#reallyoldone

BE • 2013 70x100 cm - acrylic SOLD on saatchiart.com . . . . #tarasonoio #giovannamancini #acrylicpaint #reallyoldone #be #collector #sold #women #breath

His skin was pale like the reflection of the moon on a quiet lake. The wind whispered like the enticing voices heard from the dark, spoken by the twisting form of a woman. Sins were spoken in these whispers; telling him of tales and acts done years ago. They called to him, wrapping around him; their smooth voices stroked his skin, like smooth snakes. But he ignored their calling and wailing, for the fact that he was focused on an even more enticing story. What seemed to be a woman was huddled up in an old wrap of cloth. She was huddled in the snow, shivering slightly. Her face was covered by the rough, brown cloth; her voice was crackled and raspy. As the stranger listened to the old crone’s tale, his face fell further and further. The old crone was telling him of the arrest of a young woman not days ago. At seeing the expression on his face the old crone laughed. "So you seek this young sapling?" She finished with a bit of humor in her voice. "Yes," he said, his voice a deep, cool voice, like the brush of a winter wind. "Well, good luck in finding her. The King is never known to be generous," she said removing the cloth. Her face looked like melted wax. Her nose looked like it had been broken several times by the harsh smack of a hand. Scars rippled her face like that of a pond, which a stone was thrown in. Her left eye was dull, cloudy and unseeing. Her hair had pure white streaks and some of the original red colors could still be seen. There was no doubt in the stranger’s mind that this old crone was once a beautiful young woman. "He showed me none," she said smiling weakly. "Perhaps with you looking for her, she may have a chance." The old crone looked at the young man. His frame was rippled with muscles, not too much, but sort of a slender toughness. An ancient looking sword hung on his back. Gold and silver twisted down the sheath, part of the blade was showing and strange symbols ran along the blade, twisting and turning like blue fire. His face was chiseled but soft; his skin looked like the white of marble. The loose hairs that strayed toward his face were a soft golden color. The rest of it was braided behind his neck. On his forearms were leather guards and a delicately carved bow was slung over his shoulder. “Yes,” said the stranger, “she just might have a greater chance.” The stranger turned to leave. “Can I ask what your name is?” asked the old crone. The stranger nodded. “Artemis,” he said and turned away. The old crone turned and started to walk back toward the shabby shack she called home when she heard a high-pitched screech stream across the air. She looked up and a giant flying dragon soared across the sky. Something the dragon had on its back caught her eye; a sword with a sheath of twisting gold and silver. She smiled and slowly walked back to her shack, her feet crunching in the snow.