It was almost perfect. One or two more strokes were all that it would take, and as he finished preparing, the young King sighed with contentment and fatigue. He'd been at it for almost 12 hours this time, and his muscles were straining in protest, but he knew in his bones that it was worth it. Art, after all, was a skill that took time to master, and the King was determined to cultivate it in himself until he was the best in all the lands.
He stretched, his bones crackling along his spine and arms, then grasped the picture box provided by his Mage. "Hold still," he admonished his squirming models before giving the box its appropriate command. "Image," he demanded, and the box complied, spitting out an exact replica of the scene before him.
Examining it quickly, he sighed again. "Imperfections," he moaned. He waved the image in his Chamberlain's face, still moaning. "They look like they're in pain! This won't do at all," he stressed, before brightening. "Tomorrow! We will begin a