It has been said that in the cold white of the north, a force raises her from the depths of her sleep to create in the dead of night. It begins with white space, ink and a quill. Lines are drawn and shapes are made. Dark elements come to light. Ink meets like a mating snake pile. Some ink is spilled. Some colours bleed. Blending as they writhe and shake meticulously. And when the hand grows weary, like the female snake after a long courting, she slithers back into the darkness and waits for the morning.