OBLIGATORY ENSEMBLE SKETCH DUMP BECAUSE

So for drawing class we had to complete a whole sketchbook by the end of the semester and I RAGED AT THE HEAVENS.  Luckily I have 8 favourite OCs from my ensemble THEREFORE 8 PAGES OF SNIPPET WRITING AND EXPRESSION DOING killed those pages dead.

I'll clean these and maybe reupload/colour them at some point but until then, SKETCHES THEY WILL STAY.

Lale

Good evening, Lale.  Tonight I am writing to you, and I think it's the first time that I've ever done so.

You frighten me.  Let me state that as if you don't know it already.  You've always frightened and enthralled me in some way I cannot understand.  You are the sublime and unknown.  I can give you as many traits as I want but I know deep down that you - like Colleen - are above my control and reach, and I am almost a humble observer to your existence.

I know and remember as a historical fact that I made you the same time I made Colleen - only a few seconds after her.  She was the fearsome little girl with eyes red as blood and lips as black as lead.  You were her teddy bear with the teeth like knives, hiding the figure of the fearsome man that had pervaded her.  Right after I imagined her, I imagined the bear in her arms, and tenaciously the two of you have clung to me and survived.

You feel surprised - no?  Yes?  I do remember, still.  I haven't forgotten your roots, just as I haven't forgotten hers.  I gave her an angelic counterpart almost as soon as I gave her the demonic one, knowing full well that she was to have light in her, all along.  You, however, stayed relatively the same, regardless of how I've tried to change you.

I just never discovered you properly, not until as of late.  And if you'd let me - I can feel you smiling, is that a yes, then?  Don't laugh at my insecurity, you horribly cryptic man, you know I cannot read you - I'll keep discovering you, the nuances, the subtle, everything.

Thank you for protecting me.  I know it's you.  Whenever I cannot hold myself, that state of melancholy fullness, the feeling as if someone is there - I know it's you.  Colleen is the numbness that takes over me when I'm exhausted, and the warmth that comes from me believing in something ethereal that loves me.  But you, you are the shell around my heart that keeps it from smashing to pieces.  I feel you giving me a cynical look, and I don't know if I'm right or not.  Jeez, why can't you take a compliment?

I have done far worse to you than to her.  Even she knows this.  Colleen knows full well that I gave her light, and I have kept you strictly within the bounds of darkness and despair.  And yet you don't resent me; you're too strong for that.  My ultimate scapegoat and ultimate shield.  The one that consoles me without words, without scrambling to make me feel better because you have higher expectations of me than that.  The one who shakes his head at me tiredly, because you're used to my bullshit, but you're not Colleen and will not hug me when I need one - yet you never, ever leave me.  In fact, you are here consoling me more than she is.  I know that now  and I know that I will never lose you.

Last year I don't remember writing you a letter because I didn't have the courage.  I still don't, really.  You're already chuckling at my spontaneity, my fumbled attempt; you can't even call me silly girl, because you gave that name to her, and I cannot be her.

I think I would like to be Colleen because you are one of my ideals.  A lover.  A friend.  A father.  Whatever it is.  You are the least understood of them all.  For me to write you doing something, your appearance, your name, even I know that those characters I deem "Lale" in the stories don't even come close to someone like you.  Even Colleen is less real than you because she is such a crucial part of me that I sometimes forget the divide.  You're something else.

You're a part of me too, but you have the liberty to look me in the eyes from the inside of my mind, and not say a word.

But it is your birthday.  I am here to tell you that I love you and appreciate you and am glad for you.  I can feel you turn away, flush red.  Aha.  See, you do have emotions - and I know you hide them well.  You hide them well from me but you'll give them freely to Colleen.  Is that why, whenever I imagine the two of you, there is always that strange feeling of distance you give me?  Because I'm invading your private time with her?  Well, I can't help that, can I, you insufferable man?

