Work in progress of an illustration for the next installment of The Wandering Stranger!s
Alfar, the archaic voice which lived in his head muttered, ill at ease. Whatever it was, this alfar had the appearance and demeanor of a general. Or an executioner.
Where did it come from? Why was it red? And more importantly: what did it mean?
Alone in the field he stood, feeble against a backdrop of black and grey—black and grey from the angry storm clouds stretching straight to the horizon.
It looked at him with its beady black eyes. From the shadows he could see nothing, except for those eyes.