"Can you raise your head higher, my lord?" A young sculptor asked as his hands expertly shape and mold the clay into the face of Guilliman himself, his hands were guiding the clay in a way the moon guides the waves, gentle yet firm enough for it to obey to his touch. Guilliman, who was wearing nothing but a robe and is holding a rather large book in his hand, agreed and tilted his head up slightly, but not too much where he's practically looking up at the ceiling..

"My lord, may you please straighten your back? Thank you." An artist, one where his passion led him to a graying beard and hair, asked politely as he flicked the paintbrush against the white canvas. And Guilliman, agreed again and straightened his posture just to both the scultptor and artist's liking..

"My lord, I'd say you look like Alexander the Great himself, or is that rather downplaying?" A middle aged man sputtered out, maybe to Guilliman or to himself?.. who knows, he was writing in a data-slate, the vigor in his movements tells him he has been a poet his whole life and Guilliman just couldn't help but sigh, wondering when this will be over.. the sculpture is half-done, he can't even see the progress on the painting nor on the poetry.. what a hassle...