#might post some doodles i've made of some scenes pretty soon

[demigod-of-the-agni]

Art vs Artist 2023!! 💥 I didn't expect the year to be so colourful... but there is a Severe lack of purples. Anyway, it was a literal struggle trying not to add Pavitr art because he keeps infiltrating every month T-T

Happy to say I'm proud of the art evolution! Thank you Spider-Verse for pushing me outside the box and really embracing the fun and whimsical style of Mumbattan. Who knew mimicking old timey comics would be so much fun?

high quality versions of the above images under the cut!!

i fuckin love this clip i want it tattooed on my soul

[alexzilver]

Queen of Comics

Hello guys! welcome to my new post! I am late to this fandom and even later with writing for it. However I've build up the courage to scribble something out. Enjoy!

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Pairing : Present! Carol Denning/Reader ( gender is not specified )

Warnings : None except the canon typical swearing and suggestive talk here and there

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Carol likes drawing. Little doodles here and there, violent fight scenes between cartoon figures, to full blown comic books. Luckily for you, she occasionally makes one for you.

It was lights out. You and Carol were sitting on her bunk. An idea ran through your head. ''Hey Jingles!'' You said while throwing a jolly rancher at her head. She looked up "Ow! The fuck is wrong with you?" She asked, unimpressed. She knew exactly what this is about. Kinda. You either hadn't been getting enough attention and were feeling bold, or maybe you wanted sex. Carol likes sex. ''When are you gonna finish 'Steve and the Soap Monster?'' Your voice shook her out of her thoughts.

Oh. Well that is a surprise. She really thought you'd go for sex. 'Damn it.' Carol had a liking towards drawing. One day, when you were coming into your shared cell you saw her scribbling away on some paper. It turned out to be a cover for a comic. After a little bit of bribing she let you flip through the pages and of some others as well. Not before promising to not utter a word about this to anyone though.

''I will break your arm into pieces.''

Turned out, You absolutely loved it. You didn't know how she came up with the stories but they were incredible. You read through every single one within the hour and had complimented Carol so many times, a blush was covering her cheeks. You smiled. 'She's beautiful like this'

''wanna make more? I 'll reward you.'' You asked suggestively. Her eyes widened. this change of demeanor was not anticipated at all. Needless to say; As soon as you fell asleep she spent all night drawing.

It wasn't as if you were exploiting her. Not at all! She was getting paid! with lolly-pops and many, many orgasms. Not money, but still a quite worthy payment. "Look, I get that you're busy and all, I mean, Bridge is a serious business." Carol cocked her head to the side, eyebrows raising. "But I am bored out of my mind." A very fake scandalized look made its way on her face. ''And when I 'm not bored, I-"

"Am I not good enough for you?" She asked, sarcasm as obvious as Baddison's stupidity. ''-great anxiety for my buddy Steve- Shut up- Carol, when are you going to write a part two? I'm addicted and your talent is my drug.'' She looked at you with a small amount of annoyance. '' Flattery ain't magic, Sugar-pops.'' You stuck your tongue out. ''Asshole.''

She stood up and made her way over to her treasure of magazines and candy. ''Excusing your behavior.'' She said, giving you a side eye before rummaging through the pile of stuff. ''I think you might like this.'' She exclaimed before throwing it at you. You made a surprised noise. Looking at her as if she killed your dog. 'Karma' She mouthed teasingly.

Your eyes focused on the object that was thrown at you. Caught by your very own face. Holy shit! Not only a part two, but also a part three?! You looked at her shocked. ''W-what? How?!'' She shrugged, 'Bastard.' You didn't need an answer ''Carol, baby, I love you so much.'' You uttered in awe. ''Pretty rad huh?'' She chuckled. She said as she made her way over again. Straddling your hips Carol looked at you hopefully.

'' I get a double reward now, right?''

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byE

[alyssabethancourt]

If you only read one of my project updates, make it this one.

It took most of the day to kick in, for some reason, but the price of the Mornnovin eBook on Amazon has finally adjusted to 99¢. It will remain at that deeply discounted price at least until February 26th. I may or may not be persuadable on the subject of extending the sale for an additional week.

So now that the stress of that unexpected snafu has lifted, I can do a proper update.

It's Friday, five days in, and as of posting this the fundraiser is sitting pretty at $821 or 22% funded. We're nicely on track. The next big goal, obviously, is getting to 25% ($925) and I'm confident we can hit that mark easy-peasy before the end of the weekend. Please, keep talking up this series and sharing the link with your friends, family, and followers.

Trajelon is a special book not just because it's mine and I have to say that, but because it explores issues and themes that I don't think we see often enough in fiction – especially not in the sparkly elf magic genre.

I'm going to get real with you for a minute.

