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I finished the first chapter of Stowaway, which is a prequel of sorts for the Legend of Aquaria!

Here’s an excerpt:

The sky was a blazing blue and the sun hung in the sky like an overripe tangerine. It was unusually warm and the clear skies managed to drag out the tourists like cockroaches from the woodwork. Five supposed he should be grateful. More tourists meant more pockets to pick which meant a surplus of money which meant that he might be able to buy a distraction this month. Distractions included things like books, puzzles, and more yarn. Items like these were a near useless commodity. They gave no sustenance, and could be a terrible risk as they let your guard down. However, Five liked risks, both the dangerous and non dangerous variety. Risks were interesting, and Five was the type that got bored easily.

This is Charlotte from one of my very first stories, The Legend of Aquaria, which I recently decided to rewrite. Going from 25 completed chapters to just one has been. . . an experience to say the least.

Maybe I’m a masochist.

I found out that an avatar role playing game existed so naturally with my extremely limited funds, I acquired it.

This is my character Jin. He’s a sandbender and a ninja. After following one of the knowledge spirits to Wan Shi Tong’s library and reading all about the world he decided to go and see it for himself.

This is Quinlin De Alteriis. He goes by Five.

They like knitting, coffee, books, the rain, and personal space.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I already took care of that for you. Everyone should know by now. But if they don’t. . .” Seth stood up and yelled, “I’m crazy! Deal with it!”

Everyone glared at him, he smiled and waved. Seth had decided a long time ago that dropping that bombshell straight out was better than having people whisper about it. Seth hated rumors, so he broke them.

“Are you nuts?” the guy hissed.

Seth met his eyes and smirked.

“Yes, I thought we covered that already,” he said, “Now you’ve got nothing left to expose. Now if you don’t mind me, I’m going to finish my banana,”

“You’re hiding something,” the guy hissed. “Something big, and I’m going to find out what! You’ve made an enemy, Seth Mira.”

“I can’t believe it took this long,” Seth said, “I must be losing my touch,”

The guy scoffed and walked off.

“Good luck!” Seth called out after him. “I’m rooting for you!”

Well, that was fun.

I am incapable of drawing on anything larger than a notecard. Which is kind of annoying. I do want that cool sketchbook art aesthetic after all. So imagine my surprise when I learned that they actually make sketchbooks the approximate size of notecards.

This is my first drawing in the new sketchbook!

Seth Mira. An insomniac with x-ray vision that is firmly convinced he’s insane.

I just finished revising what I had of his story today, so I figured I would draw him.

After trying and failing to do digital art these last few days, drawing on the back of a notecard made me feel a lot better.

It was like, “Hey, I can draw!”

Anyways, I was wandering about campus today and I randomly thought; “A post apocalyptic story would be cool,” And because it’s me I had the idea of a Last Kids On Earth style zombie apocalypse. The kind with less high stakes and more weirdness.

Thus Kris was born. They are a comic author and illustrator who by learning random things for research purposes ends up surprisingly well equipped to survive the apocalypse.

I look forward to writing this story. I still need plot though. Plot would be nice. Plot, if you are reading this, call me.

I have discovered this mysterious thing called ✨reference photos✨. I’m simultaneously pleased with myself and mentally smacking myself for taking this long.

Anyways, this is Keith, yet another one of my characters.

He’s special though because he’s the main character of my very first story. And that story over four years later still is unfinished and needs a title. What is a timely manner anyway?!

Not a clue. Not a singular clue.

The two faces of Jackson.

Skyler. He’s my resident antisocial engineer with alien ice powers, a hidden left eye, and a robotic fox companion. He keeps getting fired from spaceship crews for his lack of emotion and interpersonal skills. I love him.

The shirt is referencing Avatar the Last Airbender.

A gloved hand flipped through black vinyl disks.

“Assassin,”

The hand paused at one such disk.

“Master,”

It was deemed satisfactory and pulled out of its flimsy paper casing.

“Do you know why you are here?”

A needle was lifted.

“You have found a problem in my methods and wished to correct it. Am I wrong?”

The disk was placed on a small platform.

“Yes, yes you are. Don’t you dare speak to me like an equal.”

The needle was placed above the outermost groove on the disk.

