As the sun slides below the horizon and the air becomes thick with the greys of dusk, she rests, exhausted from her training. Arms too weak to wipe the sweat from her body, she jams her sword into the dirt, ignoring the nagging pain of the old injury. You can't see it, and she would not tell you if you asked. It's an injury of the worst kind, the rememberance of a time when she hadn't been fast enough, when she had been a little too late...of a name she refuses to speak, and of a presence ripped from her life to soon. Vine charcoal on charcoal paper. See the close-up detail pictures for additional info.