Post by Sleeves on Jul 17, 2014 17:37:36 GMT
I’ve been putting this off for weeks. But now, I believe it is time.
In this post I am going to be sharing some of my old art and writing. What you’re going to see here is from 2010 and 2011. So, basically, my Sixth and Seventh Grade years, plus the beginning of my Eighth. Anything newer than that ceases to be amusing.
It’s worth mentioning that I’ve always improved abnormally fast, especially when it comes to drawing and writing, so what you see and read may be a bit jarring. But please don’t let it change your opinion of me, because I’ve left all of this crap behind and I’m ready to, four years later, have a good laugh at it.
Before I get into things, I think you deserve a bit of context.
What you are about to see is by no means the oldest of my drawings (though you will be seeing some of my first digital works) and writings. I’ve been drawing since before I can remember. My father taught me how to read by having me story-tell. I would dictate stories to him and he would type them up and then print them out, highlighting vocab words (my kindergarten teacher called my parents in for a conference just to tell them how bad at reading I was—a lot has changed). I don’t know when I started writing my thoughts down, but I’ve been storytelling since I was four or five. I remember, at age eight, sitting behind our Windows XP desktop and trying to describe the precise color of my protagonist’s hair (long before I even knew what a protagonist was). The point is, these are not my oldest works—not by a long shot. Unfortunately, that Windows XP crashed and I lost anything from before 2009. If I had any of it, I would share it.
My earliest character that made multiple appearances in my stories was named Max. I think he deserves an honourable mention since, believe it or not, he wasn’t actually a Sue. The characters you are going to be reading about in this post are, unfortunately, rather Sue-ish. At some point I made the transition from normal children to unrealistically talented children.
Anything in italics is word-for-word my old writing. Nothing has been edited.
Now, Little Sleeves discovered the joys of the internet in the summer before Sixth Grade. That discovery in itself marked a very scary period in my life, one filled with longcat and trollface and /b/. Around that time, I also discovered MS Paint. Little Sleeves spent hours drawing Pokemon and designing random characters in Paint.
One day, I gave one of these characters a name: “Myth.” The image below is the very first drawing of Myth.
Note that Little Sleeves had a very skewed perception of reality, in which that was a realistic amount of hair for a human being to have. You had better get used to it, too, because it took me several months to realize that no one’s hair is that big.
Little Sleeves immediately fell in love with the fluffy-haired character and began to draw him obsessively. Eventually, she felt it necessary to give Myth a story. And, by extention, a personality. The story would take place in a land called Xeno. In Xeno there were three nations (all with delightful psuedo-Latin names): Tartius, Xanterra, and Noxus (Little Sleeves really liked the letter ‘X’).
The Magic of Xeno was known as “The Pulse.” But of course, Little Sleeves was too “k3wl” to just call it Magic.
Here are some of the first notes I took on Myth and Xeno:
The Pulse: the Earth’s (Xeno’s) energy, invisible to mortals
Gifts: If you are gifted you can use the earth’s energy to do things such as bend elements, move objects without touching them and communicate with other species or through the mind.
Myth(M): Outgoing, mischievous and sometimes dark, is considered to have a split personality. Has somewhat long, spiky dark brown hair and blue eyes. Is not gifted but is intertwined with the Pulse, allowing him to bend it to his will. Carries a sword.
THAT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. And Little Sleeves then gave Myth some friends so he wouldn’t be lonely. Grab your barf bags, folks. This is going to be a very long, very bumpy ride.
Hazelia(F): Known as Haze, she is outspoken and strong willed. She has Light brown hair with brilliant green eyes. She is gifted with the ability to move things without touching the. Does not carry any weapons.
Koro(M): Myth’s best friend and his fellow street rat. Has black hair and silver eyes. He is very dark and always seems to be angry, but never at someone in particular. Is barely gifted, able to withstand great amounts of injuries and heal almost instantly. Carries a bow.
Amber(F): Grew up on a farm, is kind and caring. She has dark red hair with pale streaks running through it. Is gifted with communication, able to speak and understand animals as well as read minds etc. Does not carry a weapon.
Kavik(M): Very little is known about this person.
Soulless(M): Villain, other than that, not much else to add.
Ignoring the fact that none of those names share anything even resembling a common ancestry, and ignoring the fact that “Haze” is a form of cannabis, allow me to direct your attention to the following line: “Villain, other than that, not much else to add.”
“VILLAIN, OTHER THAN THAT, NOT MUCH ELSE TO ADD.”
“VILLAIN, OTHER THAN THAT, NOT MUCH ELSE TO ADD.”
For my entire sixth grade year, my writing revolved around Myth and his groupies. Myth’s design evolved numerous times. The next design was barely an improvement:
And then suddenly Myth became emo, and we enter the stage in Little Sleeve’s life that I like to call ANGST.
All black, a scar over one eye, and a perpetual frown. Indeed, Little Sleeves has discovered the joys of a brooding Byronic hero.
I managed to find an old bio. Be warned, eyes have been known to bleed when gazing upon the gary-stu that is Myth “Navitus Portarre Darkwing II.”
Also, note Little Sleeves’s taste in angsty alternative rock. Try not to cry yourself to sleep after the realization that everything you thought you knew is a lie.
And now, a rather long excerpt from the beginning of the series Little Sleeves christened The Chronicles of Myth. Remember that I am posting this word for word. Unedited. This is exactly what little eleven year old Sleeves typed into MS Word five years ago.
A cool breeze exhaled throughout the lush forest. The sound of water flowing gently over stone filled the air. A dazzling blue sky hung protectively, loaded with soft air-brushed clouds.
At the base of an overgrown ravine, in the center of a large clearing, a wide brook ran leisurely. Small fish could be seen through the crystal clear water. Their silver scales caught the light of the bright orange sun. A series of small waterfalls created a radiant blue mist; leaving perfect dew drops on nearby undergrowth. Mushrooms dotted lime green grass, their vibrant hats creating homes for many exotic bugs. Enormous trees towered over everything and gorgeous ember lilies held small golden flames. Their white petals softly flickered to the rhythm of summer, causing the clearing to sparkle.
Miniature inferno-lizards spat tiny fire balls at one another. Dozens of water nymphs glided past, spraying up water, and suddenly an inferno-lizard tumbled off its perch.
A young boy snickered. He was drenched with water from the stream, and only his unruly chocolate brown hair remained dry. It was clear he had been powerless against the temptation of the refreshing water.
The boy, about six or seven, was positioned at the edge of the lively brook. He held a stick in the water, his brilliant blue eyes following the tip as it bobbed up and down in the mild current.
A water nymph, about the size of his undersized fists, landed lightly on the stick and smiled at him. The air around her cobalt skin glistened with a dazzling silver aura. Her dragon-fly wings sparkled and rippled with magic. The boy screamed and leaped away. The poor nymph, now taken aback, sullenly floated back towards the water.
A tall, powerfully built man slid down the side of the ravine. He was at the boy's side in seconds. His vivid blue eyes matched the boys, and contrasted with dark brown bangs that shaped his features. He wore rags, and an enormous knife shaped sword was strapped to his back. His presence was powerful, though his expression, in comparison, was light and carefree.
“You alright?” the man asked, laughing teasingly as the boy grabbed for his muddy stick.
The boy smiled, "Yes, daddy," he said, and dutifully went back to play. His leather shoes left deep marks in the sun browned sand.
The father chuckled again and stood behind his son.
Water nymphs floated about his head and inferno lizards shot small fireworks into the air. He kindly shooed them off and began to hum a lively tune.
