This was a character description I wrote when I was trying to convince a friend to draw for me. I never did see a sketch for him, but I enjoyed this brief scene. Hopefully, you do, too.
The light has faded on the battleground, leaving it amassed in semi-darkness, a twilight wasteland. A light rain falls, shifting with the shadows, blanketing the still form of the warrior. His dark hair is unbound, the ends cut ragged, the leather thong that secured it lost in the fray. He is slumped forward. Blood seeps through his tattered leather jerkin from a wound beneath his ribs. He leans heavily on his elbows, pushed forward on his knees. The broad muscles of his back and arms are slack, exhaustion draining his fabled strength as the rain and his wound did the same for his life. The sword that spared his life barely rests in the limp fingers of his remaining hand. The once bright blade no longer shines and new notches and mud steal the killing edge. The shifting darkness reveals his face for a moment. Hot, living tears cut through the blood and dirt that cakes his cheeks, adding salt spilled for friends, enemies, and himself to the grime.
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