Novel & Cerita Portrait Of An Unknown Woman

VALENTINA My breath hitched like a cat caught in a spotlight, staring at that towering portrait glowing like it just stepped out of a magical place. It was me, my portrait. No—no, how is it even possible? it couldn’t be me. The woman illustrated in the portrait was elegantly draped in silks of midnight blue, featuring faint silver symbols of Gemini, though they seemed to have faded somewhat with time. Her posture was regal, every line of her painted body carrying a quiet strength that demanded reverence. But it was the face that captivated my gaze.

She stepped forward slowly, her feet feeling warm against the thick red mat that stretched across the center of the floor. Everywhere she turned, she saw her face. The woman from the photographs, the woman whose smile had softened Blackwood’s eyes in those sweet moments. The walls were covered with portraits, large, stunning portraits that showed the woman in different poses, different moods, yet each one screamed love. Some showed her laughing, others showed her with her lips curled in a gentle smile. The details were almost lifelike, as though she might step out of the frame and speak at any moment.

But what drew my attention were the portraits. They lined the walls, dozens of them, each one depicting a wolf of obvious power and status. Kings and queens from centuries past, I realized, their painted eyes seeming to follow me as I walked. And then I saw it. Near the end of the hall. A portrait that stole my breath. It showed a woman in armor, leather and metal fitted to her frame, a sword at her hip, her dark hair braided back from a face that was achingly familiar. Storm gray eyes stared out from the canvas with strength and determination.

"The woman in the portrait is Lady Maya Helsing. . .

She finds, low in the results, a link to the National Portrait Gallery of Vienna's online collection, a painting in their permanent archive. She clicks. Unknown Patron. Vienna, 1897. Commissioned for the Foundation's permanent premises. She looks at the face in the painting. She looks at it for a long time. She looks at it long enough that Variable notices her silence from his carrier and regards her with the first genuine interest he's shown in the past two hours. The clothes are different. The hair is shorter. The year is 1897. Everything else is exactly the man who just walked out of her office.

Her stance, in my personal view, seems to be more contemporary than relaxed, because no one can take a nap in a certain kind of appealing gesture. The woman's dress, silk scarf, and hair strands all blend into one churning ripple of orange and earth hues, the warmth of the tint gushing from the chassis. Her facial expression is peaceful, but flushed, from the hot summer sun she may have been exposed to earlier. Her structure currently holds pretty much the entire portrait, still and unconscious, absolutely knackered by the warmth and outlined by the tapestries.

She comments to herself. Then she sighs. “Perhaps that was for the best. Better to know the weak link than to be caught unaware.” The woman stands. Runs her hand down her dress to straighten out any wrinkles. Then idly walks over toward her wall of pictures. Her own faces stares back from multiple photos. The slow progression of her life captured in moments. Even more famous faces stand beside her…heads of clans…princes, princess…ambassadors…inventers…so many of her accomplishments and connections.

Of course, the paintings were about her. “A faceless woman,” Ivy begins. “I painted this because I do—I—” “Did you paint this, Ivy?” “Of course I did.” “Then tell me about it.” “It's a woman who doesn't have a face because she doesn't know who she is. At night, she puts on one face, and by day, another. She's in a state of dilemma; she doesn't know who she is—she's a faceless woman.” “Literature would have suited you, 60. Next.”

I added and they gasped, begun sinking to their mind the reality they stumbled upon. “No,” “It was bizzare-” “-shockingly unreal!” They begun whispering to themselves and be shivered to the thought of it. Watching them immerse to the madness, I determine the misery they have been battling through the years. No one but them know what they see, yet the sight of them horrored and scared the wits out of their mind, I begun to step back and gulped to the mysteries I don't think to be discovered myself. Before I even knew it, the portrait flow and block the path of the exit. The subjected portrait, a woman who gives off pressence akin to a Queen, with her eyes glowing so darkly move for the first

"Goodnight Asami. Go to bed." If I was to guess her reaction, I'd say she's smiling. "Well, if you insist, I shall." The call ended. I stood up and walked to the window. In the portrait by the window is where the flash drive is, according to S. My fine red curtains blew toward me as a result of the breeze. Just a bit far from my window but on the same wall is a weird, large canvas portrait painted in Van Gogh's artstyle. It's of a weeping woman with a dead baby in her hand. The naked baby is bleeding as a knife is stuck in it's chest and both the woman and he baby are in the belly of a fierce looking cobra.