The sun was setting, casting dark shadows over the lively clearing. The sky burned with copper flame, and the clouds were outlined in pink. The ember lilies were starting to close, their long petals folding in on themselves. Now the energetic little flames grew smaller; though they continued to illuminate the clearing, now with a lantern-like effect.
Only minutes later, the boy, finished playing, dramatically collapsed on a moss covered log.
His father paced behind him, obviously deep in thought. His bright eyes scanned their surroundings, and the boy noticed unease begin to leak into his powerful gaze.
The boy turned to the brook and stared fixated into the water. The reflection of the sunset rippling over the surface.
"Father, why does water flow?" he asked. A quizzical grin formed on his face. He'd clearly asked this question hundreds of times.
"What?" the man stopped pacing and shook his head in confusion.
For a moment the boy felt concerned. His father was acting strange, nudging broken sticks with his heavy boots and stopping to listen even for the most minor of sounds. For some unexplainable reason, his eyes would always dart over towards the ravine.
"Why does water flow?" his son asked again, worry surfacing in his voice.
The boy sighed with relief as his father smiled, "Because of the Pulse," he said, and continued before the boy had a chance to ask any more questions, "The Pulse is the energy that influences and shapes the destiny of everything in Xeno," he finished.
"Even us?" the boy asked. He looked up at his father, mystified. This was a new question.
"Even us," the father said after a moment's indecision.
"Even mom?" the boy's eyes started to water. He looked up at his father's pained expression, and immediately wished he could take it back.
His father didn't answer. He was gazing over at a stunning cluster of ember lilies. In the growing darkness, the small flames continued to burn. One lily, the boy noticed, no longer flickered with its usual golden light. Its flame had died, and he soon realized the flower had died along with it.
Some time later, the boy finally broke the silence, “What are the three realms of Xeno?” Of course he already knew the answer to this question, too.
“You tell me.”
The boy sneered, but at the same time was eager to display what he knew, “Fine,” he huffed, “We live in Tartius-”
“Which city?” his father interrupted.
“Eldur!” the boy exclaimed, exasperated.
“Good.”
“And the other two realms are Xantarra and…” the boy hesitated, pretending like he’d forgotten. He looked up at his father, “I don’t remember,” he lied, straight faced. No one ever mentioned the other realm. Out of fear.
His father, however, did not share this fear.
“Noxus.” his father said, his voice never wavering.
“…right,” the boy said, shifting uncomfortably on his log. He wished he could be brave, like his father. He couldn’t even say a stupid name….
The boy’s eyes darted nervously around the ravine. The sun had almost set and darkness had engulfed the once lively clearing. The beautiful light of the ember lilies now cast an eerie glow.
The boy shivered.
The inferno-lizards and water nymphs were gone and the gorgeous blue mist from the waterfall had turned into a frightening gray fog. The tall trees created long, sinister shadows where light had once shown.
Suddenly the undergrowth above them rustled. The boy’s father spun around, and then let out a long breath, “Only the wind,” he hesitated, “It’s time for us to go ….”
Fear engulfed the boy and cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He followed his father up the steep ravine, grabbing at small plants and using them to haul himself up.
The darkness scared him more than anything. He couldn’t stand the dark. But at the same time, he knew he had to stay strong. And brave. Just like his father. He never once looked back.
Mud and stone, unfortunately, do not mix well. The boy slipped constantly, though continued to remain as calm and confident as he could be… which apparently wasn’t very.
The sudden uncanny silence signaled that his father had already reached the top.
As the boy struggled after him, his father suddenly appeared from over the ravine and reached for the mammoth sword strapped to his back. His legs shifted into a ready stance that the boy quickly recognized. They were in danger.
“Nav, get down!” his father yelled, and he swiped at a low growing vine the boy had been using as leverage while he climbed.
The boy went tumbling down the side of the ravine. He landed with a thump. Pain shot up his ankle as he tried to scream. No sound escaped his lips. His small hands cupped his burning eye and he felt blood seep through his fingers.
The huge sword, slightly miss aimed, had sliced the boy’s right eye, but fortunately--or not--had cut easily through the vine.
He could no longer see his father. The boy tried to move, but realized his legs were tangled up in the vine. Tears sprang from his eyes. He felt useless. And alone.
The boy strained to hear over the rapid beat of his heart. He heard scuffling and the sound of heavy, scratchy demonic breathing. The boy shook his head in fear and confusion. Suddenly he heard a yell, and the scrape of metal against metal. The boy shoved his head into the raw earth, trying to escape the nightmare.
He lifted his head, and saw the forest light up with an unnatural purple glow, temporarily blinding his one good eye, and everything was silent once more. The purple light slowly faded back into darkness.
The boy held his breath and waited for his father to come for him. Nothing. He waited for five--ten--fifteen minutes, what felt like hours, until finally he started to panic. He screamed at the top of his lungs and kicked, trying to untangle his aching legs.
The pain in his right eye was becoming more and more unbearable as warm tears continued to flow down his cheeks. Blood soaked and exhausted, he began to shudder violently.
The boy glanced over at the ravine for what seemed like the thousandth time. His eyes traveled up its steep slope. The small amount of light that the ember-lilies had gifted him illuminated the muddy incline. Mist and shadows rolled over its edge and down the side. He imagined blood flowing down the rocks, and demons clawing their way towards him.
The boy gasped.
His bindings snapped as he flailed wildly, and he cried out in pain as his ankle slammed against sharp rock. He seized his foot and tried to hold back another flood of tears.
Gone. Vanished. Had it even been real?
No. He knew this wasn’t just his imagination playing tricks on him.
The boy shook his head and sunk back into the mud. As he lay there, he had no idea that what he had seen would haunt him forever. Make him crave revenge more and more every day. The image of a man with sinewy shadows swirling around him. A man with demons crouched beside him. A man who’s hand tightly gripped a large sword, one that flamed with a purple aura.
The man who had murdered his father.
I think this would be a good time to discuss my villain, Soulless.
Despite what Little Sleeves said about him in her notes, I’ve always had a fascination with villains. More specifically, I’ve always had a fascination with the relationship between villains and heroes. To me, the paths of villainy and heroism are essentially followed by the same type of person. I’ve always seen a thin line between the two, and even at age eleven, enjoyed teasing that threshold.
Soulless, despite his name, was a very human villain—as human as the evil construct of an eleven year old mind can be, anyway. His father was abusive, his brother (Kavik) was a dick (bit of a Snape-James thing they had going on), yadda yadda yadda.
Look, I drew a picture of baby Soulless (two years later):
He was even Myth’s mentor for a significant period of time, and their relationship was a precursor to Daedarus and Elie’s. Around the age of seven, Little Sleeves fell in love with the whole “Luke, I am your father” trope (despite having never seen Star Wars). It fascinated me that two people who shared blood could be sworn enemies. But I recognized that I couldn’t just make the villain the hero’s father, because of the cliché. So I settled for making Soulless a temporary mentor. Myth’s real father was in fact not-dead, and was, for much of the story, sitting in some tavern getting drunk off his ass.
By the end of Sixth Grade, I had more or less done away with Myth. He popped up a few times--that bio is actually one of the newer drawings of him.
Enter, now, a NEW fluffy-haired angst-muffin: Ryker. Ryker somehow managed to be even more brooding and “dark” than poor Myth. He was also my first villain protagonist, and writing him gave me a lot of experience writing morally ambiguous characters. I find Ryker worth mentioning if only for the fact that my art style improved significantly while I had him as a protagonist. Witness the transition:
Thankfully, Ryker marked the end of ANGST.
