Imp was weary, not to mention splattered with paint. He didn't mind either one, though.

He was happy, and--hesitant as he was to admit it--he thought he sort of maybe had a new friend. He was hesitant because of the whole 'betrayal' thing, though, so as much as he liked Aethril, he tried not to hang too much emotion on the thought of her. He shoved that down, marked her off in his mind as "pretty cool" and tried to go about his business without dwelling on just how cool she'd been to him so far.

He had something else to do now, anyway, so for the moment his mind and his focus were safe.

Imp had a new piece of art in mind. And despite the fact that he'd just finished his first foray into anything resembling the real 'art world' in these caves, he was too fixated on the idea to rest before pursuing it.

He flew clumsily here and there, his snout poking into this crevice and that hole. He was looking for something gold--anything gold--that he could make into a metallic paint; something glittering and pretty. But as Imp searched, he found himself distracted.

It wasn't just that it was Cepheus--though that helped; Cepheus was full of beautiful things. Trees bloomed with delicate white petals, and pale spires rose to support elegant archways at the palace itself. The gardens were expansive, well-tended and full of bright colors and crystal sculptures that glinted and shimmered in the strange light. The river was a sparkling trickle full of white waterfowl, and the fields were covered in rolling grass.

It was more that Imp had, until very recently, been blind. Not his whole life--he'd been blinded; Master Farina had returned his eyes to him. And now, partway through his all-important "search for gold stuff," he found himself wholly distracted.

Found himself staring, even, at the water for far too long, held rapt by the pebbles gleaming like jewels beneath the clear surface.

He paused at the gnoll, gazing up in quiet awe at the flowers as they shifted in the wind.

Over an hour later he was in the garden, gently prodding this flower or that ivy, watching the light wind shifting every leaf.

And at some point--despite Imp's generally irreverant, crude and even rude nature--he found himself crying.

I can see again. I can see, was all he could think, the words even in his mind choked with emotion. The realization was hitting him full force--he'd been almost afraid to acknowledge it too much, just in case it was somehow taken away from him again.

Yet now that he was alone, staring at all the wonders of this cave, he was simply overwhelmed.

Imp at last broke himself from his reveries, forcing himself back to his search. That didn't stop him occasionally growing distracted at this glint of light or that flash of color, but he forced himself to really look for something gold.

He had a piece of art in mind, and he wanted it to be perfect.

It's sort of like... now I can see, I want everyone who looks at my shit to appreciate... vision, he decided. It was perhaps a bit of ego, but somehow, Imp figured that he--someone who'd been robbed of sight for so long--was best in the position to appreciate it now. To show others, maybe, what about 'sight' was best; never to take it, too, for granted.

So there was an almost feverish energy in him now as he searched, a determination to perfect this new life of his: his existence as 'artist.'

"C'mon, gold, where are you," Imp muttered. He'd been looking through the gardens for any little gold shit that looked abandoned, but had quickly given up on that and was now scouring the outer edges of the cave. Maybe if he could find a vein of goldish rock, he could scrape some out and work with that-?

"Fuck yeah," he murmured, at last spying the glitter of gold, or something similar, in the cave walls. It might've been pyrite or even something unrelated--Imp didn't know. He wasn't a fucking metallurgist or whatever. But now he had to find some way to get it out, and grind it up.

He turned back, looking for something--anything--hard and sharp that he could use. Preferably another rock, he decided--something harder than whatever made up the gold shit he could see.

After another long few minutes, he found what he was looking for: a stretch of pale, smooth stone with a broad, flat edge and a sharp point. He clutched this in his jaws and waddled back along, eyes searching the foliage until he found a few broad leaves; these he plucked from the ground with one taloned foot. He hobbled, one foot's toes closed around the leaves, back toward where he'd found the gold; it took some time for him to find it again.

Once he had, he started off by laying the broad leaves beneath the streak. Then he reached up, stone in jaws, and began to scrape away at the yellowish stretch of stone.

Bit by bit, glittering gold (or whatever it was) rock tumbled into the leaves. Imp worked diligently, scraping at the pigment for nearly twenty minutes, until he'd amassed a small but dense pile of the stuff. Then he wrapped it carefully in the leaves--and laid down beside it.

He could finish, he decided, after a long and well-deserved nap.

One long nap later, Imp was flapping his way back to the palace, his wad of pigment-wrapped-in-leaves clenched between his teeth.

He made his way back to the painting room, his four eyes bright with enthusiasm, and found it empty. Well--his stuff was there; canvases fresh and painted on, jars of paints, brushes and water, even the comfy chair. But Aethril wasn't there, and that was fine by Imp; it left him to focus fully on his work. Not that she was distracting, really, but this would be an experiment.

Then again, so was all his art, at this stage.

He'd leaned his lesson about backgrounds, so the first thing he did was just paint a canvas black. This involved setting up a pot of black paint and a brush, laying a cloth beneath the canvas, and slathering paint across its surface. It wasn't easy without hands--but the taloned feet and strong jaws, and a lot of patience, saw it done.

Then he mixed a new paint.

He gathered up some of the thinner--the oil--and a little bit of orange and yellow, and mixed it all together. Then he dumped in all the pigment that he'd found, using two talons and an upside-down brush to delicately combine it.

Then he set up other paints--browns and reds, whites and creams--arranging them beside the canvas, out of his way but available.

Once that was done, he set it aside, and tested the canvas's black--it had dried.

"Right... now we begin," he said aloud, smug and satisfied.

Imp had only seen Astraea once--and that had mostly been at a distance. But he'd gotten enough of a look, in the end, that he thought he had plenty to work with.

He'd missed the detail of the fungus all over the stag's hide--but the ruby eyes and gemstone, that he'd seen. And since this was a palace and a place of authority, it only made sense that more paintings of Masters should be hung here.

So on the backdrop of black, he began to mark out a silhouette in splashed metallic gold, with sparkling dots edged around it against the darker canvas.

Then--waiting for that to dry--he wandered off for something to eat.

Nedies was more than accomodating, so one small meal later, Imp returned with half-lethargic energy (he felt like he needed another nap, really). The streaks of brown he painted across the canvas now did have a semblance of lighting and shadow, if only the barest beginner's knowledge of it. There was what was probably a black nose marked at the edge of a snout, and the eyes, at least--matching the gemstone in the forehead--almost glowed a sinister red.

Then, the antlers.

Except... Imp took liberties, there. Instead of pointed spines, there were instead bulbous appendages attached to each tine. He painted with gleeful abandon, crowning the fungal Master with a rack that did look rather mushroom-like, if one didn't know what they were really looking at.

At last, proud, he sat back and admired his work.

"Fuck yeah," he said, at last, and flopped back in the chair to rest.

His work here--for now--was done.