Waist length redish-black curls cascade down his pale back like a waterfall at midnight.  Slightly pointed ears peak through the blackness of his hair, small silver piercings glinting along their length.  Icy blue eyes gaze out at the world through an angular face.  Narrow lips hover some where below a sloping nose and above a chiseled jaw.  Wide, muscular shoulders lead into a well defined chest and down across strong stomach muscles into narrow hips.  Long, lean legs cross over each other as he sits in a beautifully carved mahogany chair.  Leaning forward, he rests on his elbow, staring at a portrait of a younger version of him with a beautiful black haired girl and a tall handsome blond man in foreign clothing.  He sighs and unlaces the collar of his shirt, rubbing a scar that almost encircles his throat.  Better days by far...

Hair so blond it seems white pulled back into a sharp, high ponytail, a few wisps of it defying their owner and escaping their bonds to frame his ruggedly handsome face.  Cold, piercing green eyes stare slantedly at an invisible opponent as his well calloused hands shift their grip on a borrowed, long, single edged, razor sharp blade.  A shift in his bare ripcord and steel shoulders and chest and he lunges at his invisible foe.  A lightening quick movement from well muscled legs and he sidesteps, parrying the imagined return blow.  Dropping back into a crouch, his blade’s tip rests along his right palm, extending out before him.  His left hand tightens and he closes his eyes.  The image of a young black haired woman, head thrown back in passion enters his mind unbidden, followed shortly by a black haired man with blue eyes leaning up to kiss him.  His legs bunch, muscles bulging under his training gi and he powers forward.  The blade impales his imagined opponent and embeds itself into the wall, cutting deep into the stone.  He spins away, moving to the window view of his garden...

She sights down the yew shaft, the brush of feathers tickling the scar tissue on her right cheek.  As she breathes out she lets the arrow fly. Lowering the bow she brushes blackened-green hair out of her face, revealing a large crescent shaped scar that nearly claimed her eye.  The wind picks up, ruffling her loose tunic and runs invisible fingers through her ankle length hair.  She closes her eyes, imagining that those hands belong to a blond haired swordsman from a distant land, and the brush of her bow against her leg is really the well muscled leg of a pale skinned, blue eyed mage she once knew.  Sighing, she turns away as the target is impaled with her harrow, her thoughts a million miles away...