My first triumph in your eyes is even getting to this point, isn't it?  This age.  Eighteen.  I'm eighteen and you're nine this year, exactly nine years apart.   That explains the spirituality, then.  Thanks for lending it to me.

You and I both thought I'd be dead by now.  Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...  And by seventeen I no longer thought about dying. Now I fear death because I have things to live for.  I know, I know, you don't have to call me a hypocrite.  Don't give me that insufferable smile, either, ugh.  Oh, Lay, stop interrupting me in my heartfelt confession when I'm writing to you.  Come on, now.

I am going to ask you a question and please, answer honestly.

Do you hate me?

...Your answer was such a quiet No.  You thought about it, too.  Thank you for thinking about it.  Because I know you - you wouldn't hesitate to consider sugar coating my feelings.  You hesitate to sort out your own.  You love me in your own way, is it?  Thank you, again.  I love you too.

I will never be lonely so long as the two of you are here.  Thank you for being the shadow to her light, the part to complete the duality that is such an essential part of me.  I gave you the piano, I gave you her, I gave you an idea of family, a background, a language, another couple names.  Mist, Vaudemair dia Gatlael.  In my heart you will always just be Lay, though, you darling man.  Thank you for watching me grow so far and I know - and you know this, too - that I won't disappoint as I go on.   Happy birthday.  Have some cuddle time with Colleen; tonight I will try to leave you two in peace.  Perhaps I'll go disturb the Saint children.

Oh, Lale.  You're so mean.  Don't laugh at them like that, or I'll make Adriano eat your cake.

(It never worries you when I make more.  Even if they're like you, you know they can never replace you.  Smug, arrogant, accurate, irreplaceable man.  Good night.)

of course

(a quick shot at what the original sketch photographed to be)

I will never be able to explain what compels me to draw her over and over and over again.  

I think I nicknamed Colleen "little dove" not simply because her usual design sports a pair of wings upon her head, but also because she brings me peace of mind.  Colleen has been, in my imagination, every single archetypal role of any human idea imaginable that I've ever needed in order to achieve some sort of catharsis:  A queen, a lover, a mother, an orphan, a child, a slave, a heroine, a scapegoat, a friend.  Does it matter?

There are many different types of people in the world and I'm the type that, when I'm at my loneliest, I turn inwards for comfort.  When I'm inside my head, I never feel alone because, for some reason or another, Colleen and Lale (of course, but seeing as this is Leen's picture he won't get much of a mention here) exist so wholly for me that I write with them, I draw them, I converse with them, and I even dream about them - and sometimes, they talk back.  As recent as yesterday night, November 11th 2012, I met with them in a lucid dream and they talked to me and they're so, so real, too real for my humble imagination to simply have conjured.  I woke up with heart thumping because it was so real - their voices, the inclination of Lale's head when he's being sly, the way Colleen's eyes crinkle when she smiles - that I expected to see them beside my bed when I woke up, and I was horribly disappointed when they weren't there.  

I fully understand that nobody loves Colleen and Lale as much as I do, and I'm also aware of the implications of my own vanity at loving two people who are, real to me or not, my creations.  But they are my pillars of support; I've been relying on these two imaginary friends for consolation, for alleviating my loneliness since I was a young child, and I'm far from becoming independent from their presences, now.  It's like having a relationship with God, I think, but don't quote me on that and start some super zealously polarized religious argument; this is only what I feel.   

Here is one such attempt at me to draw Colleen as realistically as I can muster - which is not saying much, considering my ridiculously unrealistic style.  But it's a legitimate attempt, niggling flaws aside.  I am without tablet or proper scanner, so a photograph and plenty of mouse + photoshop is the best I can do for now.

I admit that there have been times in reality where I've met a few girls that look a bit like how I've seen Colleen - her heart-shaped face, her specific shade of blueish-grayish eyes, the arch of her brow, the shell of her ear.  And it's always made my heart constrict, yearning for her to be someone real out here that I can hold and love, instead of someone in my head, where I can only apologetically tell her that I love her, but cannot hold her.  