BUT WAIT. Nothing can prepare you for my Seventh Grade year. Nothing is so horrific.
Demons. Demons, everywhere. COLORFUL DEMONS ON LSD AND ACID THAT BLEED FROM THEIR EYES AND WHAT THE FUCK WAS TWELVE YEAR OLD SLEEVES SMOKING?!
COVER YOUR EYES! COVER THEM, NOW!
I MEAN, REALLY, WHAT IS THIS SHIT???
DO YOU WANT TO SEE MY VILLAIN? DO YOU?
Surprisingly enough, there was a story to go along with many of these poorly designed characters. The story more or less revolved around a dude named Thanatos. Thanatos was my first protagonist over the age of twenty (though you could hardly tell by looking at him). The story took place in a world known as Spite. Spite was ruled from the shadows by a group of “gods” known as Etherians. The Etherians lived in, surprise surprise, The Ethereal.
Some “world-building”:
The Pulse is the energy of Spite that is believed to control fate and destiny, as well as all major and sub-elements. The Pulse, being pure energy, can cut through anything, and cannot be completely contained by anything. The Pulse is raw power at its purest, and in its physical form is purple energy. The only time The Pulse is visible is when summoned by an Auruxie, or if it "chooses" to contact the physical world. When used by an Auruxie, it may appear in different forms based in the individual’s personality, such as purple fire, purple electricity, or a soft purple glow or spark. The Pulse is often personified, though it is unknown if it actually has a consciousness. An individual known as Cyril is often depicted as the guardian of The Pulse, and is believed to be the first being created by the mysterious energy, ruling over The Ethereal.
The Ethereal is a spiritual place. Many an individual has found themselves there while dreaming, though there are other ways to pass into The Ethereal, some deliberate, such as through Cyril’s Cave. In The Ethereal, one may encounter someone from their past (dead or alive), or from their future. The Abyss stretches on forever, and the ground is covered in head-sized stones and thick white mist. The sky is a light gray, with no clouds or sun. Cyril rules over The Ethereal, manipulating fate, and often confronting visitors, though he lives
Auruxie: Able to manipulate The Pulse in its pure form
Animus: Has a spiritual connection (since birth) to an individual animal that’s almost always at their side.
Archos Air: Able to manipulate air
Archos Earth: Able to manipulate earth
Archos Fire: Able to manipulate fire
Archos Water: Able to manipulate water
Healer: Able to heal using The Pulse
Seer: Able to see a person’s aura, the future, the truth, and someone’s intentions (ie if they’re a good or bad person)
Venetor: Experts in killing, they have extremely acute senses, can see in the dark, and are extremely fast and strong
Demon: Able to manipulate shadows and darkness, as well as change form and evaporate from one place to another
Phyre: Able to manipulate light, and considered the opposite of Demons
Vicis: Dark gray, gunmetal-gray, or black hair with black, gray, amber, or golden eyes
Mortal: Homosapien, no magical/Pulse related abilities
The Etherians were led by this dick named Cyril. Clever Little Sleeves affectionately referred to him as “Cereal.” So will I.
The other Etherians were Bran (I think “Bran Cereal” should be a ship), Alastor, Lavern, and Kai (pictured below).
Each Etherian lorded over their own continent. Cereal’s continent was, predictably, Spite. The following is an excerpt from the story featuring the Etherians:
Mist rolled gently over large stones. An ashen sky hung limply overhead, devoid of clouds or sun, and yet the barren land was still oddly visible and "lit".
Cyril grumbled and complained to himself while running long fingers through his long gray hair. He had taken a younger appearance today, seeming to be around 14 years of age. He wore a black shirt and gray slacks. His chains lacked their normal silver color, and at the moment were black. His gray eyes darted around the Ethereal as he claimed a seat on a large boulder, mist making way for him as he moved.
He frowned, deep in thought.
Suddenly, an eerily sweet laugh followed by an equally unnerving voice said, "Hello, brother. Destroy any lives today?"
Cyril turned around calmly and came face to face with his younger sister, Kai. It was slightly awkward how she currently appeared to be around 23 years old, when he seemed a mere child. Her brown hair was cut short and fell above her shoulders, adding to her slightly boyish form (her abnormally flat chest didn't help). She wore a gray trench coat over a white shirt and black slacks.
Cyril said bitterly, "I've left the fate of Spite up to The Pulse."
Kai's electric blue eyes gleamed as she said, smugly, "I told you everything would go wrong. We're not meant to shape fate for our own sick amusement."
Cyril laughed coldly, "Why not? We're slaves to our nations, never free of our tasks."
"Everything has a purpose. This is ours." Kai shrugged, "Have I ever told you how negative you are?"
"Yes," Cyril muttered, unable to bring a smile to his face.
It was only then that Cyril noticed two figured approaching them.
One, smiling mischievously, said, "Well, well, well, long time no see. How are you two? Still bickering?"
He was tall and muscular with short brown hair and copper eyes. He wore layers of thin brown, red, and tan cloth, much more primitive than what the other three wore. He seemed around 40 years old.
The other, much younger in appearance, probably around 17 or 18, frowned thoughtfully though said nothing. His hair was black and his bangs were long, partially concealing his eyes. One eye was slate gray, much like Cyril's, while the other was a brilliant purple. He wore a long, tight gray shirt and black slacks. Cyril figured he was dressing plainly for their benefit, hoping not to distract with his high-tech…everything. To his back was strapped an intricate gun-like weapon of some sort.
Kai smiled as she embraced the larger of the two, "Bran!" she squealed.
Bran snorted and half-heartedly returned the hug.
The black haired boy shifted uncomfortably as Cyril glared at him.
"Why are they here?" Cyril asked Kai, accusingly. Even though Cyril said "they", he continued to look pointedly at the boy.
"Cyril if you and Alastor even so much as scowl at each other…" Kai warned as she stepped away from Bran.
The black-haired boy, Alastor, simply gazed intently at his feet.
"Where's Lavern?" Cyril asked, "I thought it was only going to be us three."
"She's not coming; she's…busy…these days…" Kai tried to explain.
Bran interrupted, bored, "So what's up, Kai? Why did you call us here?"
"I'm surprised Cyril let you use the Ethereal…" Alastor grumbled, speaking for the first time.
Kai smiled, "He doesn't own the Ethereal, Alastor."
Cyril sneered, though said nothing.
Bran, twirling the fabric of his robes between his fingers absently, said, "Its Cyril's Pulse-forsaken land, right?"
Cyril clenched his fists, "And Aigra is doing just fine, is it, Bran?"
"Better than Spite," Bran laughed sardonically, "I'll still never understand why you call it that. Your people don't even use it…they never did. When the land was united they called it Tartius. Not Spite."
"Home of the damned," Cyril said sweetly, refusing to lose his temper.
Kai hit Cyril on the back of the head and scoffed, "Don't start."
Cyril suddenly grew very aware of how small and young he looked in comparison to the other three, which made close to no sense seeing that he was the oldest.
"It is…because of Spite," Kai admitted.
Alastor rolled his eyes, "Why am I not surprised?"
"Shut up," Cyril growled.
"Cyril, you need to help Spite. There is no balance," Kai pleaded, "There is only darkness and hate…."
"And spite," Bran added, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
Cyril didn't speak, silently urging Kai to continue.
"Cyril if you don't help your people, Spite is doomed," Kai said gravely.
"What do you want me to do?" Cyril challenged, "Isn't leaving them alone help enough?"
