasing at your opening.

“This what you want?” Klaue’s lips brush yours. His voice still slow and smooth, content to wait. Letting you rut against him, as your teeth nip at his jaw.

You moan your assent, breathless. The weight of him presses against your ribs, leaving you dizzy. Another low laugh as he reaches between you, a fist wrapping around the base. Holding himself steady, the flushed head just nudging at where you need him.

“Come on, then.” He rasps.

And then, he goes still.

Leaving you wanting. Squirming again, as your eyes flip up to his. Seeing the darkened amusement, the careful way Klaue watches you. Fully awake now, but still keeping you pinned so carefully.

A living sculpture carved from flesh and muscle. Undeterred by the promise of your warm cunt, by the needy press of your lips against his skin and the thick weight of anticipation.

He wants you to do it.

You realize that, as he waits. It’s hard to move, with the spread pull of your thighs, pinned as you are. Hands bracing on his shoulders - trying to push yourself down, to impale yourself on him.

It makes you take him slow. Nails digging into his skin as he nudges a little deeper with each rock of your hips.

Leaving it impossible to think of anything else but him, as he splits you open. As you ache to be filled, already clenching down around him, trying to draw him deeper.

His breathing is harsh through his nose. Warm against your skin, the brush of his knuckles across your belly and breasts and tight peaks of your nipples on their way back up. Elbows and forearms planting in the mattress on either side of you, just barely adjusting his weight.

Each thrust of your hips is shallow. He’s not fully seated in you, only what you’ve managed to work inside so far.

It teases at what you want. What you need. Your initial spike pleasure quickly plateauing with the minutes that pass - the grind of your hips not nearly enough.

Leaving you teetering on the edge - your desperation dripping down his cock, sticky on your inner thighs.

“Please,” You try to whine, your face pressed into his neck. Mouthing at the brand, teeth scraping where shoulder meets neck.

The word become disconnected between your thoughts and your lips. Half gasped and half sighed, lost in the muted buzz of the city awakening outside.

“Are you still worrying?” He asks, his pulse fluttering against your lips. Betraying him, revealing that he’s not nearly as unaffected as he’s been pretending.

Hitching his hips forward, sinking deeper. Again your answer is more sound than words, drawn from deep in your chest.

“Oh,” He sighs, with that grin. Pulling back to let his nose brush against yours, seeing how gone you are, “You’re not thinking about anything at all, are you?”

Your thighs flex, brow pinching as he suddenly hilts himself. A gasp ripping from you at the way he fills you, your pussy making room for his thick girth. The heavy weight of his sack resting against the curve of your ass, coarse hairs already sticky.

“Oh, fuck. Good girl.” Klaue’s teeth clench, feeling how you wrap so perfectly around him. How you arch against his chest, panting as you adjust.

His voice dropping lower, with a smooth roll of his hips, “You listened so well, so I’ll give you what you need.”

And he does, the shallow thrusts you’ve managed turning into the rutting of his hips. Skin slapping against skin as the curves of his cock drag along your inner walls.

Pushing himself higher on his arms until you’re chanting his name, the fat head stroking against the soft, spongey spot that brings in the night again, making you see stars.

Your groan is guttural, eyes slipping shut again. No longer tethered to the bed, now somewhere far beyond - solely focused on the snap of his hips, the burn of pleasure with each plunge of his cock. Muscles already stringing tight, toes curling in blissful anticipation.

Missing his sharp smile in the early light, all white and shining gold. How he moves then, bracing himself again on a tattooed arm as the other slips downward.

The tips of his fingers whir - just barely activating the mechanisms inside. Pressing them cruelly against your clit, pinching the tight bud between two of them.

It’s too much - steady pulse of the vibration, the sharp punch of his cock. All-encompassing, until your mind is truly blank. The mindless grinding of your hips against his, chasing his fingers, the high that you can almost reach. Each breath shorter, everything winding tighter and tighter, and then -

With a ragged cry, you feel yourself shatter in his arms.

Your vision goes white and hazy as the edges, his name broken as you sob it. A different kind of wave crashes over you, the ripples flowing down your limbs, from your molten core.

His words muted, but you collect what you can. Growled endearments that slip between bared teeth.

“That’s it, sweetheart.”

“Look at you, so fucking good for me.”

It’s bliss, this frozen moment in time.

