You're in a large throneroom, seated in a wooden chair streaked with purple. You feel uncomfortably warm; you're draped in ancient green robes.

Formally-dressed courtiers surround you, the elite of the magical and scholarly worlds. They carry out various side-conversations... your attention drifts between them.

... Well, if they managed to get to our world to _make_ a formal demand for the return of their prison guard spirit thing, it should be considered. I mean --

-- Come on, what will they do if we refuse? Wave their little sticks and shout gibberish at us?

Yes! I don't care if they are weird fur-less ape things, their magic is dangerous and alien. Besides, none of the maintenance ponies will go up to the freezer mechanical room since that thing sucked the soul out of Lamp Lighter...

It sounds to me like you don't trust the Loremaster's discretion in inter-dimensional summoning...

No, of course I do... and goodness knows I like some nice ice in my drinks in the Summer. But still.

I'm here to do the Loremaster's portrait. Well, of course, the Canvas will do the actual portrait, I'm just it's legs, hah! Well, it's got wheels, but you know, they didn't bother to make it self-propelled. Oh, she's looking very nice in the robes. Glad you could convince her to put them on...

Some ponies push a canvas in front of you. It's blank. You can somehow sense it's powerfully enchanted.

The pony pushing the canvas stops and bows politely.

Pony: Your potency, I have brought, in accordance with the grand traditions of the Helix and your illustrious office, a Canvas of Burnt Umber, for your official investiture portrait. Would you please strike an appropriate pose, something with gravitas? You need only hold it a moment of course, the canvas works almost instantaneously...

[assuming pose]

The canvas flashes with colors that appear to bleed right through the canvas from inside it, forming a portrait.

You see, not your self, but a plump white unicorn mare with a slightly darker mane, wearing splendid green robes and crowned with an obsidian circlet. But the most striking aspect of the portrait is that the subject looks completely terrified.

The courtiers are all staring. The pony who brought the canvas looks positively mortified - he might even look more afraid than the mare in the portrait.

Pony: Mm... y... your potency, I, uh, this is totally unaccountable, forgive me, please, it must have been hexed, or...

He stammers into incoherency. The courtiers murmur. Is it an omen? What does it mean? Is this someone's idea of a joke? There'll be hell to pay if someone is making a political statement...

Courtier: Your potency. Clearly this portrait is... defective. The tradition of these Canvases was, in truth, a young one anyway -- perhaps we should just commission a normal artist. There are several fine ones in the town. Or, we could try again with the a new Canvas of Burnt Umber...

His words sound hollow as you stare into the terrified eyes of the portrait. What does it mean?