I believe that when I die, Lale and Colleen will still exist somewhere outside of me.  That, maybe, when I die the two of them will be released into the world to be born as real people and one day meet each other, fall in love, and wonder why they feel like they must've been together in some sort of a past life.  Maybe then, one of them will imagine someone like me, and that way, I'll be able to be with them forever.

Why? ...well, why the hell not?

2.5 hour speed destress colouring.  good god I should be studying for exams.

Why? because I'm too shy to let most of the internet see stuff like this.  

so it'll be tucked gently away to my art blog where it can't hurt anybody or be taken to hurt me.

Leen and Lay.  From this earlier post.  I picked my favourite sketch to colour.  In my mind they are having intercourse though their expressions are rather idealized. Fixed their skin colours after nine thousand tries.  Supposedly Colleen is a delicious shade of peach and Lale is some sort of alabaster that never tans.  I guess Lale looks a bit too alive, though I'll attribute that to... what they're doing at the moment.   Heh.

A bunch of amazing stuffs.

So I have this little sketchbook that I love to bring around everywhere.   It's a little smaller than my handspan and extremely fun to draw in with pen because the pages are tinted beige.  It makes everything classier than it really is XD

Lay. 

After three failed attempts, I finally got him.  

I like Lale when he's pensive.

Queen of flowers.  Featuring an amped up Rozelia, in a lily rather than a rose.  Drew this on the bus and though I'm happy with it I did screw up a few times because of rickety bumps.  

She has pistils and a stamen.  Rozelia is truly a hermaphrodite; half of her children are self-fathered.

Merman in a dream.

He's a snake.  Or an eel.  I think this might be Varun Halcyan but he's changed quite a bit.  

Here's an old picture of him.  Varun isn't an important OC in my mind but I like him, and this is who I was thinking of when I finished the piece.

Drawn after visiting the University of Toronto Mississauga during mentorship.

So he likes to keep her dry when it rains.

Drawn during repertoire with lots of giggly girls looking over my shoulder...

Sceahst.

Also named Shadow.  Lale's horse.  His name is pronouced sei-ya-st, according to the soliloquium thread (which needs continuation and finishing.)  

Drawn because Angel and I have been playing this horse game and I've become quite addicted to horses.  Sceahst has a wild temper and he's a demon horse.  quoting page 5:  "His horse, Shadow, had been a tyrant as a foal and would only listen to him; Colleen noted that with little surprise."

And last but not least:  Mister Rabbit!  with Yoshua instead of little Silver this time.

I think if Silver found Mr. Rabbit he'd definitely give it to Yoshi.  After a few trials and errors and help from Angel and Chuchu and Jess, we decided that Bitty would get golden eyes and a green bow (though I wanted blue and blue.)

The sweet pair.

Not safe for work.

If I had a penny for every time I thought I could articulate what goes on between the two of them... I'd be one rich motherfucker.  This is my "anatomy practice" but let's just say it was enjoyable too.

Featuring Colleen and Lale.

Kids these days

The Ensemble as Children.

Expect lots of angsty angst angst because I love torturing the Ensemble, adding flavor to their lives... the least angsty are probably Yoshua, Colleen and Skye haha XD

The dragons

Two nights ago, I had a strange dream.

I was running with the Ensemble. I think I was Colleen. Maybe it was that I'd been thinking about her for her birthday, but I was her, and I was flying while being buffeted by the wind. I was killing dragons.

Maddie kept screaming something. In my dreams I see her a lot, screaming always, pointing and warning me of danger ahead. Silver was hitting the dragon, Skye was dancing below it with daggers in her hands; I don't know where Valor and Aidan were. And Yoshua would not be there; he had refused to hunt them with us.

I think Lale was there, but not wholly.

