They’d seen this festival every year for a decade and a half at this point. Flames this, flames that -- it seemed to Aymeric that this was the time of year that eldens pointedly ignored their own advice, letting their own flames burn too bright, as Aymeric had heard more times than they could keep track of at this point. Nevertheless, the celebration was good to look at, filled with colors that they’d only dreamt of in their childhood. So, they’d been going around, plucking flowers and staring at flames, trying to find colors to ask their patrons to provide for an upcoming painting, a piece of lead between their fingers, scratching over a piece of paper in their other palm. There were shapes as unique as the colors, and they wanted to get them down before they were forgotten to time.