Alastor laughed, "Idiot."
"You must create balance," Bran explained after a moment of silence, "It seems rather simple to me."
"Fine," Cyril seethed, "I will create balance...."
Thanatos, who was more or less my protagonist, was the former dictator of a nation located on the continent of Spite. After losing a war he is stranded in another nation where he starts a new life. Yet another “villain” protagonist. I was rather fond, you see.
I’ve included the first version of his awakening below:
Thanatos’s blood-red eyes sprang open as he uttered a feeble cry. Horrific images flashed before his eyes, of soldiers collapsing one-by-one to the blood-stained earth, and of women and children fleeing cities as demonic beasts burned down their homes. He shut his eyes and groaned. Heart racing with anxiety, he opened them once again and examined his surroundings.
He sighed with relief as he realized he was in no immediate danger. He was lying in a metal bed with a white comforter and sheets, head propped up against a cushiony pillow, allowing him to study his new environment. The walls of the room were a pallid gray, and lacked in decorations and pictures. There were two windows and a door, the shutters closed on the windows; not much to see there. The door was slightly cracked, though not enough for him to see what lay beyond.
He groaned as he attempted to get out of the bed. It pained him to put pressure on his right leg.
“Well that’s just dandy,” he growled, falling back on the bed and rubbing his eyes.
The door across from him suddenly flew open, and a teenage girl, no older than fifteen, came stumbling into the room. Thanatos held his breath and stood, taking up a defensive position. However, the unbearable pain his leg was once again too much for him, and he collapsed back onto the bed.
“Hello, sir!” the girl cried, laughing heartily as she caught her breath. Her long chocolate brown hair was kept out of her round face by a loose ponytail, and as her intelligent blue eyes met his own, he felt himself begin to relax.
Another youth, around the same age as the first, came walking calmly into the room.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering a tight smile. His dark gray eyes, also intelligent, were cold and detached.
“Wow, look at his eyes, Drake!” The girl whispered, tugging at her friend’s arm.
The boy, Drake, pulled his arm away, “Don’t be rude, Zahra,” he wore a calm smile as he asked, “What are you, stranger? I only know of a handful of races that have red eyes like your own. You could be a Saevus, a Haunt, a Dynama, or even a Vicis. Though if you were a Saevus in Human form, your sclera would have remained black, and if you were a Haunt imitating another being that happened to have red eyes, you would have reverted to your original form by now,” he mused. Thanatos smiled faintly as the boy continued, “You’re not a Vicis because I would have realized it the moment I stepped into the room, being a Vicis myself. ”
Thanatos nodded, impressed, “That makes sense. Vicis tend to have analytical minds.”
Drake smiled, pleased with himself as he came to a conclusion, “So you must be a Dynama.”
Thanatos gave him a kind smile and nodded, “I am.”
Zahra raised her hand politely, and Thanatos’s grin broadened in amusement, “Yes?”
Twirling her long hair around her finger, she asked, “So we’ve established that you’re a Dynama, but who are you, sir?”
Thanatos opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. The boy was a Vicis, so he was obviously not in Niara, where only Humans were allowed to live. That meant he must be in either Noxus or Xanterra, and judging by the fact that he was still alive, he would bet his money on the latter. One way or the other, he was on enemy turf, and the less these kids knew about whom he really was, the better.
“My name is Benjamin,” he said, “You can call me Ben, I guess,” he rubbed the back of his head and shot a quick glance at Drake. They made eye contact, and the boy seemed to smile slightly. He couldn’t be sure if he’d seen correctly. Could the young Vicis tell that he was lying? If he could, what did it matter? The boy could prove nothing.
“Hi, Ben,” Zahra said, bringing Thanatos back to the present and grinning as she held out her hand.
Thanatos took it, smiling as he did so.
Little Sleeves evidently had no understanding of how exposition is supposed to work. In the latest and last version of “Chapter One”, Thanatos has no memory of who he is.
Existence came as a shock. He was suddenly aware, where previously he had not been. He knew of no past that he could call his own—he existed only in the present. He was born from nothing, forced from the ethereal into the temporal.
He was vaguely aware of having a body, though physical sensations were dulled and not as stimulating as those that belonged to the mind. Although he had no memories, could recall no past events, he was surprised to find that the act of existing was familiar to him.
He noticed that he thought in the form of words, and that he knew the definition to many of them.
Body, mind, Ether, sensation…name.
He had no name.
If he were mortal, he would have been alarmed by this discovery. As far as he was concerned, however, he was no mortal, for he could feel the Ether undulate around him. He was not bothered by not knowing who he was or where he came from. Unlike mortals, names and titles held little meaning to him. Moreover, a name mattered naught to him if it was not attached to a past, and if he had no past, he was convinced that he had no name.
He would not open his eyes. Instead, he reached out with his mind, leaving his body behind as he left the Physical Plane and entering the Plane of Thought. Here his mind’s eye could see what his physical eyes could not.
He sensed rather than saw the fabric of this reality bending and shifting around him. He thought, if he reached out, he could touch it and perhaps bend it to his will. Something told him that this was not a good idea, and he refrained for the time being.
He could tell which strands of energy belonged to wood, which were stone, and which were air. He felt along them with his mind, assessing his surroundings with natural perspicacity.
He returned to the Physical Plane, slamming back into his body with a fierce jolt. Almost involuntarily, his eyes opened.
This is the only drawing I could find of Thanatos:
Because demons and red eyes are edgy as fuck, and giving them rainbows and sparkles is ironic and creative and Jesus Christ I wish I had a lead pipe to beat Little Sleeves with.
Thankfully, I exited the flamboyant rainbow demon stage rather quickly. And this next part is rather interesting because I actually switched genres for a while. I actually wrote…wait for it…wait for it…
…REALISTIC FICTION.
…ROMANTIC REALISTIC FICTION.
Indeed, I, too, had a romance stage. I know some of you may find this hard to believe. Some of you may feel lost, as if all the light and warmth and love was suddenly sucked out of you. Well, don’t lose hope just yet, because while this next story was a romance, it was more of a Stockholm-y thing. Enter Vance, my blond-drug-addict-mafia-boss. Actually, I have no idea what Vance was supposed to be, but he was rich and he had a lot of thugs.
If you think he looks a bit like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, it’s because he does.
The story, which never really had a title, centered around Sarah and her relationship with the aforementioned Vance.
Sarah was a kidnap victim who, predictably, fell in love with Vance. Little Sleeves apparently thought Stockholm Syndrome was cool and edgy.
All I can say is at least Sarah wasn’t a self-insert, and at least Little Sleeves didn’t make Vance into her dream guy since Little Sleeves (and Big Sleeves) hates blondes (unless they’re Australian and currently located in the Ecuadorian Embassy).
My Eighth Grade year was, thank god, not a very productive one. I began to mature and discovered that writing is a craft with skills that need to be honed and not just a way for me to channel fantasies willy-nilly.
I don’t have anything from Eighth Grade other than ridiculously eclectic notes (30 pages of world-building and character development gone to waste). I didn’t draw much that year, and when I did it was usually fan art.
I do have a picture of Myth that I drew in the Eight Grade. You can see how far his character design came:
He also looks a bit ethnic, which was a nice improvement. Way to go, Little Sleeves. If you haven't noticed, nearly all of my characters from this time period were WHITE AS FUCK (not to mention straight and cis).
So this brings us to the end of our horrifying journey. Hopefully your eyes haven’t been clawed out and your brain hasn’t melted into a puddle. I encourage the rest of you to make similar posts exploring your past work.
