A/N: Hello, dear readers! This is the prequel to the actual story; this is just an origin story for Drawcia. The man is an OC, but I don't think he'll make another appearance in the story. Enjoy!

PS: The incredible cover was created by Mikoto-chan! Be sure to check out her gallery - it's adorable! ^_^

The man lives in a cottage that looks out to the sea. There is no one nearby; the roar of the waves and the frequent (and rather annoying) squawks from the local sea birds are his only companion. He doesn't mind, though.

He is awake earlier than usual, which is strange as he (as normal) had nowhere he needed to be. The man watches the night sky begin to fade away to make way for the brilliant light of day. In a way, it was rather rude – could the Sun be a little more patient and wait for the Moons to descend?

This man is an artist, evident by the permanent colours on his fingers and the chalk in his unwashed hair. He eyes his canvases… his crafts… his disasters. Sketches are crumpled, strewn throughout his one-room home, waiting to be stepped on or torn to pieces like the others. Works are half-complete, left for the moss and dust. The pastel landscape he had started days earlier – now ruined with intentional streaks of black charcoal. The artist cringes, wondering why such a monstrosity had managed to channel through his filthy fingers and onto his canvas.

Have I run my course? He wonders rubbing an aging hand over a wrinkly face, has my talent, my creativity, all but vanished? Once more, he watches the battle between the night and day – the stars have begin to disappear, the Moons now above his cottage by the sea.

A surge of energy.

His aging heart leaps, beating uncontrollably.

His eyes widen.

An 'O' forms in his mouth.

This feeling… this wonderful feeling he so desperately craves…


The artist throws himself from his bed, knocking over an overflowing container with handcrafted pencils and chewed pencils. He makes his way to the cabinet, kicking away the inferior pieces underneath a cobwebbed bed. As he opens the drawers, piles of beads and pottery spill over the edges and into the cracks of the floor, never to be retrieved. The artist surveyed his arsenal of art weapons and colours.

Purple – no, lavender.

Pink – no, wisteria.




All in pastels.

Frantically, as to not lose a single drop of inspiration, the artist yanks out a beaten wooden case and a black canvas from the top of the cabinet. Shoving away anything that would hinder his work, he sets the canvas on his easel, and begins to sketch with a white pencil. There will be many curves, he decides, it will be whimsical, magical… He decides that he will draw a woman. He begins with her dress.

A woman…. He suddenly recalls his wife. His grip grows tighter. The man sneers as the cloak becomes a little more pointed. That awful woman – she couldn't appreciate the work he put into his paintings. Somehow, she felt that she must be the centre of attention. "Drawing pictures with a stick does nothing for me," she had whined on numerous occasions.

What was going to be a silver braid suddenly became a mess of grey tangles.

His ex-wife, his stupid ex-wife – he still didn't understand why she wanted to leave the ocean. She had mentioned something along the lines of loneliness, but he hadn't exactly recalled what she had meant. Personally, the surrounding solitude was good enough for him, but not for her.

Unintentionally, the man draws a mask over the woman's mouth.

To top it off, she had the nerve to make him choose between his art and her. "I can't stand competing with a paintbrush any longer. Choose." Her devious little mind tried to trick, made him blind to his passion, but in the end his common sense reigned. She left him, and soon met another man.

A twisted hat replaces a simple beret.

The artist colours his piece, fuelled with jealously, anger – all channelled onto the canvas with a surge of inspiration. The day has begun – it is cloudy and miserable. He does not look at the piece as a whole until it is complete. When he decides he is done, his eyes grow at his creation.

A witch.

It is not human – simply a blob with two eyes; one is hidden, or perhaps nonexistent. The creature wears a multicoloured cloak with dyed tips with zigzagged edges. It is connected to a mauve piece of cloth with two gold claps. White hair flows from the scalp.

The man can't help but think she is beautiful.

He decides to name her Drawcia.

Perhaps… he looks a locked chest – the only clean object in his entire home. Maybe he should-

He shakes the idea from his head. No, he couldn't. The Brush held too much power. Every time he had used it only resulted in disaster. Leviathans brought to life, his creations roaming the world free; the answer was simple, it was too dangerous.


He cannot stop himself as he unlocks the multiple locks surrounding the casket. The man knew that he couldn't be lonely anymore. He needed someone, anyone, to keep him company until his death.

He wouldn't die alone.

He couldn't.

Crouching into the box, he heaves out The Power Paintbrush (supposedly crafted by these mysterious beings known as the "Ancients"). He still wasn't sure why it was still in his possession, but he was glad he hadn't thrown it back into the sea. The man caresses the wooden, flawless handle, running his fingertips through the psychedelic brush. He looks at the woman, and back to the brush.

He would grant life to his creation.

The creator walks back to the canvas, the Brush shaking in hands. With a delicate yet firm hand, he brushes the witch lightly with the rainbow bristles. The witch begins to pop from the painting, trying to escape into the 3D dimension. A smile begins to form on his lips, and he continues to brush the canvas over and over again until he can touch the pastel sorceress.

He steps the back, dropping the Brush onto the floor with a clatter. The witch had left the painting and now floated before him.

He cannot contain his joy, and begins to ramble to the enchantress – her name, her creator, his lonely life, and how he couldn't wait to be friends until the end of time. The witch doesn't move, doesn't smile (as she has no mouth). Eventually, the witch grows bored with the conversation, and pushes the man aside, picking up the Power Paintbrush, testing its powers. The man panics, trying to calm the witch.

Suddenly, with a wave of the Brush, the man is thrown to the other side of the room, colliding with a row of canvases and art supplies. A hole is bored through his wooden shack. He is too old, too weak to move. The witch approaches him, this time a light is forming in the Brush. Somehow, she was capable of unlocking its full capabilities. The man doesn't understand why this is happening. Why had his creation turned against him like the others?

Fuelled with anger.

The Power Paintbrush had channelled his fury into his painting.

The enchantress cackles. It is an awful sound, the wet paint gurgling in her scratchy voice. She runs the Brush around the house like a child with a new toy. The wood glosses over, transforming into stiff acrylic paint. The paintings fly in every direction, smashing against the walls. The man attempts to escape through the window, but it is too late – the tempera had already dried.

It doesn't matter anyway – his skin transforms into a hot wax and melts through the floorboards.

The witch laughs at the wreckage she caused, shaking and swaying her newfound Paintbrush with delight. The world was her canvas – completely under her control. Drawcia slips from the home, leaving the pile of goo that was once a man behind. She strikes the land with the Power Paintbrush, which ejects a rainbow splash onto the sea. The salt waters had now transformed into a blue watercolour mess. The tropical fish were altered as well – their scales were now colourful slivers of dry paint, their fins made up of a thin wisp of acrylic thinner. The ocean splashes over the chalk sea before retreating back to the encaustic ocean.

She cannot contain her joy and laughs again, this time pointing her precious Paintbrush to the sky. The sun begins to distort as it drops melted yellow acrylic onto the land below. The clouds become stiff, a charcoal lining forming around the edges. The sky loses its warmth, becoming nothing more than a dull grey mass in the air.

When Drawcia feels her masterpiece is complete, she raises her Brush one last time. Two golden rings form around the hand carved handle and slowly make their way to the flawless bristles. A light forms at the tip before forming a black, spiralling swirl – a black hole. Her newly-painted world begins to stretch, pulling away from its third dimension. Soon, the mountains do not seem as far away from the demolished cabin, nor the sea. The black hole grows. There is no depth in the rolls of the sea. The Paintbrush begins to shake in the young witch's hands. The spherical planet is pulled outwards; it is now becoming a flat circle. At last, the warped world settles. There is no longer any true perspective in her creation.

It is now a two-dimensional painting, hers for the keeping.

The witch cackles a distorted, satisfying laugh.

She was in control.

For one more time, she shrinks the enormous canvas to a pocket size and tucks it away in her cloak. After all, it was hers and hers alone – she had given life to an old, decrepit world.

Perhaps she can do the same to other worlds in need. Now floating in the reaches of space, she admires the endless stars, planets and distant galaxies… all which desire her artistic flair. Soon, the entire universe may be her for the taking. But how would she do this…?

She suddenly recalls how she was brought to life – the Paintbrush. That man – that aging, worthless, needy man – he had his wish granted from something called The Galactic Nova.

The witch groans, a rather strange and grotesque sound from her dripping lips. She would have to find a source of power to awaken The Galactic Nova. She paces for a moment, wondering how she could ever convince the Galactic Nova-

Drawcia stops and watches her twirling, almighty Paintbrush.

She chuckles.

Perhaps a mere demonstration would be convincing.

With a single stroke, she forms a dimensional portal which will take her directly to the Galactic Nova. With a burst of speed (and one more ear-splitting laugh), she slices through the dimensions to begin her Master Plan.

A/N: Hey there, fellow readers and writers, thanks for checking out my story, I hope you enjoyed it! If you had any commments, suggestions, ideas, or questions regarding the story, please tell me! I love to chat and I love to hear what you think! Also, criticism would be greatly appreciated, especially in regards to structure, format, grammar/spelling, and repeating phrases too often (this is something I really want to improve on).

As for chapter updates, my schooling can get a little hectic, so I can't promise weekly updates, but hopefully there will be a chapter or two a month.

See you soon!

- SSD14