The woman stands against a sooty brick wall, half in shadow.
She is young and impassive of face, though her brilliant sapphire eyes
hold your gaze for a moment, speaking to you of things beyond the simple
portait you see. Her hair is white-blond, braided back, and her fair
features have an odd, delicate cast to them -- a slight lift to the
eyebrow, a slight pointing of the ears, as though some exotic blood
flows through her veins. She is dressed in a simple leather jacket and
trowsers with a silk blouse, all dyed a deep midnight blue, and one
gloved hand -- the one in shadow -- grips a dagger, while the other
carelessly holds a long-thorned rose with petals of dusty azure. Though
a fixed portrait, you sense that, were it a live image, she would be
standing just as still, just as unmoving. Waiting. For something.