Sometimes it’s nice to see how far you’ve come.
In this post I am going to be sharing some of my old art and writing. What you’re going to see here is from 2010 and 2011. So, basically, my Sixth and Seventh Grade years, plus the beginning of my Eighth. Anything newer than that ceases to be amusing.
It’s worth mentioning that I’ve always improved abnormally fast, especially when it comes to drawing and writing, so what you see and read may be a bit jarring. But please don’t let it change your opinion of me, because I’ve left all of this crap behind and I’m ready to, four years later, have a good laugh at it.
Before I get into things, I think you deserve a bit of context.
What you are about to see is by no means the oldest of my drawings (though you will be seeing some of my first digital works) and writings. I’ve been drawing since before I can remember. My father taught me how to read by having me story-tell. I would dictate stories to him and he would type them up and then print them out, highlighting vocab words (my kindergarten teacher called my parents in for a conference just to tell them how bad at reading I was—a lot has changed). I don’t know when I started writing my thoughts down, but I’ve been storytelling since I was four or five. I remember, at age eight, sitting behind our Windows XP desktop and trying to describe the precise color of my protagonist’s hair (long before I even knew what a protagonist was). The point is, these are not my oldest works—not by a long shot. Unfortunately, that Windows XP crashed and I lost anything from before 2009. If I had any of it, I would share it.
My earliest character that made multiple appearances in my stories was named Max. I think he deserves an honourable mention since, believe it or not, he wasn’t actually a Sue. The characters you are going to be reading about in this post are, unfortunately, rather Sue-ish. At some point I made the transition from normal children to unrealistically talented children.
Anything in italics is word-for-word my old writing. Nothing has been edited.
Now, Little Sleeves discovered the joys of the internet in the summer before Sixth Grade. That discovery in itself marked a very scary period in my life, one filled with longcat and trollface and /b/. Around that time, I also discovered MS Paint. Little Sleeves spent hours drawing Pokemon and designing random characters in Paint.
One day, I gave one of these characters a name: “Myth.” The image below is the very first drawing of Myth.
Note that Little Sleeves had a very skewed perception of reality, in which that was a realistic amount of hair for a human being to have. You had better get used to it, too, because it took me several months to realize that no one’s hair is that big.
Little Sleeves immediately fell in love with the fluffy-haired character and began to draw him obsessively. Eventually, she felt it necessary to give Myth a story. And, by extention, a personality. The story would take place in a land called Xeno. In Xeno there were three nations (all with delightful psuedo-Latin names): Tartius, Xanterra, and Noxus (Little Sleeves really liked the letter ‘X’).
The Magic of Xeno was known as “The Pulse.” But of course, Little Sleeves was too “k3wl” to just call it Magic.
Here are some of the first notes I took on Myth and Xeno:
The Pulse: the Earth’s (Xeno’s) energy, invisible to mortals
Gifts: If you are gifted you can use the earth’s energy to do things such as bend elements, move objects without touching them and communicate with other species or through the mind.
Myth(M): Outgoing, mischievous and sometimes dark, is considered to have a split personality. Has somewhat long, spiky dark brown hair and blue eyes. Is not gifted but is intertwined with the Pulse, allowing him to bend it to his will. Carries a sword.
THAT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. And Little Sleeves then gave Myth some friends so he wouldn’t be lonely. Grab your barf bags, folks. This is going to be a very long, very bumpy ride.
Hazelia(F): Known as Haze, she is outspoken and strong willed. She has Light brown hair with brilliant green eyes. She is gifted with the ability to move things without touching the. Does not carry any weapons.
Koro(M): Myth’s best friend and his fellow street rat. Has black hair and silver eyes. He is very dark and always seems to be angry, but never at someone in particular. Is barely gifted, able to withstand great amounts of injuries and heal almost instantly. Carries a bow.
Amber(F): Grew up on a farm, is kind and caring. She has dark red hair with pale streaks running through it. Is gifted with communication, able to speak and understand animals as well as read minds etc. Does not carry a weapon.
Kavik(M): Very little is known about this person.
Soulless(M): Villain, other than that, not much else to add.
Ignoring the fact that none of those names share anything even resembling a common ancestry, and ignoring the fact that “Haze” is a form of cannabis, allow me to direct your attention to the following line: “Villain, other than that, not much else to add.”
“VILLAIN, OTHER THAN THAT, NOT MUCH ELSE TO ADD.”
“VILLAIN, OTHER THAN THAT, NOT MUCH ELSE TO ADD.”
For my entire sixth grade year, my writing revolved around Myth and his groupies. Myth’s design evolved numerous times. The next design was barely an improvement:
And then suddenly Myth became emo, and we enter the stage in Little Sleeve’s life that I like to call ANGST.
All black, a scar over one eye, and a perpetual frown. Indeed, Little Sleeves has discovered the joys of a brooding Byronic hero.
I managed to find an old bio. Be warned, eyes have been known to bleed when gazing upon the gary-stu that is Myth “Navitus Portarre Darkwing II.”
Also, note Little Sleeves’s taste in angsty alternative rock. Try not to cry yourself to sleep after the realization that everything you thought you knew is a lie.
And now, a rather long excerpt from the beginning of the series Little Sleeves christened The Chronicles of Myth. Remember that I am posting this word for word. Unedited. This is exactly what little eleven year old Sleeves typed into MS Word five years ago.
A cool breeze exhaled throughout the lush forest. The sound of water flowing gently over stone filled the air. A dazzling blue sky hung protectively, loaded with soft air-brushed clouds.
At the base of an overgrown ravine, in the center of a large clearing, a wide brook ran leisurely. Small fish could be seen through the crystal clear water. Their silver scales caught the light of the bright orange sun. A series of small waterfalls created a radiant blue mist; leaving perfect dew drops on nearby undergrowth. Mushrooms dotted lime green grass, their vibrant hats creating homes for many exotic bugs. Enormous trees towered over everything and gorgeous ember lilies held small golden flames. Their white petals softly flickered to the rhythm of summer, causing the clearing to sparkle.
Miniature inferno-lizards spat tiny fire balls at one another. Dozens of water nymphs glided past, spraying up water, and suddenly an inferno-lizard tumbled off its perch.
A young boy snickered. He was drenched with water from the stream, and only his unruly chocolate brown hair remained dry. It was clear he had been powerless against the temptation of the refreshing water.
The boy, about six or seven, was positioned at the edge of the lively brook. He held a stick in the water, his brilliant blue eyes following the tip as it bobbed up and down in the mild current.
A water nymph, about the size of his undersized fists, landed lightly on the stick and smiled at him. The air around her cobalt skin glistened with a dazzling silver aura. Her dragon-fly wings sparkled and rippled with magic. The boy screamed and leaped away. The poor nymph, now taken aback, sullenly floated back towards the water.
A tall, powerfully built man slid down the side of the ravine. He was at the boy's side in seconds. His vivid blue eyes matched the boys, and contrasted with dark brown bangs that shaped his features. He wore rags, and an enormous knife shaped sword was strapped to his back. His presence was powerful, though his expression, in comparison, was light and carefree.
“You alright?” the man asked, laughing teasingly as the boy grabbed for his muddy stick.
The boy smiled, "Yes, daddy," he said, and dutifully went back to play. His leather shoes left deep marks in the sun browned sand.
The father chuckled again and stood behind his son.
Water nymphs floated about his head and inferno lizards shot small fireworks into the air. He kindly shooed them off and began to hum a lively tune.
