She has a colour.

Model: ~ThatG1rl
No edits aside from texture.

------------------------------------

I see her as a shape that is without shape. Form without form, and forms within forms. She is white and cold and her skin is magnetic. She is the breath of the universe, the white hand that gathers the harvest. It all fits into one of her tiny bird-like hands. She is both masculine and feminine. She is soft curves and hard edges. She is a knife blade, sharp and sweet. She smells like ancient forests undisturbed.

Imagine this.
You are walking at night across a field lit up gold by the setting sun. The texture of the grass is very strange against your legs, comforting, irritating. You feel everything. You feel the dewy earth between your naked toes. It's Autumn. The harvest is coming. The air has a bite to it, a pre-frost warning.
Across the field lies a misty haze. It moves and weaves though there is no wind to encourage it. The mist is alive with something, like breath condensating, hanging in the still air. The mist becomes warm and smothering as you walk into it's shroud. It swathes you, holds you, chokes you and feeds you. Beyond the mist is a line of thick trees. Shoulder to shoulder they stand, impenetrable. No air passes between them, and they reach up into the sky far beyond birds, far beyond clouds. It is a fortress of ancient trees. The mist weaves and breathes, moves between two trunks, makes a doorway for you.

The forest is dark and warm. No one has breathed here for a long time. There is no sound. The ground is covered in dry leaves and tortured branches. Autumn lives here, her leaves continue to fall - but make no whisper as they flutter and touch the earth. This place is ancient, sacred, forbidden.
You breathe in. You smell old books, dusty attics, the smell of your mother's face, blood - metallic and honeyed. You can taste the scents on your tongue: water, soil, smoke, burning hair, sex, salt. Your tongue is thick with it. You close your eyes and hear the rustling of pages from ancient albums full of photos with unfamiliar faces; the fluttering of moths; the rustle of silk sheets being tangled between two or more bodies; a whisper and a sigh; the sound of fingers tracing flesh; night birds and cat calls.

These are the sounds and the scents of Death. This is her home. The Devouring Forest of the Ever-Lost. You feel safe here; things are beginning to feel familiar. But one thing is unclear. The wood is black, and the colour of Autumn desaturated. But where is Death's colour?