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'EROTIC' ART REFERENCES

Imp was, all else, a fucking ham. A showman, a show-off, a joker.

He was, deep down, genuinely excited, glad, and even grateful for the opportunity to create art--especially in some official capacity, let alone sanctioned by those who ran the caves. It was true that it might be a trick, and it was true he'd thought of that, but his brief examination of Aethril's motives hadn't, at least, hinted at anything duplicitous. So--for once--he was allowing himself a blazing streak of hope.

But then the showman part kicked in.

Instead of coming in humble, wide-eyed and stammering his gratitude, Imp landed at the palace entrance and cleared his throat, his permanently-fixed grin flashing broad as he glanced around appraisingly and then drew himself up like he fucking owned the place.

"EGGBERT?" he called out, though he kept the word politely questioning, rather than demanding. Aethril'd told him to do as much--and she, among very few, had earned Imp's genuine admiration and respect--a tentative impression, for now, but a strong one.

He waddled in, bioluminescence gleaming, each step a crooked strut, and looked around.

"These WALLS are so WHITE," he cried, to no one in particular, even though the void-light made a mess of such things. "So... BLAND! Where is the ARTISTRY!? Where are the PENISES?!" he demanded, as loudly as he possibly could.

He clapped his wings together.

"Where is the PAINT!?"

Straight to business, then.

@Aethril

Akane had been playing on the piano when Aethril drifted to sleep; sprawled on a chaise lounge and listening to her with quiet reverence. Gentle moments like these, she enjoyed. It gave her a sense of normalcy where there was often none at all, and she valued the time she spent-- not just with Akane, but the others she had in her life. Patrolling with Obieth or Isra, gardening with Pollen or resting with Eggbert: it was all treasured moments for her.

It was the rare few times, too, that Aethril would sleep without Corruption-addled nightmares filling her head.

When the Hand awoke, it was not to a gentle voice or Akane's reprise-- no, the oni had long left her to sleep, it seemed, and instead, distantly, she could hear crowing that grew increasingly familiar as she cleared the grogginess from her mind.

Oh right, she rubbed her eyes. The cock artist.

She was barefoot when she emerged from the Ballroom to meet Imp, large swathes of dark, glittering cloth pooling on the white, marbled floor. In a still-partially-asleep haze, Aethril wondered if it had actually been a good idea to offer full support to Imp. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her offer. But also: it'd be funny.

So, her hands parted in a gesture of welcome. "I see you're eager to get started," the Valkhand smiled. "I have a room prepared for you. You're welcome to come and go as you please."

"But, I do ask that you try to keep it... orderly. Try not to get paint on the hallway outside it," she went on, turning to pad along the corridors. "It is not just me that lives here, after all."

@Imp

Imp stared up at Aethril in grinning awe.

This shit was like a dream. A dream come true--and it was all true! "Good morning," he greeted her cheerfully, entirely unaware of the actual time of 'day.' "Nice dress," he added, not in a weird sexist unwelcome sort of way but in the admiring artist "I'd wear a cape and a hat made of that" sort of way, instead.

He wing-walked along behind her, hastening to keep up with her barefoot strides. Keen eyes took in the smooth, glossy walls, the chiseled columns, the pristine floors. Needs a ton of color, he decided.


He cleared his throat, as they walked. "I won't," he assured her, and then--because he was a little puzzled about the rules--he made a little speech. It came across maybe more flippant than he'd intended, unless Aethril was very good at judging because, really, Imp was being heartfelt. He just... wasn't real good at showing it: "You tell me where you do and don't want stuff, and I'll do it. And--not do it. You've been cool to me and not a lot of people have so--y'know." A brief, awkward pause ensued. "-I already have a good idea for my first one." He had a few, actually.

Maybe more than a few.

But this one he had in mind-? It'd be a hell of a start.

@Aethril

With feline-like eyes, she studied Imp for a moment. It was difficult to tell how genuine he was being, but Aethril saw no reason to doubt his word, thus far. He seemed, perhaps purely due to Nemean, to have been dealt a poor hand in this Nest, too.

Hmm. Mood.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said as she turned into a room. The door had been left ajar (and would not be fully closed from this point on, to allow Imp to enter and leave at will) and gave access to a moderately-sized room. There were a selection of tools; wide, soft brushes and finer, coarser thin ones, palette knives of varying sizes and, of course, paints-- primarily, they were oils, but Aethril had found a small selection of gouache, too.

An easel was set up fairly close to the ground for Imp's access, and some water-- both for cleaning his tools, and his claws, if he ever decided to use them intentionally or accidentally. Along with this were canvases; some small, some large, that could be set on the easel with adjustments-- or, if he were so inclined, propped up against the wall instead.

She had even set him up with a wide lounge-chair with a small, short table next to it. "The water will be changed daily, or after each visit," the Hand told him. "If you need more fresh water-- do not drink it, once paint has gotten into it --let someone know, and it will be changed sooner."

"The kitchen is down the hall," she gestured. "It is where Nedies is-- if you are hungry, ask him for food and he will make it for you."

What else? "You are free to wander the Palace, if you wish. Not all wings will be accessable to you, but the courtyard is nice to walk through. Leave the Lessers throughout the Palace alone-- they have jobs, like you do. They're not meant to be hunted."

"I think that's all, however-- always listen to Isra, I suppose. You'll know her if you see her," she was difficult to miss. "Have you any questions?"

@Imp

Damn, but she was thorough. Professional. Pretty much everybody Imp had ever met in his entire life had been flying through life by the seat of their pants, with no rules but what they made as they went. There was a lot of fire, a lot of violence, and things had been mostly achieved through trickery and threats.