The sun was setting, casting dark shadows over the lively clearing. The sky burned with copper flame, and the clouds were outlined in pink. The ember lilies were starting to close, their long petals folding in on themselves. Now the energetic little flames grew smaller; though they continued to illuminate the clearing, now with a lantern-like effect.
Only minutes later, the boy, finished playing, dramatically collapsed on a moss covered log.
His father paced behind him, obviously deep in thought. His bright eyes scanned their surroundings, and the boy noticed unease begin to leak into his powerful gaze.
The boy turned to the brook and stared fixated into the water. The reflection of the sunset rippling over the surface.
"Father, why does water flow?" he asked. A quizzical grin formed on his face. He'd clearly asked this question hundreds of times.
"What?" the man stopped pacing and shook his head in confusion.
For a moment the boy felt concerned. His father was acting strange, nudging broken sticks with his heavy boots and stopping to listen even for the most minor of sounds. For some unexplainable reason, his eyes would always dart over towards the ravine.
"Why does water flow?" his son asked again, worry surfacing in his voice.
The boy sighed with relief as his father smiled, "Because of the Pulse," he said, and continued before the boy had a chance to ask any more questions, "The Pulse is the energy that influences and shapes the destiny of everything in Xeno," he finished.
"Even us?" the boy asked. He looked up at his father, mystified. This was a new question.
"Even us," the father said after a moment's indecision.
"Even mom?" the boy's eyes started to water. He looked up at his father's pained expression, and immediately wished he could take it back.
His father didn't answer. He was gazing over at a stunning cluster of ember lilies. In the growing darkness, the small flames continued to burn. One lily, the boy noticed, no longer flickered with its usual golden light. Its flame had died, and he soon realized the flower had died along with it.
Some time later, the boy finally broke the silence, “What are the three realms of Xeno?” Of course he already knew the answer to this question, too.
“You tell me.”
The boy sneered, but at the same time was eager to display what he knew, “Fine,” he huffed, “We live in Tartius-”
“Which city?” his father interrupted.
“Eldur!” the boy exclaimed, exasperated.
“Good.”
“And the other two realms are Xantarra and…” the boy hesitated, pretending like he’d forgotten. He looked up at his father, “I don’t remember,” he lied, straight faced. No one ever mentioned the other realm. Out of fear.
His father, however, did not share this fear.
“Noxus.” his father said, his voice never wavering.
“…right,” the boy said, shifting uncomfortably on his log. He wished he could be brave, like his father. He couldn’t even say a stupid name….
The boy’s eyes darted nervously around the ravine. The sun had almost set and darkness had engulfed the once lively clearing. The beautiful light of the ember lilies now cast an eerie glow.
The boy shivered.
The inferno-lizards and water nymphs were gone and the gorgeous blue mist from the waterfall had turned into a frightening gray fog. The tall trees created long, sinister shadows where light had once shown.
Suddenly the undergrowth above them rustled. The boy’s father spun around, and then let out a long breath, “Only the wind,” he hesitated, “It’s time for us to go ….”
Fear engulfed the boy and cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He followed his father up the steep ravine, grabbing at small plants and using them to haul himself up.
The darkness scared him more than anything. He couldn’t stand the dark. But at the same time, he knew he had to stay strong. And brave. Just like his father. He never once looked back.
Mud and stone, unfortunately, do not mix well. The boy slipped constantly, though continued to remain as calm and confident as he could be… which apparently wasn’t very.
The sudden uncanny silence signaled that his father had already reached the top.
As the boy struggled after him, his father suddenly appeared from over the ravine and reached for the mammoth sword strapped to his back. His legs shifted into a ready stance that the boy quickly recognized. They were in danger.
“Nav, get down!” his father yelled, and he swiped at a low growing vine the boy had been using as leverage while he climbed.
The boy went tumbling down the side of the ravine. He landed with a thump. Pain shot up his ankle as he tried to scream. No sound escaped his lips. His small hands cupped his burning eye and he felt blood seep through his fingers.
The huge sword, slightly miss aimed, had sliced the boy’s right eye, but fortunately--or not--had cut easily through the vine.
He could no longer see his father. The boy tried to move, but realized his legs were tangled up in the vine. Tears sprang from his eyes. He felt useless. And alone.
The boy strained to hear over the rapid beat of his heart. He heard scuffling and the sound of heavy, scratchy demonic breathing. The boy shook his head in fear and confusion. Suddenly he heard a yell, and the scrape of metal against metal. The boy shoved his head into the raw earth, trying to escape the nightmare.
He lifted his head, and saw the forest light up with an unnatural purple glow, temporarily blinding his one good eye, and everything was silent once more. The purple light slowly faded back into darkness.
The boy held his breath and waited for his father to come for him. Nothing. He waited for five--ten--fifteen minutes, what felt like hours, until finally he started to panic. He screamed at the top of his lungs and kicked, trying to untangle his aching legs.
The pain in his right eye was becoming more and more unbearable as warm tears continued to flow down his cheeks. Blood soaked and exhausted, he began to shudder violently.
The boy glanced over at the ravine for what seemed like the thousandth time. His eyes traveled up its steep slope. The small amount of light that the ember-lilies had gifted him illuminated the muddy incline. Mist and shadows rolled over its edge and down the side. He imagined blood flowing down the rocks, and demons clawing their way towards him.
The boy gasped.
His bindings snapped as he flailed wildly, and he cried out in pain as his ankle slammed against sharp rock. He seized his foot and tried to hold back another flood of tears.
Gone. Vanished. Had it even been real?
No. He knew this wasn’t just his imagination playing tricks on him.
The boy shook his head and sunk back into the mud. As he lay there, he had no idea that what he had seen would haunt him forever. Make him crave revenge more and more every day. The image of a man with sinewy shadows swirling around him. A man with demons crouched beside him. A man who’s hand tightly gripped a large sword, one that flamed with a purple aura.
The man who had murdered his father.
I think this would be a good time to discuss my villain, Soulless.
Despite what Little Sleeves said about him in her notes, I’ve always had a fascination with villains. More specifically, I’ve always had a fascination with the relationship between villains and heroes. To me, the paths of villainy and heroism are essentially followed by the same type of person. I’ve always seen a thin line between the two, and even at age eleven, enjoyed teasing that threshold.
Soulless, despite his name, was a very human villain—as human as the evil construct of an eleven year old mind can be, anyway. His father was abusive, his brother (Kavik) was a dick (bit of a Snape-James thing they had going on), yadda yadda yadda.
Look, I drew a picture of baby Soulless (two years later):
He was even Myth’s mentor for a significant period of time, and their relationship was a precursor to Daedarus and Elie’s. Around the age of seven, Little Sleeves fell in love with the whole “Luke, I am your father” trope (despite having never seen Star Wars). It fascinated me that two people who shared blood could be sworn enemies. But I recognized that I couldn’t just make the villain the hero’s father, because of the cliché. So I settled for making Soulless a temporary mentor. Myth’s real father was in fact not-dead, and was, for much of the story, sitting in some tavern getting drunk off his ass.
By the end of Sixth Grade, I had more or less done away with Myth. He popped up a few times--that bio is actually one of the newer drawings of him.
Enter, now, a NEW fluffy-haired angst-muffin: Ryker. Ryker somehow managed to be even more brooding and “dark” than poor Myth. He was also my first villain protagonist, and writing him gave me a lot of experience writing morally ambiguous characters. I find Ryker worth mentioning if only for the fact that my art style improved significantly while I had him as a protagonist. Witness the transition:
Thankfully, Ryker marked the end of ANGST.