“Apologies, Master,” The words were emotionless. Not from training, like the Master must have thought, but blatant insincerity.

An exposed finger pressed a button.

There was a long pause before the Master spoke again, a long pause before the Assassin remembered how to breathe.

A click sounded from the button, made louder and more prominent by the otherwise absolute silence of the ship.

“We do have a problem, but not with your methods. Though we do need to address those at a later date. You have been given a name.”

The needle lowered.

“A name,” the Assassin echoed. “You cannot give the nameless a name,” It was spoken like a mantra. Like something woven into the fabric of the universe.

The disk began to spin.

“That is correct. But you, one of my many assassins, have been given a name. You don’t exist. You don’t matter. You are nameless.”

Sound began to fill the air.

Nameless. The Assassin ignored the rage and bloodlust that coursed through their veins. A name meant you existed. A name meant that you mattered. The Assassin had given themself a name. A long long time ago. But that was then. This was now. Ren didn’t exist anymore. Scratch that, Ren had never even existed in the first place.

All sorts of sound. Guitar. Drums. Piano. Voices. The occasional violin.

“They call you Dualchrome, for your trademark two toned eyes. One pale, one dark. Now why haven’t you shifted away such a blatant trait?!”

The hand fell away from the machine and they walked over to the cockpit, their feet not making a single sound on the cold metal floors.

“I can’t, Master,”

They sat down in the black pilot's chair and silently tapped their left foot in time with the sound.

“You can’t?! You incompetent excuse for a weapon!! You refuse me, your Master?!”

The hands wearing black fingerless gloves pulled a folded piece of paper from one of their numerous hidden pockets.

“I apologize, Master. I apologize that I have failed you. But there are feats that even I cannot accomplish. My eyes are my anchor. All shapeshifters have them, including you,”

The paper was carefully unfolded.

“An inconvenient location for your anchor. How has no one noticed? Your teachers? Your fellow Assassins?”

The paper had general description and location, but no name on one side.

“I can shift the colors. And the size. Almost everything, really. But the left will always be darker than the right.”

The paper had two descriptions on the other side but those were not targets.

“How close can you get to equilibrium?”

The hands typed in a location.

The Assassin’s right eye turned ice blue while the right turned a deep cerulean.

A sip was taken from a bottle of chocolate milk.

“Disappointing. I thought you had a better handle on your shifting than this. Oh well, I will give you a mission that even the most incompetent can’t mess up,”

The milk was returned to the beverage fridge that was flush to the rightward wall with the kind careful, precise movements that masked a deep anger.

The Assassin seethed, imagining the Master pinned to the wall with shuriken, throat sliced, name sign carved on the inside of her wrist, and her blood staining her expensive yellow robes.

The engines started with a roar.

“Take this,” the Master said, handing the Assassin a folded piece of paper.

Gloved hands gripped the wheel hard enough to whiten their knuckles.

The Assassin took it and stowed it in one of their numerous pockets.

The pod tore into the sky at breakneck speeds.

The Assassin turned to walk away when the Master opened her mouth, “You know what will happen if you fail,”

Two toned grey eyes, one pale one dark, glared over the wheel and into the star strewn sky.

The Assassin did not reply, instead walking away silently.

Autopilot engaged after three barrel rolls that did not relieve any pent up tension.

Of course they knew. Failure was worse than death. Death was dishonor and release. Failure was. . . Failure was better left unsaid.

Hands threw shuriken at a repurposed dart board painted a rather precise shade of yellow. They didn’t miss.

The Assassin stormed away, stopping briefly at the mess hall to grab two bottles of chocolate milk.

A book was selected from the shelf to alleviate boredom.

Whispers were quickly silenced by a glare colder than death. A glare that said; ‘I can and will kill you if you cross me,’ Those in the mess hall didn’t doubt it, for it had been proven before.

Pages were turned, and chocolate milk was sipped.

The Assassin left the mess hall, and everyone let out a collective sigh of relief. The Assassin heard them, but made no acknowledgement. Fear surrounded them like a shroud, that was just how it was.

A book was finished, and a planet appeared out the view screen.

The Assassin walked into their ship.

The ship descended, and an old thought entered their mind.

Another day, another death.