m for penises

Aethril was not always the creature she was today. In fact, let's just come out and say it: she is transgender. She was born under a different name, assigned a different gender, and lived under it in her childhood years. Her transition into Aethril likely began whenever she entered Origin-- when her body was reformed and changed drastically.

She kept some parts of her old self. Others were new, and others were simply different. She still had one beating heart, for instance, but her blood ran black instead of the violet-blue it used to be.

This is why she was likely so enraptured by the drawings she found on the wall. Nemean, with her pretty little wings and mischevious smile, bearing-- for lack of a better term --absolute meat was a subject that Aethril found herself intimately familiar with. The fact it was Nemean herself didn't matter too much, but it was a reflection of what Aethril's body looked like, loosely, and it was a reflection she rarely saw.

No, it did not matter that these were mocking images. The Hand knew that; she knew it from the fact that Nemean wielded a hog on each shoulder like flailing spaulders, or sported one on the center of her forehead like a fleshy unicorn horn. Art was always a subjective matter, and Aethril was in the business of percieving.

She liked what she saw. She liked the humour, but the tone of celebration underneath it. She smiled as she paced along the tunnel, arms bundled to herself, stepping carefully over swathes of ice, as though she were in a gallery of only the finest art. There was no doubt that Nemean would have been offended by them. There was no doubt that, if the artist had been caught, they'd be long dead.

But Aethril was almost empowered.

@Imp

There was one thing Imp wanted to see--one short thing he wanted to visit--before heading back to Cetus to tell Dragon that he'd safely emerged.

He hadn't been able to see Nemean drowning; this was the next best thing. Assuming, of course, it was all still there. If that little reddish shit had told on him, maybe it had erased his artwork, too? I'll just do it again, then, Imp thought to himself, savage.

When he arrived, though--and it took some time; he kept getting distracted staring at things in awe, and got lost more than once en route trying to remember where he'd left all these penises--it was to find someone else there, admiring his artwork.

At least, he assumed they were admiring it: what else would they be doing there?

He sized Aethril up, wondering who, and what, she was. Tall, that much was for sure. And--blue? Ish. One mental shrug later, he'd sidled up all sly, and taken a position a few feet away, also staring up at the wall.

Imp was about to fish for compliments.

In a voice that gave no indication he knew who the fantastic artist was, he nodded up at the masterful works and cleared his throat. He gathered himself, coming across smooth and confident. "Those are some good penises, huh?" he offered, staring at the wall.

@Aethril

Briefly, did Aethril look over her shoulder.

She'd just about had enough of Gembound for a few eons and was more than prepared to ignore this one taking up residence nearby, staring at the gallery of cock, and move on with her life. On Aethril's home world, after all, observing art was oft a silent matter, not one you'd talk to complete strangers about while you're doing it.

But, she wasn't home. Talking monster-animals was a reminder of that. "If you'd like to look at it at face value," she said, chin lifting. Art was also, often, very serious. It was about depicting life in its most natural; a window into what a family may look like, or a distant landscape. Impressionistic art was shunned for being 'dishonest,' like trickery of a sort.

What genre would these be considered, she wondered? Other than vandalism.

"I suppose they are fine penises," she offered, after some thought. "But perhaps bordering on an obsessive fixation." Mood, relatable, etc.

Another step, with a muted click of a heel, and Aethril rubbed her arms idly. "They would be nicer displayed elsewhere," the Hand scoffed. "This tunnel is not ideal."

@Imp

He started to bristle with pride at the whole "fine penises" thing, until the qualifier was added. "Fixation-?" he asked, surprised, ready to be offended even though he didn't know what she meant. "It's not a fixation! They're just stuck on there," he protested. "...They grow like that!" he added, trying to explain his art.

Then, the artist scuffled slowly forward; he was shivering a little against the cold, but he rocked back on his hind feet and sat up straight to explain his powerful works. "That's Nemean," he informed Aethril, as if she didn't know. "She's a Betrayer. We couldn't find her and I tried to eat her but she got away, so I put penises all over her," he went on.

Imp did not have the eloquence to be speaking to a Hand, nor the forewarning that Aethril was a Hand to begin with. Imp did not, for that matter, know what a hand was aside from the fact that it should probably have some fingers.

"These are all over the caves," he added blithely, proudly, in response to that whole 'elsewhere' thing. "I'm gonna make some more. I have to draw Vargas with a lot of penises," he added, full of confidence.

That was a threat he'd need to make good on, now that he had his fucking eyes.

"Just gotta remember where I put my chalk now that I've got eyes again." He didn't bother explaining that, though he did, belatedly, realize he was maybe being rude. "I'm Imp," he informed Aethril, looking at her sidelong.

@Aethril

"I know who Nemean is," said Aethril, glancing towards Imp with some shred of curiosity. "She tends to be slippery."

Imp did not look like someone who would have such a heavy fixation on penises, but there he was: the artist in his full glory, it seemed. She stepped idly closer to get a better look at him and his artwork, head tilting.

"Master Vargas has all those spines," she said, and it was half a suggestion-- though, she was half-certain that Vargas had been created with the same anatomy as a child's ragdoll: utterly dickless. She supposed, however, that did not entirely matter when it came right down to it.

What she was interested in was Imp himself-- apparently fearless, to plaster cocks on Masters, while seeming to know fine well who and what they are. "You are not afraid what he might do to you, if he found out you put penises on him?" She asked with some amusement-- and not because she was concerned Vargas would kill him for it.

Vargas would probably find it funny, in fact.

For the immediate moment, she did not intorudce herself. Her question was much more important.

@Imp

'You are not afraid what he might do to you?'