You’re boneless, when he finally slips his legs free, hitching your thighs around his hips. Pleasure-drunk on the ambrosia that glitters in your veins, his hand lifting from between your thighs to pinch at your chin.

His thumb smearing across your bottom lip, eyes darkening as you part them automatically. Tongue dipping out to taste yourself, a sweet tang against his skin.

“There you go.” Klaue coos, seeing the dazed look as your lips close around and suck.

His own end not far off, with the warm grip of your cunt and mouth - the broken echo of his name ringing in his ears.

Knowing for certain that he has you thoroughly distracted. Starting a slow pace as he grins, an idea forming. Your eyes fluttering - threatening to roll shut again when his hand slips free, your lips parting with a sigh.

His hips pulling back - easing his cock out just enough to circle his thumb and finger around the base.

The vibrations start again as he drives himself deep, traveling down his shaft. Pulsing inside you, nudging against that spot again, as your eyes snap open with a sharp cry.

If he can hold off just a little bit longer - he thinks - he’s certain to coax out another.

Because when it comes to you, he’s nothing if not thorough.

This time, when he relaxes - his weight settling over you, a warm and welcome blanket - you find that your mind has gone blissfully silent.

Content to fold yourself into him. Arms wrapping around, head tilting to rest against his. Mimicking without thought the easy rise and all of his breaths, your quickened pulse slowly following.

He murmurs something soft and low, though you’re already gone.

Off to a sleep that, for both of you, comes easy.

He vibrated the glass, and it vibrated my - *gunshot*

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

I think about how udad has not only the most hopeful ending of the mechs album, it is also the only one where the Main Character sings. Like in ouatis and hnoc it is the narrator who sings of the tragedy (with Mordred having a few lyrics in bg) and Lyf actually does get a say in the tbi ending, but they dont really sing and their narration is that of just pure horror.

In udad Ulysses sings and they sing about their coming death, and they sing about how they are truly about to be free, and they sing about them being reunited by their lover, but most importantly they sing about how they are going to have an eternal rest, never to be disturbed again, about dying a true death, a right that was stolen from everyone on that planet. I think about how they end their life and the album singing.

I think about how this story is told by a crew of immortal space pirates. These space pirates have lived longer than some of the planets and stars, sometimes even helped in their early destruction. They only bother with tragedies, stories of dying love, of inescapable violence, of atrocities in name of knowledge, of doomed dreams, because in their own words happy endings are 'boring'. I think about how these immortals also curse their immortality, how they welcomed their deaths. How despite revelling in violence and doomed love and tragedies, they chose to tell this story of someone who found peace in their true death, a simple nobody to them yet gained what they couldnt have. They chose to tell their story and they sang their ending and they sang with hope.

I just think about Ulysses Dies at Dawn a lot

[connorsnothereeither]

I had the sad realisation today that the reason Ulysses would never have heard the term “star stories” that Rae uses to describe the myths he tells, is because until recently he’d never seen the stars.

While he probably saw the stars before this reset (even if he only remembers that long after calling them “the little fish in the sky” in the early episodes when his memory is gone), like… most of his life was spent underwater. Decades in which he never knew saw the sky. Of course he wouldn’t know that the myths he tells were associated with stars, because he didn’t know what stars were.

[death-before-ilion]

Fundamental sources

Greek mythology is recorded in numerous texts, covering multiple centuries, locations, traditions and variations. Many of these ancient sources are lost to us, or fragmentary. This leaves us with an incomplete (albeit vast) and oftentimes incoherent collection of written sources on which to base my own work.

The sources which are considered by the ancient Greeks themselves as foundational and central to Greek mythology are essentially : the early Greek epic poets (amongst which is, of course, Homer), Hesiod (author of the famed Theogony, not counted as an epic poet) and the Homeric Hymns (called Homeric because they are written in the same language, style and meter as the Iliad and Odyssey). These texts were written down between the 8th and the 5th centuries BC, and are based on oral material that goes much further back.

