07-27-2017, 07:09 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Bellefair|Cinzel" rel="stylesheet"><style type="text/css">.Crevan1_container {position: relative;z-index: 1;width: 500px;padding: 15px;background: #fff; border: 0px solid #000;box-shadow: 0 0 1em #000;}.Crevan2_container {position: relative;z-index: 1;width: 540px; /*frame width*/padding: 15px;background: #fff url("https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/1d/6f/4d/1d6f4d55e55355a358d018d690218c41.jpg");border:0px solid #000;box-shadow: 0 0 3em #000;}.Crevan2_container p {margin: 0;}.Crevan2_image {border: 0px solid #000; /*image border size, style, and color*/}.Crevan2_message {text-align: justify;font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 15px 0; color: #5A8E87;border-top: 1px solid #000;border-bottom: 1px solid #000;}.Crevan2_name {text-align: center;font: 70px 'Cinzel', serif;color: #5A8E87;padding: 0;text-shadow: 0 0 1em #000;}.Crevan2_quote {text-align: center;font: 14px 'Bellefair', serif;color: #2CA9AD;padding: 0;}</style><center><div class="Crevan2_container"><div class="Crevan1_container"><img class="Crevan2_image" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/55/e7/43/55e743df0c173a0252c6fc359f995220.jpg"><p class="Crevan2_name">Crevan</p><p class="Crevan2_quote">We forget all the names that we used to know</p><p class="Crevan2_message">Sadly, it’s already too late for Crevan when reality hits. While his dark eyes bore into the even darker ones of Canaan the colt chokes again, wheezing air through flared nostrils that seem to burn. More tears slip over his ruddy cheeks and his eyes narrow, the vision of his father blurring behind a veil of water as the pegasus only whispers for Crevan to come closer; there would be no help from him. <i>“Just like all the times before this one,”</i> The boy thinks with spitfire in his veins, gasping for air as he truly struggles now to remain conscious, <i>“why would I expect anything different?”</i>
Bitter thoughts for a dying child to have.
<b>“Fuck … you …”</b> He manages to gasp, a pale effort at cursing the bastard who made him feel, for the entirety of his life up until this point, that he was inconsequential. As blackness creeps across the edges of Crevan’s sight, Canaan cackles and extends arms … <i>wait, what?</i> … arms out from a body that is no longer horse, but snake, myth, and nightmare combined together. It’s strangling the broken colt, violently now so that Crevan’s head jerks from side to side while his eyes roll lifelessly backwards into his skull. The fire of life within the youth dims, quivering to the point of snuffing out, and water rises like a blanket over his shoulders, back. He will die (from a broken heart or drowning?) and it will be with a curse on his tongue.
There are some, though, that like curses.
They enjoy exchanges, too, and are always waiting with baited breath for some unfortunate soul to strike a bargain that cannot be resisted. Only the most daring and most desperate are eligible for their help and in this very moment, Crevan is both <i>very</i> daring and <i>very</i> desperate. A perfect candidate. Outside of the darkness that consumes him Crevan is faintly aware that the siren is screeching her victory while his crushed windpipe fills with frothing water. He can’t even struggle (does he really want to anymore?) and so instead he closes off his thoughts and tries to think of his mother, his brother, Taiga - anything that will comfort him in these final few seconds.
<i>“Oh not yet,”</i> A strange voice croons to his soul, <i>“take heart, fierce little wolf!”</i> Remarkably, the half-dead boy does. Beneath the surface of the lake his lids burst apart, bloodshot eyes taking in the shape of his murderer. <i>“That’s it.”</i> The eerie words seem to say, <i>“Your soul isn’t ripe enough for plucking just yet.”</i>
Crevan’s legs churn.
<i>“Here … let me help you, don’t be shy now; we’ll be good friends - you and I.”</i> The detached sound tells him. His heart thuds weakly in protest as a foreign energy overtakes him, <i>body and soul</i>, and like a mad dog Crevan trembles violently before exploding through the surface of his watery grave. <b>“THAT’S IT!”</b> The possessed horse screams, air filling his lungs once more with savage fire. Who he is anymore cannot be determined - those once navy eyes have turned bloodred, across his chest and over his shoulders a trail of flame licks golden fur clean from his skin and etches the shape of a mighty Roc into a tattoo, and his mind that had only moments before been dull is now clambering with not one or two but <i>three</i> voices. The hissing, indistinct one is his killer, the siren, and she’s coiled upright on her ass of a tail watching the boy as he stares her down in return. Her thoughts seem confused, <i>why wasn’t the horse dead?</i>.
Now it was Crevan’s turn to cackle. He speaks, the sound of two souls, two distinct voices, overlapping each other as he says, <b>“You suck at your job.”</b> The siren isn’t amused. She lunges for him, wailing in red-hot anger, but this time it’s too late for <i>her</i> - his tattoo has sprung to life and ripped free from his chest where it strikes out to meet her, sword-like talons spread wide to snatch her by that slimy tail. The Roc makes easy pickings of her while they soar ever higher into the dark sky, fleshy bits raining down to pepper the surface of her once great domain before they sink to unknown depths.