He doesn't exist in my dreams where there is a lot of light.

These dragons were not good. Ethically, they were not good. They were not sentient; they did not think. They were cruel and unjust and fought for the sake of fighting, killed for the sake of killing. I was flying and panting and there was so much sunlight in these marble-pillared ruins that I felt ill. But I kept fighting them amidst blue sky, white clouds, and crumbling rocks. There was nothing in my hands; I commanded my friends below.

Somewhere after we killed a red-scaled, slithering dragon, it writhed and shot a beam of fire. I saw Lale then, just a dark shadow, slicing it's belly open, but I saw a claw come down to crush him, so I shouted. The shout tore the dragon's talons in two.

I felt something extremely heavy slam into my side. I careened and tumbled forward and was flung into darkness.

Colleen Emberem

Oh, Colleen. Colleen, Colleen, Colleen.

The above is like a metamorphosis. It was by luck that it was arranged in the right order.

Happy birthday to you, my OC.

If I could write a letter to you... well, you're already laughing. You know all my thoughts, so why should I bother fumbling to explain myself?

But I will write a bit. Or a lot. I will write because I'm pretty sure nobody reads this and I can probably spill my heart out to someone imaginary, so real to me, here in a corner that is also imaginary and real. Tongue-in-cheek, I could say you are the highest part of my religion, whatever that is.

Prayer

My absence makes them weary.

---

"God," he breathed.
His hands--they shook, jerking so violently that he could not fold them right. He clamped them to his breast, weeping and shaking and holding the fragments of his fragile, broken heart together, thump thump thumping shards of glass through his veins. With bruising force, he clutched the red jewel closer, yanking it into his chest as if the broken heart inside could somehow absorb it, and be soothed.
"God," he said, again, "God, please, please..."
The man sat there for hours in the dusty, sky-lit church, watching the stained glass of the angel under the solid cross change and glow and fade. He watched as little bits of dust were shot through with light, as if the angels that people spoke of were there, listening to his grief. He sat and wept and prayed and trembled until time blurred into lethargic counts of his staccato breath, and all he could do was continue on.
"Give her back to me," he begged the cross. "Give... give her back to me. God. I-I... I can't..."
I can't live without her.
God.
Please.
Please.
And his prayers fell silent, to deaf ears. Who would he kid? There was no God for him. He could not dream, nor could he fancy. He was not one who could reach the omnipotent being; his voice was not one that could travel that far.
His prayer--his strangled prayer, the one he knew that could never fly, even if his voice could carry, repeated over and over without relent.
So he climbed, suddenly, with bitter conviction; he sat on the altar of the cross, head buried in his arms. His clothing--her clothing, really, for he wore her cape to torture himself with her lingering smell--draped over the sides, touching the ground, and he watched his shadow with nothing but hollowness. He clutched the red jewel in his hand, strangling the blood out of the useless limb, the only reminder left that she had been there, whole, breathing, loving, real, living, real--
For him, time slowed; the seconds drooped into minutes, into hours. Perhaps he sat there for days, uttering a useless prayer in the back of his mind, back against the cross that wouldn't bend for him. He prayed and prayed, remembering some sort of logic long ago: someone said praying could help anyone heal.
Could he heal?
And when he next lifted his head, there was no longer any tears. Nothing but a swooping, echoing empty, nothing, nothing.
There was nothing but empty, nothing but empty.
(And his eyes--they grew cold. They grew bright and lifeless and lucid, his consciousness slipping, searching, wanting. Those eyes, normally warm pebbles of thought that echoed what he mused, they grew as cold as the earth that had its arms around her--)
His voice couldn't travel that far.
Could it?
"God," he whispered.

