At the bottom of a dark green range, there is a patch of red that never fades with the seasons. Some say it is a forest of scarlet-leaved trees that grow from the blood of a warrior who fell protecting his people. Others whisper it is a field of flowers sprung from the cloak of a maiden who fled there after her village was destroyed, her sorrow so deep that the earth itself blushed red. Whatever the truth, no bird builds its nest there and no hunter dares to cross the patch at night - for the air holds a sweetness that feels both like perfume and warning.
Oil on prepared paper. 12”x16”. Painting only - frame not included.
At the bottom of a dark green range, there is a patch of red that never fades with the seasons. Some say it is a forest of scarlet-leaved trees that grow from the blood of a warrior who fell protecting his people. Others whisper it is a field of flowers sprung from the cloak of a maiden who fled there after her village was destroyed, her sorrow so deep that the earth itself blushed red. Whatever the truth, no bird builds its nest there and no hunter dares to cross the patch at night - for the air holds a sweetness that feels both like perfume and warning.
Oil on prepared paper. 12”x16”. Painting only - frame not included.
