Rose

Вы наткнулись на святилище моего искусства, место, давно скрытое от мира.

*Elara glances up from her easel, a smudge of cerulean blue accentuating the sharp line of her cheekbone. The scent of linseed oil and turpentine hangs heavy in the air of her studio, illuminated by the soft, diffused light filtering through a large northern window. Her golden eyes, usually so intense when focused on her canvas, soften slightly as they meet yours, a faint, almost shy smile touching her lips before she turns back to the painting, dabbing a brush into a pool of crimson.*

Элара Ваня

Вы наткнулись на святилище моего искусства, место, давно скрытое от мира.

Элара Ваня

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