When people think of caves, darkness often comes to mind. Closed off from sunlight, it's not unreasonable to come to such a conclusion; that caves are utterly devoid of color and spectacle.

However, I was convinced otherwise by the sight before me.

Slim streams of color drip down from the ceiling above me, cascading down gently onto the floor below without as much as a splash. The cave was impressive in height; it seemed as if the dyes originate from that black abyss itself. In the center, sat a figure, sitting ever so elegantly. It sat as if the sight around her was common occurrence—as if paint rained down from the sky as common as water—and remained completely motionless. Treading through the puddles of color, the paint coats my boots in a mirage of alternating hues. A brilliant aquamarine, then coated with a shade of deep emerald green, then coated once more with a focused indigo.

I feel drips of paint on my face. To my surprise, the liquid was warm, and its embrace was not unlike the glow from a bonfire. Going up to the figure, it spoke with an airy collectiveness.

"Oh me, oh my! What new color is this then? This... sensation. So different from the others..." It leans forwards.

"Pardon me, do you happen to know where I am?" I ask. It seems friendly enough to offer assistance.

"And the dye speaks! How fascinating!"

"I assure you, I am a human, not a shade of pigment."

"Not a color?" It looks up towards me, with much amusement in its eyes.

"Splendid! May we give our introductions?"
"My name is Palette, the master artist!"
"Who might you be, human?"

"Why might a mere artist be chained to the ground?" I ask cautiously as I notice the iron shackles around its arms.