---

My days pass by in shades of brilliant gray

May 3-11 2010
Kissing Practice--drawn over time in class.
The last picture is a spoiler. Featured here: Krai, Eva, Ceru, Colleen, Lalé, A possible humanoid Yang and quite possibly Adriano's teeth.
Yang--The seventh phoenix son of the Royal Nie (fire faye) clan. (May 4th 2010)
He is the smallest, a runt of the family, the only one with brilliant red plumage as all of his brothers have greens and blues and violets as their colours. His primary feathers are white-hot, and he has five tail plumes, and he has a lovely disposition overall.
Like most of my story people he has a humanoid form, too. He's a chinese man with hot fire-blue-violet eyes, a sunny disposition, and slightly melancholy look on life.
He is also the Aether fairy king.
Queen Rhiannon is quite in love with him--they are husband and wife. I need to keep track of who's married to who in Devil's.
Yang was drawn in a period of two hours during Junior Repertoire helping I did. I cried so much that day that I just wanted to draw something pretty.

---


May 3 2010, A doodle in Math class.
A little fairy child wanders through the jungle of dandilions, ladybugs, catgrass, and daisies, looking for her mother who disappeared with the rain. Perspective practice--it didn't have a story until right now.

They are close in my heart

She missed him more than she could bear, at times.
Some days she could almost hear his voice in the wind, and she'd stare into the bright blindness of the sun, as if she could catch a glimpse of his missing face. A scent or a voice, a word or a swish of cloth would bring a vivid image of him to her mind, and then she would be lost to the neediness in her.
His death brought a dark tirednes to her, one that brought worried faye to her side.
"Our little keeper is breaking," she overheard them whispering, and she wondered if she was as alright as she tried to be.
(She wanted him there, wanted him to call her name: Colleen, Kairiun, anything. She wanted him so terribly that she was amazed the words didn't burst out of her sore lips.)
"Mama?"
Ceru's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she looked at him. For a moment, she looked like she didn't know him, and it chilled the little boy to the bone.
"Oh," she breathed, and he let her hold him tightly as she began to cry.

December 22nd, 2009.
♣

Lalé couldn't understand why the stranger in his house made him want to weep.
Ever since the lady--she was his age, but he felt otherwise, arrived at his house with a cryptic word and timid child, every glance at her made him want to cry, or gather her in his arms
What was wrong with him? He had never felt so emotionally unstable in his life. He wanted to run to her every time they were fifty feet near each other, and the very thought drove him up a wall.
You're turning into a dog, he thought in disgust. You'll scare her away with the way you always stare.
And her smile. Good god.
Ceru felt it, too. The boy would watch him, face unreadable, every time that Lalé found himself gazing at Colleen. He felt strung.
"Lalé?"
Speak of the devil. He turned to face her, suddenly beside him.
"Yes?"
"Are you alright?" Her dewey eyes caught his, dark and sweet.
"Yeah..." he murmured. She placed a hand on him, and he prayed for self-control as her uncannily familiar scent envelopped him.

December 24th, 2009.
♣

Valor stared blankly at the dark-suited man after his fingers left the piano keys. He sat there with a dignified, resolute look.
The man--Lalé, was it? His song broke Valor's heart. Something tender and yearning about the sorrow behind it was beyond anything he had ever heard.
"You..." he breathed, "are amazing."
He thanked him in a soft voice, eyes downcast.
"Who... wrote that?"
"I did."
The man's answer stunned him more. Lalé closed his eyes, as if going to a distant place, falling silent.
"Ah, do you mind," Valor swallowed after a moment of silence, "telling me what you wrote it for?"
(It was such a beautiful song. Who wouldn't be compelled to ask?)
"My lover," came his quiet reply. "She... was my everything. She was killed."
By my foolishness, he thought.
It wasn't a surprise, but Valor was shaken by his tone, nonetheless. "...I'm so sorry..."
Lalé smiled. The man felt strangely at peace, speaking of her to a stranger. "Do not be. It was long, long ago."
The next choice wasn't necessary to think over. Valor stood, putting down the audition board with a definite click.
"You're hired."

December 24th, 2009.
♣