12-01-2018, 03:12 AM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Playfair+Display' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .woolf_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background-color: #1E1F21; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #6b899570; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .woolf_container p { margin: 0; } .woolf_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .woolf_gradient { position: absolute; z-index: 5; top: 553px; left: 0px; width: 600px; height: 200px; background: -moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(0,0,0,0) 0%, rgba(30,31,33,1) 100%); background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(0,0,0,0) 0%,rgba(30,31,33,1) 100%); background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(0,0,0,0) 0%,rgba(30,31,33,1) 100%); filter: progid
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#00000000', endColorstr='#1e1f21',GradientType=0 ); } .woolf_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; padding-top: 10px; margin-top: -110px; } .woolf_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #859191; padding: 20px 35px; } .woolf_quote { position: relative; text-align: center; width: 60%; color: #5b686c; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 20px; border-bottom: solid 1px; } .woolf_name { position: relative; text-align: center; color: #2a3439; width: 100%; font: 40px 'Playfair Display', serif; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 20px; padding-bottom: 10px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 0px #000; } .woolf_quotetwo { position: relative; text-align: center; color: #5b686c; width: 45%; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 20px; border-top: solid 1px; } </style> <center> <div class="woolf_container"> <img class="woolf_image" src="https://s15.postimg.cc/bpsaehnrf/jaroslav-devia-715052-unsplash.jpg"> <div class="woolf_gradient"></div> <div class="woolf_text"> <p class="woolf_quote">bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze <br>if you must drink of me, take of me what you please</p> <p class="woolf_message">
He likes coming back here. Likes the flow of power beneath the mountain, like streaks of gold in rock formations. He can feel it buzzing, the air nearly electric all around him, and he closes his eyes on a deep breath, drinking it in—his skin nearly going numb with the primal pleasure of it. The last time he had been here, he had been called by his sister’s greedy fingers dipping into his own power; he had stood with her to break open the cage of the ice wielder, setting the feral wolf free from his own prison.
Today though—today he was here for simply himself.
Or, he was.
She exists on the outside of his consciousness, barely grazing his mind, but she is loud enough that he tilts his head in thought. There is something about her—has always been something about her—that draws his thoughts to rest upon the plateau of the memory with her. It had been such a brief encounter. Such a flash of time but it had left an impression, a rare flow of emotion flooding through him, carving canyons.
He wasn’t used to feeling emotion and she felt all of it.
And he had, in return, felt it too.
Were he different, he may have craved it, may have sought out other ways to hunt it down, but instead, he merely took the memory and tucked it away—pulling it out and contemplating it when all was quiet around him. For a long time, he assumed that was all it was, but his dreams lately had come back to her.
And he isn’t sure what to make of that at all.
For a second, he considers leaving—letting the distance between them lie—but the gravity of her, of her sorrow sings through the arrow and he finds himself trudging up the mountain, relying on his considerable physical strength instead of the magic that curls like a viper beneath his flesh.
He walks slowly, giving her a chance to hear him coming, walking into the darkness of her cave as if he belongs there. “Wallace,” her voice shows no fear for her condition, no irrational concern as his emerald eyes study her, taking in the new changes. He slips into the current of her thoughts, of her memories, picking through the last few days and weeks and retreating without leaving a trace.
He remains silent for a few seconds longer, standing over her, handsome face impassive.
“You look cold,” he deadpans, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.
</p> <p class="woolf_name">woolf</p> <p class="woolf_quotetwo">I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste </p> </div> </div> </center>
he insisted :|
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#00000000', endColorstr='#1e1f21',GradientType=0 ); } .woolf_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; padding-top: 10px; margin-top: -110px; } .woolf_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #859191; padding: 20px 35px; } .woolf_quote { position: relative; text-align: center; width: 60%; color: #5b686c; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 20px; border-bottom: solid 1px; } .woolf_name { position: relative; text-align: center; color: #2a3439; width: 100%; font: 40px 'Playfair Display', serif; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 1.3em; letter-spacing: 20px; padding-bottom: 10px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 0px #000; } .woolf_quotetwo { position: relative; text-align: center; color: #5b686c; width: 45%; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 10px; padding-bottom: 20px; border-top: solid 1px; } </style> <center> <div class="woolf_container"> <img class="woolf_image" src="https://s15.postimg.cc/bpsaehnrf/jaroslav-devia-715052-unsplash.jpg"> <div class="woolf_gradient"></div> <div class="woolf_text"> <p class="woolf_quote">bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze <br>if you must drink of me, take of me what you please</p> <p class="woolf_message"> He likes coming back here. Likes the flow of power beneath the mountain, like streaks of gold in rock formations. He can feel it buzzing, the air nearly electric all around him, and he closes his eyes on a deep breath, drinking it in—his skin nearly going numb with the primal pleasure of it. The last time he had been here, he had been called by his sister’s greedy fingers dipping into his own power; he had stood with her to break open the cage of the ice wielder, setting the feral wolf free from his own prison.
Today though—today he was here for simply himself.
Or, he was.
She exists on the outside of his consciousness, barely grazing his mind, but she is loud enough that he tilts his head in thought. There is something about her—has always been something about her—that draws his thoughts to rest upon the plateau of the memory with her. It had been such a brief encounter. Such a flash of time but it had left an impression, a rare flow of emotion flooding through him, carving canyons.
He wasn’t used to feeling emotion and she felt all of it.
And he had, in return, felt it too.
Were he different, he may have craved it, may have sought out other ways to hunt it down, but instead, he merely took the memory and tucked it away—pulling it out and contemplating it when all was quiet around him. For a long time, he assumed that was all it was, but his dreams lately had come back to her.
And he isn’t sure what to make of that at all.
For a second, he considers leaving—letting the distance between them lie—but the gravity of her, of her sorrow sings through the arrow and he finds himself trudging up the mountain, relying on his considerable physical strength instead of the magic that curls like a viper beneath his flesh.
He walks slowly, giving her a chance to hear him coming, walking into the darkness of her cave as if he belongs there. “Wallace,” her voice shows no fear for her condition, no irrational concern as his emerald eyes study her, taking in the new changes. He slips into the current of her thoughts, of her memories, picking through the last few days and weeks and retreating without leaving a trace.
He remains silent for a few seconds longer, standing over her, handsome face impassive.
“You look cold,” he deadpans, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.
</p> <p class="woolf_name">woolf</p> <p class="woolf_quotetwo">I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste </p> </div> </div> </center>
he insisted :|
