Mindfang has lived much of her life in the rich embroidery of the fringes, between chance and cheating. So much on Alternia was subject to brutal tyranny and fickle absurdity at once: the harshwhimsy of the highblood clown cultists made reliable control of anything suspect at best, excepting only the authority of Her Imperial Condescension herself; and she spent most of her deathless ages away from Alternia proper, conquering new worlds. Out on the sea, chance fell to the winds and waves and her own magic dice, instead of a highblood's humor. Her fortune ran out at the end, as it always must, but for long, lovely years, she was as free as any troll could be.

She leans back, following his gaze across the crowd, and for a few moments the smile she's sported to a greater or lesser degree since he first saw her fades into something else, something rough and pinched, irritation tinged with bitterness. A breath later her smile returns, not falsely, but a little more distant.

"Art is passion, at its core. Without passion art is nothing but a labor-intensive mess." She shrugs a shoulder. "Take away the marble and brushes and blood from passion, and the soul of art is still is there."