But Aethril and her palace gave the impression of... a whole other world. An adult world. A place where there was order (what an irony that was, though Imp was unaware), and sophistication, and unwritten rules.

He wasn't sure if he liked it, yet, but it was... almost reassuring. And in a flash, too, Imp could just about see why she'd invited him here.

Shit was safe, for her--but it was boring. She wanted some color--right?--wanted some flair and flash and danger to spice up the bland fucking white marble on every damn corner.

He listened attentively, and found himself combing over what she'd said with an efficiency and professionalism that he, himself, had never really demonstrated. It was a businesslike demeanor, brisk, yet excited to begin. "Thanks," he began, and then squinted up at her. "Where's the music?" he asked, still grinning--because, honestly, what could be more important than music for an artist hard at work?

Or, at least, Imp felt as much. Somehow.

As for the oils-... he'd never used oil paints in his entire life. He had no idea that one needed thinners, or that water wouldn't wash the shit off or clean the brushes. It'd take some (unfortunate) experimentation with all the jars and bottles to sort that out.

And Imp didn't know enough to bemoan the lack of acrylic paint in the subterranean monster cave.

Lastly, he gave Aethril another thoughtful stare. "You said I could paint anywhere, right, but not the palace, then? The paintings, here?" It made sense, he supposed; it meant she could move them where she liked, though the idea that she could simply tire of them and remove them sat irritatingly unpleasant in his gut. Art was art. It should be forever. Still-... he'd accept whatever she decided. "Is there anything you want me to draw, other than, just... penises?" he asked, taking his commission very, very seriously now.

@Aethril

He was set on the music, though it was still difficult for her to imagine. Her head tipped towards where they'd came from. "The phonograph is in the ballroom, and the piano," she said. "Neither can be moved into your room-- they are publicly accessable to all --but, you should be close enough to hear them fine, if someone is playing the piano or if you want to put the record on yourself."

To his next question, she shook her head. "You can take the paint to other places in the Nest to paint, if you wish-- but here, I would prefer you to use the canvases. They are removable," Aethril explained, stepping inside and patting one of the frames in example, "if you wish to restart. You can re-edit one, at a later date, if you feel so inclined. Just ask."

And for his last, she offered a little shrug. "You can draw whatever you'd like," the Hand reassured. "Many penises, some penises, no penises. I will be satisfied with whatever the subject matter is." If Imp went on a journey of self-discovery through his art, Aethril sure as hell wanted to see it.

The situation was, right now, dire, after all. She could request specifics once some colour had been introduced into her daily surroundings.

"Feel free to spend as little or as much time, too, of course-- I would prefer it if you simply... allowed yourself to create whatever calls to you."

@Imp

Creative freedom.

Oh, hell yeah.

"Awesome..." he breathed, and then glanced up at Aethril, confiding his inner thoughts. "This place needs some fucking color." He was thinking... oranges. Blacks. Yellows. Big abstract shapes in bleeding primary colors. But not blue and green; those sucked. Well--they'd suck for this, anyway.

"I want to-" -What had she called it..? "Put the record... on the--phonograth." That had been right, yeah? He squinted. And at length, he relented, and admitted ignorance: "I can probably figure it out."

@Aethril

She nodded once, in agreement. "It will be nice, to brighten up the place," she said, followed by-- "come."

She paced back to the ballroom, weaving through the corridor from whence she came, to show Imp the phonograph. Even to her, it was a strange-looking thing, but its mechanics were simple enough. The horn is where the sound came from; the record was what generated the sound.

"Turn this," she instructed, cranking the lever clockwise a few times. The record, pre-loaded in the slot, began to spin. "And place this on the edge." The needle was twisted over to the disc, where it began to scratch along the grooves. "And..."

The audio was low and tinny; the soft, constant 'scrrr' of the needle could be heard under the record-- but some little seconds into the sound, the song began, and with it, the translated lyrics-- 'I threw a wish in the well, don't ask me, I'll never tell...'

"It lasts only a few minutes, and quite honestly I prefer the sound of the piano," she admitted absently ('and now you're in my way!') "But if you're in desperate need of music and no one is playing, it will do."

@Imp

Imp followed eagerly along, and listened with his steady grin, at length flashing Aethril a wickedly happy glance. This was great.

This was all great.

This music was great. His new body was great. His new job was great. And free fuckin' food-...

"Got it," he told her, with a dip of his head like a sharp, pretty cool salute; "thanks. If anybody comes by to do a piano I'll, uh, stop this one," he added, in acknowledgment to his new friend's preferences.

Speaking of friend, he thought to himself, I can't wait to show Fahl this shit. And to show him me, too! Maybe he could make a day of it--bring Fahl in, get him a meal, show him around the place.

What a gig!

"I'll get a little bit of food... then get to work. You can watch, if you want to," he added, cheerfully easygoing, oblivious to the fact that of course she could.

He tipped a bat ear toward the music again, nodding slowly along, his brain filling with ideas.

@Aethril

"Thank you for the offer," she said, amused-- but genuine. It was always nice to have explicit permission, even if you could damn well do whatever you want, whenever you want. "Perhaps I will. Get your food."

She was tired, still-- but what better way to recover from a nap than to sit around, watch someone paint, and potentially take a second nap? She let Imp go before she strode off to collect one priceless artifact: the plush pillow sat on the lounge that she had been snoozing on minutes before, and off she went.

Aethril took up residence in Imp's room, from there-- positioned on the lounge there to oversee his work, legs crossed and pillow at her back. Penises or not, whatever he chose to paint would no doubt he interesting.

A little breath, and the Hand got good and comfortable.

@Imp