BUT WAIT. Nothing can prepare you for my Seventh Grade year. Nothing is so horrific.
Demons. Demons, everywhere. COLORFUL DEMONS ON LSD AND ACID THAT BLEED FROM THEIR EYES AND WHAT THE FUCK WAS TWELVE YEAR OLD SLEEVES SMOKING?!
COVER YOUR EYES! COVER THEM, NOW!
I MEAN, REALLY, WHAT IS THIS SHIT???
DO YOU WANT TO SEE MY VILLAIN? DO YOU?
Surprisingly enough, there was a story to go along with many of these poorly designed characters. The story more or less revolved around a dude named Thanatos. Thanatos was my first protagonist over the age of twenty (though you could hardly tell by looking at him). The story took place in a world known as Spite. Spite was ruled from the shadows by a group of “gods” known as Etherians. The Etherians lived in, surprise surprise, The Ethereal.
Some “world-building”:
The Pulse is the energy of Spite that is believed to control fate and destiny, as well as all major and sub-elements. The Pulse, being pure energy, can cut through anything, and cannot be completely contained by anything. The Pulse is raw power at its purest, and in its physical form is purple energy. The only time The Pulse is visible is when summoned by an Auruxie, or if it "chooses" to contact the physical world. When used by an Auruxie, it may appear in different forms based in the individual’s personality, such as purple fire, purple electricity, or a soft purple glow or spark. The Pulse is often personified, though it is unknown if it actually has a consciousness. An individual known as Cyril is often depicted as the guardian of The Pulse, and is believed to be the first being created by the mysterious energy, ruling over The Ethereal.
The Ethereal is a spiritual place. Many an individual has found themselves there while dreaming, though there are other ways to pass into The Ethereal, some deliberate, such as through Cyril’s Cave. In The Ethereal, one may encounter someone from their past (dead or alive), or from their future. The Abyss stretches on forever, and the ground is covered in head-sized stones and thick white mist. The sky is a light gray, with no clouds or sun. Cyril rules over The Ethereal, manipulating fate, and often confronting visitors, though he lives
Auruxie: Able to manipulate The Pulse in its pure form
Animus: Has a spiritual connection (since birth) to an individual animal that’s almost always at their side.
Archos Air: Able to manipulate air
Archos Earth: Able to manipulate earth
Archos Fire: Able to manipulate fire
Archos Water: Able to manipulate water
Healer: Able to heal using The Pulse
Seer: Able to see a person’s aura, the future, the truth, and someone’s intentions (ie if they’re a good or bad person)
Venetor: Experts in killing, they have extremely acute senses, can see in the dark, and are extremely fast and strong
Demon: Able to manipulate shadows and darkness, as well as change form and evaporate from one place to another
Phyre: Able to manipulate light, and considered the opposite of Demons
Vicis: Dark gray, gunmetal-gray, or black hair with black, gray, amber, or golden eyes
Mortal: Homosapien, no magical/Pulse related abilities
The Etherians were led by this dick named Cyril. Clever Little Sleeves affectionately referred to him as “Cereal.” So will I.
The other Etherians were Bran (I think “Bran Cereal” should be a ship), Alastor, Lavern, and Kai (pictured below).
Each Etherian lorded over their own continent. Cereal’s continent was, predictably, Spite. The following is an excerpt from the story featuring the Etherians:
Mist rolled gently over large stones. An ashen sky hung limply overhead, devoid of clouds or sun, and yet the barren land was still oddly visible and "lit".
Cyril grumbled and complained to himself while running long fingers through his long gray hair. He had taken a younger appearance today, seeming to be around 14 years of age. He wore a black shirt and gray slacks. His chains lacked their normal silver color, and at the moment were black. His gray eyes darted around the Ethereal as he claimed a seat on a large boulder, mist making way for him as he moved.
He frowned, deep in thought.
Suddenly, an eerily sweet laugh followed by an equally unnerving voice said, "Hello, brother. Destroy any lives today?"
Cyril turned around calmly and came face to face with his younger sister, Kai. It was slightly awkward how she currently appeared to be around 23 years old, when he seemed a mere child. Her brown hair was cut short and fell above her shoulders, adding to her slightly boyish form (her abnormally flat chest didn't help). She wore a gray trench coat over a white shirt and black slacks.
Cyril said bitterly, "I've left the fate of Spite up to The Pulse."
Kai's electric blue eyes gleamed as she said, smugly, "I told you everything would go wrong. We're not meant to shape fate for our own sick amusement."
Cyril laughed coldly, "Why not? We're slaves to our nations, never free of our tasks."
"Everything has a purpose. This is ours." Kai shrugged, "Have I ever told you how negative you are?"
"Yes," Cyril muttered, unable to bring a smile to his face.
It was only then that Cyril noticed two figured approaching them.
One, smiling mischievously, said, "Well, well, well, long time no see. How are you two? Still bickering?"
He was tall and muscular with short brown hair and copper eyes. He wore layers of thin brown, red, and tan cloth, much more primitive than what the other three wore. He seemed around 40 years old.
The other, much younger in appearance, probably around 17 or 18, frowned thoughtfully though said nothing. His hair was black and his bangs were long, partially concealing his eyes. One eye was slate gray, much like Cyril's, while the other was a brilliant purple. He wore a long, tight gray shirt and black slacks. Cyril figured he was dressing plainly for their benefit, hoping not to distract with his high-tech…everything. To his back was strapped an intricate gun-like weapon of some sort.
Kai smiled as she embraced the larger of the two, "Bran!" she squealed.
Bran snorted and half-heartedly returned the hug.
The black haired boy shifted uncomfortably as Cyril glared at him.
"Why are they here?" Cyril asked Kai, accusingly. Even though Cyril said "they", he continued to look pointedly at the boy.
"Cyril if you and Alastor even so much as scowl at each other…" Kai warned as she stepped away from Bran.
The black-haired boy, Alastor, simply gazed intently at his feet.
"Where's Lavern?" Cyril asked, "I thought it was only going to be us three."
"She's not coming; she's…busy…these days…" Kai tried to explain.
Bran interrupted, bored, "So what's up, Kai? Why did you call us here?"
"I'm surprised Cyril let you use the Ethereal…" Alastor grumbled, speaking for the first time.
Kai smiled, "He doesn't own the Ethereal, Alastor."
Cyril sneered, though said nothing.
Bran, twirling the fabric of his robes between his fingers absently, said, "Its Cyril's Pulse-forsaken land, right?"
Cyril clenched his fists, "And Aigra is doing just fine, is it, Bran?"
"Better than Spite," Bran laughed sardonically, "I'll still never understand why you call it that. Your people don't even use it…they never did. When the land was united they called it Tartius. Not Spite."
"Home of the damned," Cyril said sweetly, refusing to lose his temper.
Kai hit Cyril on the back of the head and scoffed, "Don't start."
Cyril suddenly grew very aware of how small and young he looked in comparison to the other three, which made close to no sense seeing that he was the oldest.
"It is…because of Spite," Kai admitted.
Alastor rolled his eyes, "Why am I not surprised?"
"Shut up," Cyril growled.
"Cyril, you need to help Spite. There is no balance," Kai pleaded, "There is only darkness and hate…."
"And spite," Bran added, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
Cyril didn't speak, silently urging Kai to continue.
"Cyril if you don't help your people, Spite is doomed," Kai said gravely.
"What do you want me to do?" Cyril challenged, "Isn't leaving them alone help enough?"
Alastor laughed, "Idiot."
