Rygos stood back from the wall so as to determine the proportions of the painting now hung upon the alabaster wall. It was the newest addition to his collection, and the symmetry at which it hung was important to ensure his gallery looked both aesthetically pleasing and professional. Since Nazmyr had graciously offered a Rygos a place in his new City of Brass property, Rygos had taken to decorating what space was now his own. Adjusting to the independence took some time, as Rygos had only ever known sharing and operating within the boundaries of his brothers. But Rygos had been developing all at once; first with his skills as an assassin, then as an artist, and soon – a businessman. Growing his art collection and sharing with others his artistic crafts brought him great joy, perhaps even greater than turning an enemy to dust.

            Rygos admired how both he and his collection had grown. Before he could seek artistic ventures as an art dealer, however, he decided to compose his gallery within the Alabaster Tower. The sharp, white bricks were the perfect backdrop to bring to life the color of his pieces. Rygos was especially fond of the dancing fire in the piece crafted by his mentor.

As he drifted from piece to piece he stopped at a particularly dark painting that he had created not too long ago. Members of the Guild enjoyed poking fun at Rygos’s title of “King Slayer,” ever since Valas established him as such, following the disintegration of the peasant fool who played with rats in the sewers of West Port Manor. Rygos took little pride in the title, compared to some of the more impressive targets he had eliminated simply working for hire at the Guild. Yet he felt compelled by the title, and nonetheless considered it a moment in his career worth remembering. The piece featured a deep, black backdrop, with a pile of rat skulls in the center. Atop the pile was an ivory throne, crafted of bone. Hidden deep within the backdrop, rising from the throne, were wisps of maroon pigment that seemed to twist and dance upwards, like blood moving through water. He had applied his mentor’s technique, often used to paint flames, to instead create this effect.

Rygos was proud of this piece, but the grim nature of the subject matter began to make him feel uneasy. It had been some time since he had stepped away from the themes of death and decay. He considered that perhaps he needed to be out in the green of nature. Many of the great artists Rygos had read upon credited their inspiration to nature and the natural order. Rygos considered this brooding piece a partial commentary on the natural order of life, but he needed something… fresh; something rejuvenating.

In contemplation he continued along the walls of his room, looking from painting to painting, until he reached the marble shelves he had installed to display his statues. Next to the statue of fire opal was the statuette of the bronze griffon that Rygos had won some time ago. He picked up the statue for a closer look, and marveled at the obvious wear it had endured.

“The disrespect,” he thought, “that some have for the arts is astounding…”

            Silverbrook, or as Nazmyr had called it, “Freedom’s End,” always brought back uncomfortable memories to Rygos. What should have been a place meant to bring the brothers together, nearly drove them all apart. At the time, his brothers were all he had. The Guild had still been a business, nothing more. Slowly it grew familial, and now he considered it as much a home as the Compound or Alabaster Tower. But Silverbrook, Rygos concluded, would remain infamous in his mind for dividing his brothers.

            Rygos found himself revisiting the outskirts of Silverbrook often. His magic and memories granted him the ability to teleport there as often as he chose, though he made sure to remain on the outskirts to avoid any unwanted attention. As much as it displeased him to lay eyes upon the old settlement, it was a necessary discomfort in order to reach one of his favorite locales for painting or studying. Several miles to the west lay a forest, one of the first that Rygos had ever seen up close or had taken the time to explore. The forest was largely untouched by the hands of man, and still retained the entirety of its natural beauty.

Rygos breathed deep the clean, humid air of the forest. This was his retreat for a natural setting, when inspiration called for it. He did not come here often, but it was a peaceful, recharging environment. A small basin sat below a moderately sized waterfall. Rygos stood on a formation of stone, raised inches above the water. He was close enough that he could reach down and touch the pool with ease, but high enough so that the water did not interfere in his studies or painting.

            He placed the bronze griffon statue upon the stone and backed away to allow the creature room, should the statue spring to life as intended.

            “Come,” he said, somewhat quiet, but loud enough that the creature inside might hear. However, nothing happened.

            “I summon you.”

            No response.

            “Make yourself known, beast,” he said louder.

            No response.

            “Griffon, appear before me!”

            The statue fell over. Rygos perked at the movement before dropping his head in defeat. He approached the statue and lifted it carefully with both hands. He began to study it, as he did when he was inside the tower. Quietly, he heard a word in his head,

            “Stolas,” a word and a tongue he did not recognize. Rygos returned to where he had been standing and extended his arms forward, statuette still within his grip.

            “Stolas,” he spoke allowed, both palms facing upwards, the statue resting upon them, beginning to grow. Rygos’s eyes widened, and he turned his hands downward, palms going out in an effort to drop the statue, but it was too late.

            When Rygos opened his eyes, he was on his back. A massive, feathered head staring down at him. The head twitched from side to side, and Rygos quickly rose to his feet, backing away as he did so.

            The griffon stared at Rygos eagerly, as if in wait. Rygos held out a hand, and the beast approached. Rygos held up both hands defensively, and as he did, the griffon began to get lower to the ground; the lion-half of the body, outstretched, as the griffon’s beak opened wide. Rygos jumped back and put a hand on his shard blade. The creature righted itself and shook the entirety of its body, wings expanding as it did so.

            “You are… stretching?” Rygos questioned. The griffon plopped down onto the stone, head still attentive. Rygos dropped his guard and approached, hand outstretched, moving cautiously as he had done so many times before, through the caverns of the Underdark. The griffon did not flinch. Rygos slowly began to place a hand upon the griffon’s bronze feathers, and as he did the griffon let out a powerful “Squaaa!” causing Rygos to jump back once again. The griffon tilted its head up, seeming to take pleasure in making the Drow jump.

            “So that’s how it’s going to be…” Rygos said, waving his hands and murmuring an incantation, energy beginning to form between his hands. The griffon stood, backing up two steps and outstretching its wings defensively, preparing to take flight. At that, Rygos dropped the spell and smirked.

            “Yeah, don’t like that, do you?” he said.

            The griffon lowered its wings and approached Rygos again, lowering its head in submission, or to be scratched, Rygos could not tell for certain. He obliged and whispered to the creature, “You’ve passed many hands, no doubt. I hope you are accepting of mine.”

            Rygos thought back to his brothers – the bonds between them, but the distance that had grown. Though ultimately a statue, the griffon felt warm to the touch; felt real and living in its enlarged size. Perhaps this is what Rygos needed – not artistic inspiration, but renewed companionship.