ORIGIN - fine art connoisseur

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"Paint. Chalk. Whatever you'd like," surely, she could find some paints somewhere in the Palace. "I may ask for more of your art, in time." The white of the Palace was beginning to grate on her, after all-- it certainly needed a cock or two to liven the place up a bit.

Nails tapped against her arm. "My name is Aethril," she said. "You are welcome to ask the Masters about me, if you have doubts-- or Isra in Cepheus, for that matter. They answer to me. If I say that you are permitted to draw what you want where you want, then it is an act of defiance to stop you."

Hopefully, Imp did not know who or what Dhracia was, in fact-- the one person that Aethril could not stop from mutilating him. But as long as she was left out of the equation, everything would be fine.

"Do you know of Cepheus?" She asked. "The palace. It is where I stay. It's where I will have supplies for you, if you wish for them."

@Imp

Imp stared in growing awe.

Part of him was smart enough to realize that... hey, maybe Aethril was full of shit. The rest of him--while scrutinizing her face for honesty--wondered at the possibilities were she not.

The Masters answered to her-? Well why the fuck didn't you stop Nemean's bullshit? he wondered, but for once he had the sense to not say it out loud. Or maybe he just didn't think to. Half his mind was already reeling with the perceived, potential power of this.

I think she's telling the truth, he decided, scrutinizing complete. And this-... this was both surprising, and--amazing! The possibilities were endless!

"So I could be, like-... your official artist?" he asked, "and draw whatever I want?" Some sly, mischievous part of him was already trying to figure out how to take advantage of that-... but if she said 'everything,' it was hard to see how that'd even be possible. Everything meant everything, after all.

"I've heard of it," Imp lied, casually, like he'd just never deigned to go there. "But, uhh--can you give me directions, just in case?"

@Aethril

"Whatever you want," she confirmed-- but a beat later, "as long as you don't draw on other people's things." Scribbling on the Black Spire might be a bad idea for numerous reasons. "But, any cave wall, any body, any--" she side-eyed Nemean's ludicrous hog "--part. Your creativity should not be stifled, no?"

The Nest could use more creativity. If she saw another black and purple Valkhound she might try and tear her own eyes out.

"From Polaris," her instructions began. "Go to Ursa. It is the room covered in mountains and snow. Head right to the tunnel, and through there you will find Cepheus. The palace is the white building."

"Eggbert, the butler, will lead you to me if you ask him for me. He is not easily missed. Do not be rude to him." Imp could damn well kiss his eyes and his tongue goodbye if he upset Eggbert. "I will have supplies ready for you, whenever you come by. Will you need a room to paint in?"

@Imp

Imp took a moment to think this over, committing the directions to memory whilst trying to imagine... did he need a room?

Imp... wasn't the most well-spoken or even intelligent Gembound out there, but the little bastard had always been-... well, impish. For a moment he was almost honest (Creator forbid), and then he fell smoothly back on his old shit.

"Yeah! A room'd be good. I do my best work," he went on, speaking with puffed-up pompousness as he turned to regard the fading penises on the cave wall, "with fresh food, too. And music," he decided abruptly. He hadn't really heard much music in his life, but--why not ask? The worst Aethril'd say was no.

Or maybe, "fuck off, I'm taking your eyes again" but as Imp had learned, no setback was permanent. If anything, the entire incident had made him bolder as a whole, though he'd learned to exercise some individual cautions.

"I've gotta make a couple other stops," Imp went on, as though he were a very important Gembound indeed (and not just visiting Dad), "but then I'll head that way. I just, uh-" he paused, green eyes flicking to Aethril.

"What's a butler?" he asked.

@Aethril

"Music." Aethril parroted doubtfully. Somehow, she struggled to imagine Imp painting to a gentle rendition of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake with a platter of cheeses and wine. The latter, at least, was more obtainable. "Ask Nedies for food, if you are hungry during your visit. He enjoys cooking for guests."

Music. "The Ballroom has a phonograph; but only one record," she said. The record she was not a fan of, either-- something about its irregular imitation of a 'piano' unnerved her. "Some visitors may play instruments for you if they are so inclined, but do not expect it regularly."

Maybe she could find more records, somewhere. If there was a phonograph, there must be more. Maybe with where-ever the theatre films are. "A butler is a servant," she went on. "But, unless it is your butler, you should not ask too much of them."

"I will see you at the Palace, then, when you are done with your business."

@Imp
potential exit (unless aethril has to respond to something)

Imp struggled to quickly commit this all to memory.

He had no fucking idea what a 'phonograph' was, or a record. He didn't know who Nedies was. He didn't know what cooking was, not really--he heated up the slimier fish before eating them but that was the extent of Imp's culinary expertise. Hell, he had no idea how to use paints--he'd admitted that much, at least; but here he was, agreeing to it all.

"All right! We have a deal," Imp crowed--and turned his head to regard Aethril critically. Sure, he was kinda bluffing by pretending to understand all this, but he'd still give it his best shot. Fake it until you make it, and all that. And... "You know, Aethril, you're pretty cool," he decided; she'd kind've been... not bad to him, so far. That put her on a list of about five other people who weren't total dicks, in Imp's mind. "Thanks. I'll see you soon!" He turned to go, unaware that he should maybe ask permission or some shit. In his mind, he was ready to get started.

He paused, and turned, glancing at one image: a painted picture of Imp, as a penis.

The one--of very few--he hadn't drawn. With a quiet swear (a single, ripe "Fuck,") he turned and looked around. It took him a brief moment's searching, but he came back with a piece of reddish rock (bitter fucking cold, too) held firmly in his teeth. His new eyes glittered with cold malice as he lifted the pigment, and scratched the image entirely apart with jagged, angry lines.

He spat the piece out.

"This one was done by another fucking traitor," he said, quietly, as if to himself. Aethril might not even be there anymore, for all Imp knew--he was too fixed on the drawing on the wall. "I thought they were my friend." Oops, emotion, heart exposed--he scoffed, passing it off at once. "Anyway... I'll come by soon, and make you the best art anybody's ever seen."

And if Aethril was still there-? He'd fire her a two-eyed wink and a nod of certainty.

exit Imp; @Aethril (for visibility? Unless you wanna respond)

"You're pretty tight yourself," Aethril said with some undertone of amusement, though there was no doubt in her mind that Imp's attitude would likely get him killed if he wasn't careful enough -- it didn't matter how many times he crowed her name.

Still, for now, she smiled to herself as she watched him-- right up until he started to scratch out one of the images scrawled on the wall. She hesitated in that moment, she paused, her brow furrowed gently and, ahhh.

Though she kept the comment to herself, she knew it too well. Too often, she fretted over traitors and rebels-- too often, she found herself quietly preparing for another instance where it seemed as though everyone around her would betray her without warning.

With a little huff, frosty air billowed from her face. "Travel safe," she told Imp, heart aching with empathy. After he left, she turned to eye the drawings of Nemean for a few beats longer before she too turned tail and left with her arms kept close to her chest and heels clicking rapidly.

;;exit aethril
@Imp for visibility

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