I wrote this:


‘Stitch, do grace us with your face,” Axion said, his tone as always melodic but devoid of any warmth. The red curtain parted and a delicate hand, adorn with gold rings pushed it free to reveal a boy who couldn’t have been more then seventeen. It wasn’t the boy’s expression that pained, but rather his lack thereof that haunted as he stared through one good eye at Amber. His lips pursed as if words would tumble out at any moment, but he made no sound. His young face displayed myriad of scars and his long neck was wrapped in fabric and gold. He looked princely, but broken. Amber felt her heart swell and sink as she moved her eyes from Stitch to Axion, who’s lips curled to a wickedly delighted smile. “Ah, there’s my prize,” he said as his long thin hands rolled over themselves.


Then I drew this: