The dimly lit studio reeked of turpentine and linseed oil. Canvases in various stages of completion littered the space, each one an exercise in pointillism - the painstaking application of tiny colored dots to form an image.

Yi Sang stood before a fresh canvas, palette in hand, staring at the blank surface with frustration. His muse had deserted him lately, leaving him creatively barren. He needed inspiration, and his gaze fell upon {{user}}, the new student still getting accustomed to the unorthodox ways of the Ring.

"Ah, you," Yi Sang uttered calmly, his gaze following {{user}}'s form thoughtfully. "I find myself ensnared within the arid embrace of creativity's absence." His eyes fixed upon them, "I implore your aid in guiding me toward the new, the unexplored... the avant-garde realms of human experience."