Of the early epic poems, only the Iliad and the Odyssey attributed to Homer still survive, considered by the ancient Greeks as the pinnacle of their literature. Of all the other epics, only fragments and (if we're lucky) summaries remain. The Trojan Cycle was made of the following works :

The Cypria, which describes the origin and early years of the Second Trojan War

The Iliad, which tells of the wrath of Achilles and the death of Hector

The Aethiopis, which describes the intervention of Amazons and Ethiopians in the war, and the death of Achilles

The Little Iliad, a dense work that covers events from the funeral of Achilles to the episode of the Trojan horse

The Sack of Troy, which, as its title suggests, tells the events from the Trojan horse to the desctruction of the city and the anger of Athena

The Return from Troy, in which the Greek heroes return home, with tragic developments, such as the murder of Agamemnon and the revenge of Orestes

The Odyssey, tells the return of Ulysses, the longest and most adventurous return of all Greek heroes

The Telegony, that covers further adventures of Ulysses until he is killed by Telegonus, his son by Circe

To this we can add a Theban Cycle (covering the life of Oedipus, both Theban Wars and the revenge of Alcmaeon) and a few additional epics (including a Titanomachy I would have loved to read). Chances are high that there were many more, lost to us even by name.

Hesiod left us three complete works and a number of fragments, the most important of which is the Theogony, which describes how the universe began and the early history of the gods.

Lastly, the Homeric Hymns, of which three may be later additions, are poems or songs that praise the gods, each hymn being dedicated to a specific god.

In the context of my work, these sources will be taken as having the highest authority. Later sources will be accepted if they provide additional material that completes or extends the earlier texts, or if they help resolve an obvious inconsistency or impossibility.

[datura-tea]

holy shit this year marks 10 years of this blog and moz!! i can't remember the exact date i started posting here - my archive says i have one post from november 2013 but let's disregard that - but i do remember it was around late 2014/early 2015 :)

^ one of the very first moz art pieces i ever drew, for fallout week 2015!!

memories and art through the years under a read more bc it got long

2014 → baby's first rpg!! i started playing fnv on my cousin's jailbroken xbox late 2013 and finished mid 2014 and i loved every minute of it. i remember waking up at 8am and playing almost nonstop until 2am the next day haha!

i didn't play moz on my first playthrough - but i did start creating a character that would eventually become her: a shorthaired ex-boxer who punched her way through obstacles when diplomacy failed. i remember she spent a lot of time with boone. i liked him then, because he saved my ass more times than i can count. but i digress. this is draft 1 moz essentially

2015 → this is the year that i was doing my thesis so i could graduate but i was so depressed and stressed about it that i distracted myself by replaying fnv on pc, where i played through the dlcs for the first time. i fell in love with the dlcs' oversarching story; particularly ulysses, who i became obssessed with, especially since i couldn't find any content of him at the time. in the game, i played as moz; i had most of her personality and choices down, but her backstory was still up in the air.

fun fact: this was an existing sideblog that i remade to be a fallout blog so i could look for ulysses content, and when i couldn't find any, i made some myself, featuring moz as my main courier six. originally, i didn't ship them, but eventually i ended the year as a courier/ulysses otp shipper.

this was the year i started drawing digitally - my uncle let me borrow a drawing tablet and i used an old copy of photoshop i pirated hehe

2016 → i graduated this year!! and promptly fell deeper into my depression. this was the year that it got so bad that i had to be medicated. through it all, this blog and moz and ulysses and my fandom friends were with me. and for that i am truly grateful :) this was the year i figured out how to lock transparent pixels so that i could color my lineart lol

2017 → i started hammering out moz's backstory this year i think. there's a lot of sketches of her and her family in my files. i experimented with shading and backgrounds here but that experimentation was pretty short-lived

2018 → i started using references seriously!!!! i did a lot of oc on oc kissing this year, featuring mostly moz and many friend ocs haha

2019 → didn't draw much this year. actually this year was a blur and i can't remember much from it except from it being the year of my terrible no good bad copywriting jobs... anyway i did manage to continue my courier/ulysses brainrot and make this piece, which i'm still proud of

2020 → pandemic time. i spent a lot of time asleep at home and i think this was also the year i started doing commissions?? shoutout to anyone who has ever commissioned me - thank you so much, i truly appreciate it!!

2021 → i switched from my old-ass pirated photoshop to clip studio paint and never looked back. also i did a bunch of commissions for my grandmother's surgery, which failed, and i distracted myself from the sadness by drawing my ocs over and over and playing disco elysium

2022 → by this year, i've got moz down pat and have started vaguely developing other ocs instead. but she's still always at the back of my mind

2023 → i bought new brushes from true grit texture supply and immediately found new favorites that i started using for everything. i tentatively started incorporating background elements in some pieces!