<b>“Looks like I win.”</b> The two voices chuckle. <i>“And looks like you’ve had more than your taste of power.”</i> Says the more haunting one within, energy sapping from every cell of Crevan’s body while the Roc descends swiftly to pluck the yearling from where he crumples. Finally, <i>finally</i> the shifter has reached his limit. With a tepid smile on his bleached lips he nods again into unconsciousness, happy to welcome the night-without-end. <i>“Don’t be dramatic,”</i> The voice whispers on the edges of his mind, <i>“You wanted someone who would never desert you, ever again, and you were willing to give up everything for that security.”</i>
<i>“Now sleep,”</i> It commands, and Crevan obeys without protest. <i>“Sleep long, hard. Sleep for years and when you wake, never sleep again. This nightmare will be waiting for you when you do.”</i></p><p class="Crevan2_quote">Then our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow</p></div></center>
<i>Crevan has discovered</i><b> Demon Morphing</b><i> and was aided by ‘Malphas’, a prince of the underworld.</i><br><i>In accordance to the trait, Malphas granted him three abilities:</i>
<b>Tattoo Animation</b> [2 spaces]
<b>Serial Regeneration</b> [1 space]
<b>Telepathy</b> [1 space]
Bitter thoughts for a dying child to have.
<b>“Fuck … you …”</b> He manages to gasp, a pale effort at cursing the bastard who made him feel, for the entirety of his life up until this point, that he was inconsequential. As blackness creeps across the edges of Crevan’s sight, Canaan cackles and extends arms … <i>wait, what?</i> … arms out from a body that is no longer horse, but snake, myth, and nightmare combined together. It’s strangling the broken colt, violently now so that Crevan’s head jerks from side to side while his eyes roll lifelessly backwards into his skull. The fire of life within the youth dims, quivering to the point of snuffing out, and water rises like a blanket over his shoulders, back. He will die (from a broken heart or drowning?) and it will be with a curse on his tongue.
There are some, though, that like curses.
They enjoy exchanges, too, and are always waiting with baited breath for some unfortunate soul to strike a bargain that cannot be resisted. Only the most daring and most desperate are eligible for their help and in this very moment, Crevan is both <i>very</i> daring and <i>very</i> desperate. A perfect candidate. Outside of the darkness that consumes him Crevan is faintly aware that the siren is screeching her victory while his crushed windpipe fills with frothing water. He can’t even struggle (does he really want to anymore?) and so instead he closes off his thoughts and tries to think of his mother, his brother, Taiga - anything that will comfort him in these final few seconds.
<i>“Oh not yet,”</i> A strange voice croons to his soul, <i>“take heart, fierce little wolf!”</i> Remarkably, the half-dead boy does. Beneath the surface of the lake his lids burst apart, bloodshot eyes taking in the shape of his murderer. <i>“That’s it.”</i> The eerie words seem to say, <i>“Your soul isn’t ripe enough for plucking just yet.”</i>
Crevan’s legs churn.
<i>“Here … let me help you, don’t be shy now; we’ll be good friends - you and I.”</i> The detached sound tells him. His heart thuds weakly in protest as a foreign energy overtakes him, <i>body and soul</i>, and like a mad dog Crevan trembles violently before exploding through the surface of his watery grave. <b>“THAT’S IT!”</b> The possessed horse screams, air filling his lungs once more with savage fire. Who he is anymore cannot be determined - those once navy eyes have turned bloodred, across his chest and over his shoulders a trail of flame licks golden fur clean from his skin and etches the shape of a mighty Roc into a tattoo, and his mind that had only moments before been dull is now clambering with not one or two but <i>three</i> voices. The hissing, indistinct one is his killer, the siren, and she’s coiled upright on her ass of a tail watching the boy as he stares her down in return. Her thoughts seem confused, <i>why wasn’t the horse dead?</i>.
Now it was Crevan’s turn to cackle. He speaks, the sound of two souls, two distinct voices, overlapping each other as he says, <b>“You suck at your job.”</b> The siren isn’t amused. She lunges for him, wailing in red-hot anger, but this time it’s too late for <i>her</i> - his tattoo has sprung to life and ripped free from his chest where it strikes out to meet her, sword-like talons spread wide to snatch her by that slimy tail. The Roc makes easy pickings of her while they soar ever higher into the dark sky, fleshy bits raining down to pepper the surface of her once great domain before they sink to unknown depths.
<b>“Looks like I win.”</b> The two voices chuckle. <i>“And looks like you’ve had more than your taste of power.”</i> Says the more haunting one within, energy sapping from every cell of Crevan’s body while the Roc descends swiftly to pluck the yearling from where he crumples. Finally, <i>finally</i> the shifter has reached his limit. With a tepid smile on his bleached lips he nods again into unconsciousness, happy to welcome the night-without-end. <i>“Don’t be dramatic,”</i> The voice whispers on the edges of his mind, <i>“You wanted someone who would never desert you, ever again, and you were willing to give up everything for that security.”</i>
<i>“Now sleep,”</i> It commands, and Crevan obeys without protest. <i>“Sleep long, hard. Sleep for years and when you wake, never sleep again. This nightmare will be waiting for you when you do.”</i></p><p class="Crevan2_quote">Then our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow</p></div></center>
<i>Crevan has discovered</i><b> Demon Morphing</b><i> and was aided by ‘Malphas’, a prince of the underworld.</i><br><i>In accordance to the trait, Malphas granted him three abilities:</i>
<b>Tattoo Animation</b> [2 spaces]
<b>Serial Regeneration</b> [1 space]
<b>Telepathy</b> [1 space]