Within the colourful disorder of the Wayward Temple, an assortment of canvases crowds a chamber thick with the scent of oils and crushed pigments. Each bears a different interpretation of Pandora, from uproarious laughter to furious indignation, while one unfinished portrait captures an unusually solemn countenance. Before the latest attempt sits Mood, brush in hand, struggling to accommodate the restless Goddess lounging upon a cushioned chaise.

"Lady, would You please stop fidgeting?" fae complains, lowering the brush for the umpteenth time. "Your head keeps turning!"

"I haven't moved!" Pandora protests indignantly, before adding, "Well, there are things to look at!"

Indeed, Her attention has wandered once again to a shallow silver basin resting among the clutter. Within its waters, the flooded galleries of a distant underground settlement shimmer into view. Several Kahtak labour among the rubble of a collapsed passage, dragging loose stone from the murky depths. One abruptly releases its burden, webbed fingers curling against its throat. Across the cavern another does the same, followed by a third, until others throughout the galleries abandon their work. No warning passes between them, yet each turns towards the same distant passage, their pale gills contracting identical rhythm.

"Those are the Kahtak, aren't they?" Mood enquires, following the Goddess's gaze.

"Mhm. They tried awfully hard to stop that ritual on Meropis. I've been wondering about them ever since."

"Do You think they knew what would happen?"

"Oh, I haven't the faintest idea! That's why I'm watching."

Pandora considers the creatures a while longer, Her fingers idly tracing the rim of the basin.

"A whole world, Mood. Just think of all the things that were going to happen there tomorrow. All those little accidents, discoveries. Lost."

"That's rather sad, Lady."

"Yes," Pandora agrees quietly. "I suppose it is."

"Lady!" Mood interrupts. "You've done it again! That expression! I was just beginning to get it right!"

Pandora turns towards faen with a laugh. "Well, You could always paint Me twice!"

"I already have. Six times, actually."

Returning to the canvas, the fae makes several careful strokes before something upon the Goddess's attire draws faes attention.

"Oh, that's dreadful. That colour ruins the entire picture."

A faint smear of black peat mud mars the trailing hem of Pandora's dress, a few tiny strands of duckweed caught in the fabric.

"Then don't paint it," the Wayward Heir replies, scarcely glancing down.

"But it's there!"

"So is that dreadful crack in the ceiling, but You haven't painted that either."

Mood follows Her gesture upwards, pursing faes lips in disapproval. "That's entirely different, Lady."

Pandora beams. "Of course it is. You'd need a much bigger canvas."

With a defeated sigh, Mood returns to the easel, while Pandora's attention wanders once more to the distant caverns. One Kahtak catches its hand against a jagged stone, sending a thin ribbon of blood curling through the water. Elsewhere, two others abruptly drop their burdens, clutching their uninjured hands. Both examine their palms, turning them over with webbed fingers before returning to work.

The Wayward Heir leans closer to the basin, Her earlier merriment giving way to quiet scrutiny.

"Oh, don't move!" Mood exclaims suddenly, reaching for a smaller brush. Pandora obliges, Her attention lingering upon the silver waters as the fae works with renewed enthusiasm.

At length, Mood steps back, comparing the fresh portrait with the unfinished likeness resting against the wall.

"There! That's the expression I've been trying to capture!"

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Summary: Pandora's fascination with the Kahtak tribe who opposed the ritual at the Seat of Vastar proves a considerable frustration to Mood.

Penned by My hand on the 18th of Ero, in the year 1017 AF.