Genur.art

Priscilla, a mature woman sitting slumped against the trunk of a large tree in the middle of a violent thunderstorm, exhausted, her head tilted back and her eyes half-closed, breathing heavily. A thin trickle of blood runs from the corner of her mouth down her chin. Rain pours down and soaks her completely, plastering her hair to her skin, while lightning flashes across a dark sky and the wind drags at the branches above her. She has long blonde hair falling well past her waist, gathered into a side ponytail with a crown braid running across her forehead and braided strands framing her face, though the style has come loose and strands hang wet across her cheeks. Her eyes are red. She has a full figure and wears a badly damaged off-shoulder gown that leaves her shoulders bare: the black striped bodice is torn open along one side, the red skirt is ripped and frayed at the hem and streaked with mud, and the wide fur-trimmed collar hangs half-detached behind her neck. One of her long black fingerless gloves is shredded and slipping down her arm. A black choker still sits at her throat and a gold necklace with green gemstones hangs askew across her chest, one drop earring missing. Wet ground, scattered leaves and puddles surround her, lit in flashes by the storm