I've talked before about how the version of Mornnovin that is now published is the culmination of thirty years and four versions of telling that particular story. What people may not know is that I'd also written Trajelon once before.

In late 1997, I was 18 years old and I'd made some terrible decisions that I was locked into living with for the foreseeable future, both because of the nature of responsibility but also because of pride. People had tried to warn me, and of course being the age I was, I knew everything. I'd been downright insolent about my conviction that I knew what I was doing.

So there I was, miserable, bridges burned, everything to prove, struggling under the load of several massive responsibilities all taken on at once, knowing that I'd made the bed I now had to lie in. I was also trying to pass my first semester of college as an English major. I can't remember now precisely which combination of events led me to come to this conclusion, but I started to feel that although I was reasonably good at academic writing, my creative writing was a clear waste of my time. I actually went as far as deciding to give it up.

I think, now, that I might have been trying to punish myself.

That take makes sense in hindsight because as soon as I'd grounded myself from the sort of writing I actually enjoy doing, two things happened.

One, at odd moments I started doodling scenes that weren't supposed to be part of anything, so I was free from the feeling that they had to be any good or make any kind of sense or fit within a larger narrative. This would come to be important later.

And two, the scenes I was scribbling down without any commitment to story or quality were all about bad things happening to Loríen.

Because writers have to write, even if they've made bullshit nonsense declarations about how they've given it up, a story idea did eventually coalesce out of all of these snippets. And because of where I was, the story was dark. The finished product was horrible, but it was genuine – a savage cry of pain from someone who believed she had no right to it.

Fast forward ten years. Now it's 2007. I'm still living in that hell of my own making, but it's different because I'm ten years older and time does change things, for better or worse. Now I'm working a crappy retail job and it's killing me. To save my sanity, one day, I pull some blank receipt paper out of the cash register and in tiny, cramped letters I start scribbling some scenes that aren't supposed to be part of anything. They're just junk for my brain, something to keep me alive. Because they're not for anything real, I don't worry about them being any good or fitting within whatever other arbitrary writing rules I have for myself. At night, while the household is asleep, I transfer the cramped letters from cash register paper to computer file.

After a while, I realize they are actually starting to make a coherent story, but it's not canon, I tell myself. It's just some cracky Asrellion fanfiction. Just some mindless entertainment. I keep giving myself permission to tell a different kind of story from whatever I imagine canon to be.

By the time I leave that crappy retail job, I find that in my time there I've managed to scribble onto bits and pieces of receipt paper what amounts to roughly twenty typed pages of... something.

Then I realize that what I have on my hands isn't just something, it's the seed of a new version of Book 2. One that actually has something to say besides screaming in wordless agony. The only problem is, this new book that I can see laid out before me is far too good for the terrible most-recent draft of Book 1 that would precede it.

Then I realize that I'm going to have to write this book, which means that I'm also going to have to rewrite the first book in the series in order to lay the necessary groundwork.

That's the story of how I came to begin my ground-up re-imagining of Mornnovin in 2008.

It turns out to be a good thing that I took the time to do that first, because I wouldn't have been ready then to tell the story that I ultimately had in me in 2016 when I wrote Trajelon over the course of six intense months. By then, I had escaped Hell. By then, I was safe. By then, I had some perspective on what it is not just to live through but to survive trauma and depression.

The first incarnation of Trajelon was what I needed it to be when I screamed it up, all those years ago. It was catharsis. I don't blame it for its darkness or its ugliness any more than you would blame a post-surgical scar for its raw appearance. This iteration of Trajelon is what it needed to be. Almost Athena-like, it sprang fully-formed from the brain of its creator. And it's no longer a cry of suffering. It's... a meditation on living with the suffering that inevitably comes along with the triumphs we experience in life. Living with, enduring, growing from. Learning to discard where possible. Drawing into our identity and building off of where necessary.

No doubt this is scary territory for some readers, but that's exactly why I think it's so important to tell these stories. They can't all be about glorious victories on the field of battle. There are more shades to the spectrum of the human (elven?) experience. I so wish this book had existed at a time when I could have drawn strength from it. Now I no longer need to draw on that kind of strength, but others do. I know they do.

So maybe this was a big old heavy update for a Friday evening, but I hope you don't mind the candor. This book is very personal for me, as you now understand, and that would have become clear anyway as soon as you read it. Because I think that's actually its truest and purest strength, I wanted to be up front about it in this fundraiser. I am pitching to you a fantasy novel written by a survivor of abuse, trauma, and depression written for survivors of abuse, trauma, and depression.

If you, like I do, think that's an important thing to have exist in the world, please help me get the word out and bring it into reality.

And thank you for letting me get real.

Help fund TRAJELON on Kickstarter.