"You must create balance," Bran explained after a moment of silence, "It seems rather simple to me."
"Fine," Cyril seethed, "I will create balance...."
Thanatos, who was more or less my protagonist, was the former dictator of a nation located on the continent of Spite. After losing a war he is stranded in another nation where he starts a new life. Yet another “villain” protagonist. I was rather fond, you see.
I’ve included the first version of his awakening below:
Thanatos’s blood-red eyes sprang open as he uttered a feeble cry. Horrific images flashed before his eyes, of soldiers collapsing one-by-one to the blood-stained earth, and of women and children fleeing cities as demonic beasts burned down their homes. He shut his eyes and groaned. Heart racing with anxiety, he opened them once again and examined his surroundings.
He sighed with relief as he realized he was in no immediate danger. He was lying in a metal bed with a white comforter and sheets, head propped up against a cushiony pillow, allowing him to study his new environment. The walls of the room were a pallid gray, and lacked in decorations and pictures. There were two windows and a door, the shutters closed on the windows; not much to see there. The door was slightly cracked, though not enough for him to see what lay beyond.
He groaned as he attempted to get out of the bed. It pained him to put pressure on his right leg.
“Well that’s just dandy,” he growled, falling back on the bed and rubbing his eyes.
The door across from him suddenly flew open, and a teenage girl, no older than fifteen, came stumbling into the room. Thanatos held his breath and stood, taking up a defensive position. However, the unbearable pain his leg was once again too much for him, and he collapsed back onto the bed.
“Hello, sir!” the girl cried, laughing heartily as she caught her breath. Her long chocolate brown hair was kept out of her round face by a loose ponytail, and as her intelligent blue eyes met his own, he felt himself begin to relax.
Another youth, around the same age as the first, came walking calmly into the room.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering a tight smile. His dark gray eyes, also intelligent, were cold and detached.
“Wow, look at his eyes, Drake!” The girl whispered, tugging at her friend’s arm.
The boy, Drake, pulled his arm away, “Don’t be rude, Zahra,” he wore a calm smile as he asked, “What are you, stranger? I only know of a handful of races that have red eyes like your own. You could be a Saevus, a Haunt, a Dynama, or even a Vicis. Though if you were a Saevus in Human form, your sclera would have remained black, and if you were a Haunt imitating another being that happened to have red eyes, you would have reverted to your original form by now,” he mused. Thanatos smiled faintly as the boy continued, “You’re not a Vicis because I would have realized it the moment I stepped into the room, being a Vicis myself. ”
Thanatos nodded, impressed, “That makes sense. Vicis tend to have analytical minds.”
Drake smiled, pleased with himself as he came to a conclusion, “So you must be a Dynama.”
Thanatos gave him a kind smile and nodded, “I am.”
Zahra raised her hand politely, and Thanatos’s grin broadened in amusement, “Yes?”
Twirling her long hair around her finger, she asked, “So we’ve established that you’re a Dynama, but who are you, sir?”
Thanatos opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. The boy was a Vicis, so he was obviously not in Niara, where only Humans were allowed to live. That meant he must be in either Noxus or Xanterra, and judging by the fact that he was still alive, he would bet his money on the latter. One way or the other, he was on enemy turf, and the less these kids knew about whom he really was, the better.
“My name is Benjamin,” he said, “You can call me Ben, I guess,” he rubbed the back of his head and shot a quick glance at Drake. They made eye contact, and the boy seemed to smile slightly. He couldn’t be sure if he’d seen correctly. Could the young Vicis tell that he was lying? If he could, what did it matter? The boy could prove nothing.
“Hi, Ben,” Zahra said, bringing Thanatos back to the present and grinning as she held out her hand.
Thanatos took it, smiling as he did so.
Little Sleeves evidently had no understanding of how exposition is supposed to work. In the latest and last version of “Chapter One”, Thanatos has no memory of who he is.
Existence came as a shock. He was suddenly aware, where previously he had not been. He knew of no past that he could call his own—he existed only in the present. He was born from nothing, forced from the ethereal into the temporal.
He was vaguely aware of having a body, though physical sensations were dulled and not as stimulating as those that belonged to the mind. Although he had no memories, could recall no past events, he was surprised to find that the act of existing was familiar to him.
He noticed that he thought in the form of words, and that he knew the definition to many of them.
Body, mind, Ether, sensation…name.
He had no name.
If he were mortal, he would have been alarmed by this discovery. As far as he was concerned, however, he was no mortal, for he could feel the Ether undulate around him. He was not bothered by not knowing who he was or where he came from. Unlike mortals, names and titles held little meaning to him. Moreover, a name mattered naught to him if it was not attached to a past, and if he had no past, he was convinced that he had no name.
He would not open his eyes. Instead, he reached out with his mind, leaving his body behind as he left the Physical Plane and entering the Plane of Thought. Here his mind’s eye could see what his physical eyes could not.
He sensed rather than saw the fabric of this reality bending and shifting around him. He thought, if he reached out, he could touch it and perhaps bend it to his will. Something told him that this was not a good idea, and he refrained for the time being.
He could tell which strands of energy belonged to wood, which were stone, and which were air. He felt along them with his mind, assessing his surroundings with natural perspicacity.
He returned to the Physical Plane, slamming back into his body with a fierce jolt. Almost involuntarily, his eyes opened.
This is the only drawing I could find of Thanatos:
Because demons and red eyes are edgy as fuck, and giving them rainbows and sparkles is ironic and creative and Jesus Christ I wish I had a lead pipe to beat Little Sleeves with.
Thankfully, I exited the flamboyant rainbow demon stage rather quickly. And this next part is rather interesting because I actually switched genres for a while. I actually wrote…wait for it…wait for it…
…REALISTIC FICTION.
…ROMANTIC REALISTIC FICTION.
Indeed, I, too, had a romance stage. I know some of you may find this hard to believe. Some of you may feel lost, as if all the light and warmth and love was suddenly sucked out of you. Well, don’t lose hope just yet, because while this next story was a romance, it was more of a Stockholm-y thing. Enter Vance, my blond-drug-addict-mafia-boss. Actually, I have no idea what Vance was supposed to be, but he was rich and he had a lot of thugs.
If you think he looks a bit like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, it’s because he does.
The story, which never really had a title, centered around Sarah and her relationship with the aforementioned Vance.
Sarah was a kidnap victim who, predictably, fell in love with Vance. Little Sleeves apparently thought Stockholm Syndrome was cool and edgy.
All I can say is at least Sarah wasn’t a self-insert, and at least Little Sleeves didn’t make Vance into her dream guy since Little Sleeves (and Big Sleeves) hates blondes (unless they’re Australian and currently located in the Ecuadorian Embassy).
My Eighth Grade year was, thank god, not a very productive one. I began to mature and discovered that writing is a craft with skills that need to be honed and not just a way for me to channel fantasies willy-nilly.
I don’t have anything from Eighth Grade other than ridiculously eclectic notes (30 pages of world-building and character development gone to waste). I didn’t draw much that year, and when I did it was usually fan art.
I do have a picture of Myth that I drew in the Eight Grade. You can see how far his character design came:
He also looks a bit ethnic, which was a nice improvement. Way to go, Little Sleeves. If you haven't noticed, nearly all of my characters from this time period were WHITE AS FUCK (not to mention straight and cis).
So this brings us to the end of our horrifying journey. Hopefully your eyes haven’t been clawed out and your brain hasn’t melted into a puddle. I encourage the rest of you to make similar posts exploring your past work.
Sometimes it’s nice to see how far you’ve come.