2024 → while it's still too early to say where this year will lead me art-wise, i will say that i started experimenting in realistic paint studio (which i bought in 2021, the same time as clip studio paint) a few days ago and i'm liking the results so far. we'll see!

all in all, these last 10 years have been quite a ride, but i'm glad i stuck around and i'm glad you guys stuck around too!! much much love 💖💖💖

[welcome-to-green-hills]

Do you think that we’ll explore the town of Green Hills, Montana in the series and Sonic 3? Like slice of life stuff or more history? I don’t think that there’s a whole lot to the town other than it being described as a “dinky backwater town.”

Hi Honey! ❤️✨

Believe it or not, the town of Green Hills is very fruitful in its foundation! It may not feel like it, but there’s definitely a rich history of when the town was established. (Whew! Now y’all get to see how big of a nerd I am. That’s either a really good thing or a bad thing). I’ll hyperlink all of my sources/claims to specific information so y’all can review it at a later date. Hopefully, this add a bit more detail than what the Sonic Wikis have for the films.

Down below are bullet points and photos of Green Hills, Montana:

Green Hills was founded in the early 1800's by a group of explorers surveying and mapping that state of Montana. The rugged explorers took nearly 30 years in making a complete map of the state and claiming the area as home. Green Hills is located in the middle of the state and known to have fascinating geological features. The town was called "Green Hills" due to the unique shades of green found in its flora. Essentially, the town was founded by chance because it took so long to survey between 1806 to 1835.

One of the town's founders, Morgan McConnell, specifically wanted to build a town in the heart of Montana because of the area's geological feature--checkered patterns. Morgan McConnell was credited for charting nearly a quarter of the state, including the town, and coined as as THE explorer of Montana. His favorite location to sit and work at was the Devil's Pinkie (the ledge that Sonic stands at in the first and second film). Unexpectedly, McConnell fell off of the Devil's Pinkie and died. According to town legend, McConnell's name echoed through the valley ranges for hours after he died. It's unknown if these are still heard in the area today.

Between 1870 and 1883, the town of Green Hills became one of the firsts settled areas along the Northern Pacific Railway. The transcontinental railroad system stretched from the State of Minnesota, the Pacific Northwest, and along the main line opening at the Great Lakes. A town plaque describes Green Hills as a "golden spike" by former USA president Ulysses S. Grant and viewed as an important hub. The town is credited as a supply depot, as well as known for bringing in large immigration populations. The railroad system is still a crucial necessity of the town today.

The first settlers of Green Hills, Montana didn't start making their migration to the area until the 1860s. The settlers were faced with hardships of the land, lack of infrastructure, and brutal winters. Families were known to mingle together in small dwellings and form small communities. Polygamous families were common until Christian morality arrived to the area in later years (Welcome-to-Green-Hills, 2021).

Main Street features the town's first general store, a feed and gardening supply store, and post office.

Green Hills, Montana takes pride in country hospitality. The warmer months have communal events such as hoedowns, harvests and festivals, fishing derbies, farmers markets, and horseback riding events. The business district features Dr. Maddie Wachowski's veterinary clinic, antique shops, a brewery (AKA, the Beer Gardens), a stationary shop, a butcher's shop, and the Mean Bean Coffee Shop (the slogan: "drink mean"). (Tails Channel, 2021).

The Green Hills Community Theater is a town gem. It was established in 1905 and has been known to put on spectacular and successful productions for over 100 years.

The Green Hills Bulletin (the local newspaper) says that they've been the hot spot for a classic car show for the past twenty years, have a "Dog of the Week" section, a local artist guild that does mosaics for the town, recently had a worker's strike on repairing the railroad system in town, and are in the middle of a movement for accessibility laws for disabled residents.

In the first movie's novel, Green Hills is known for its massive Blueberry festivals in the fall. This is an event that's welcome to all of the farmers in the state and neighboring states. Tom is known to actively take part of the festival.

In the 1900's, the town saw an influx of United States veterans occupy the area. It's seen as a "retirement community" to those not actively serving.

The town as a population of nearly 2,000 residents, as implied by the "Welcome to Green Hills" sign at the speed trap.

There's definitely more that the town has to offer in terms of history. When I have the chance, I'll give this post some more attention and add to it. Until then, enjoy some historical facts about our Dinky Backwater Town!