Nobody had ever accused Imp of being cunning, and right now, he wasn't. It didn't occur to him that Aethril might be someone in authority, any more than it'd occurred to him that 'Rabbit' was some sort of fucking spy. And he hadn't learned his lesson, either; with crowing defiance he decried Master Vargas and all the Leviathan stood for. "Nah, fuck that guy!" Imp answered promptly. "He ripped out my fucking eyes already over this shit. I mean, Nemean told him to but still," he added, nodding to the wall. "This'll already be payback. And anyway," Imp went on, puffing up a little, proudly, "he should be fucking grateful. It's an honor, getting drawn by me."

It wasn't, and nobody had ever said it was, but Imp had just decided as much and so he decreed.

"The spines are a good idea, though," Imp conceded after a moment, eyeing over his old artwork with a critical eye. He tried to picture it, and gave a little "hmm" of thought. "Maybe all his fingers, too. Penis-teeth. Or on the end of his tail."

All of it, he decided, after a beat. He'd said he'd draw them all over, after all; and each glorious art piece should definitely be individual.

"I gotta draw Nemean drowning," he added, as an afterthought. "And burning." A lot of his former art had already been similar--beheaded Nemeans littered the cave walls as it was. But--"Because that's what she's doing now."

Imp had never felt--or sounded--quite so satisfied.

@Aethril

Imp's eyes didn't look particularly ripped out to Aethril, but she supposed that magic was a hell of a thing. She leant on the wall, shoulder and head, as she stared down at Imp with new interest: had he somehow fucked over Nemean that badly?

"Is that so?" she crooned, lips quirking upwards. That meant that things might start proceeding as normal, before the Creator returned to kill everyone for being inadequate and lazy. "And how did that happen?"

Imp might not have seemed particularly powerful but he was, apparently, well-informed. Aethril wondered, distantly, if this might come into use in the future, somehow. Even if not-- it was always good to have a penis-fixated ally, wasn't it? Especially one that could lighten up the Palace.

She hummed, and she licked her teeth. "What if I could ensure that Vargas would not be able to touch you?" She asked. "And not just Vargas. Any Master, any Valkhound, any Gembound. You could draw whoever and what ever you'd like, freely. You would just have to do something for me, in return..."

@Imp

Oh-!

Oh, his FAVORITE STORY! She was asking-

"WELL," Imp began, settling back as if to tell one hell of a long tale. "A bunch of us helped another Master--Farina?" he half-asked, with a glance toward Aethril, as if to ask if she knew of her. "So we helped her, she was stuck somewhere for a long time and needed help getting a rock back or something, I don't know." Imp hadn't really been paying attention and anyway, it'd been CYCLES ago, now. "So I asked for new eyes and she said if we helped uhhhh... Master... Artio?" Was that right-? "With something--anyway we helped them catch Nemean, the bastard, and Master Farina stuck her down in some hot water to like, boil. Forever." Imp spoke with supreme smugness. And, it seemed, with deep admiration of Farina. She was his new favorite, really. Favorite... Master? Or whatever.

"I guess Nemean somehow boiled her for a long time, because, well, she's a betrayer, so it's time for payback!" He paused, then exhaled. "They wouldn't give me her eyes." He didn't know why. He'd wanted them.

Oh, well.

"Vargas can touch me," Imp answered readily, to that second bit. "Vargas can kiss my ass." That's how he can touch me. The smug, fearless satisfaction was back. Still, he glanced sidelong at Aethril, slyly curious. Just who was she, that she could offer such things-? Was this a trick? He was curious, anyway. She definitely had his attention.

Of course, it all sounded rather ominous. 'Nobody can touch you' sounded to Imp like one of those Collector deals that meant you just fucking died and got turned into sludge that evaporated, because 'nobody could touch' something that wasn't there, or something. Dead people can't draw, though, he reasoned. "...What'd you have in mind?"

@Aethril

Aethril dipped her head to confirm that she knew these names.

Imp must have been one of Farina and Artio's creations, too-- considering his hatred for Nemean and lack of resemblance to anything the Natural Order would have spat out. Farina had been creating scouts to find and punish Nemean for... what, exactly?

Oh yes. Boiling her alive. "I recall hearing about it," the Hand said thoughtfully. The other Farina-creation had spoken of it, though she hadn't seen her in some time. What was her name, even...? "You wouldn't want Nemean's eyes," she said, as an afterthought.

Four eyes seemed better than two, anyway.

"Vargas isn't the kissing type," Aethril replied, making a mental note to teach Imp the phrase 'suck my dick' whenever the opportunity arose. "I assume you'd like to keep your new eyes, regardless."

And now, the deal. "I will give you a canvas," she explained. "It is... something that you can draw on. You will paint whatever you'd like on it, and give it back. I will keep it. In return, I will guarantee your safety and your freedom. If you are harmed because of your art, you tell me, and they will be punished."

A beat. "Severely."

@Imp

"Anything I want?!" Imp brayed, four eyes widening. Then he paused, an important consideration trickling to light: "-Paint? Uhh. I only had chalk." The implication was clear: he'd need paints. And maybe a paint teacher. And paint brushes, or whatever. However that worked.

Imp didn't know.

Then a second important question rose to mind, and Imp paused, scrutinizing Aethril with a new eye.

Four new eyes.

"...Are you somebody important, or something?" he asked, half-doubtful. Not doubtful of her, exactly, but of her reassurance, because how could someone Aethril's size stop someone like Vargas in a fight? It had to be authority--right? That's why a little shitbag like Nemean could order somebody like Vargas around.

So was she a Master-? But-... She said no Masters could hurt me. So either she's higher up than a Master or she's full of shit, Imp concluded.

"I'll draw a bunch of dicks for you either way," he decided.

Preferably attached to Vargas, but... he was a real artist; he'd (magnanimously, really) wait and see what the canvas called to him before well and truly deciding.

@Aethril