<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cinzel|Playfair+Display+SC" rel="stylesheet"><style type="text/css">.toni_background {background-image: url('http://i47.tinypic.com/34imxeh.jpg'); width: 510px; border: 10px double black; box-shadow: 0px 20px 50px black inset; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;} .toni_container {position: relative;z-index: 1; background-color: #141414;width: 500px;border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;border: solid gray;}.toni_container p {margin: 0;}.toni_image {position:relative;z-index:2;width: 500px; border-radius: 0px 00px 0px 0px;}.toni_gradient {position: relative;z-index: 3;top:-25px;width: 500px;height: 25px;background: -ms-linear-gradient(top, rgba(125,185,232,0) 0%, rgba(20,20,20,1) 100%);background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(125,185,232,0) 0%,rgba(20,20,20,1) 100%);background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(125,185,232,0) 0%,rgba(20,20,20,1) 100%);filter;padding:0px;margin:0px;}.toni_message {position:relative;z-index:0;background-color:#141414;text-align: justify;font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif;padding-left: 25px; padding-right: 25px;padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px;;color:#adadad;border-radius: 0px 0px 18px 18px;}.toni_title {position: relative; z-index: 10000; text-align:center; top: 8px; color: #000;font-size:12px;font:12px 'Cinzel';letter-spacing:0xp; text-shadow:0px 0px 0.0000001px #fff;}.toni_quote {position: relative; z-index: 10000; text-align:center; margin-bottom:5px;color: #141414;font-size:50px;font:30px 'Cinzel';letter-spacing:1px;text-shadow:0px 0px 8px #8c8c8c;} </style><center><div class="toni_background"><div class="toni_container"><img class="toni_image" src="https://78.media.tumblr.com/75cd7f437af9a0f3883992643a9f4c46/tumblr_nsvwwcIGiE1si8ep5o1_500.gif"><div class="toni_gradient"><div class="toni_title">there was a heaven in you</br>but god there's a devil in me</div></div><div class="toni_message">He had left a part of himself on the mountain long ago. The now-King had been just a child then, when Orani and Beyah had been taken from him in a whirlwind of magic from The Reckoning. The stallion has come far since that fateful day, yet as he stares up at the mountainside there is an urgency that nearly crushes him - the idea of returning to that same place, with a need that he cannot fulfill. Warrick’s face is worn and distraught as he tips his chin upwards, the cold chill of autumn raking its icy fingers across his auburn body, playing with the cobalt feathers that cling tightly to his sides. He inhales deeply only to exhale in a shuddering sigh, his breath a warm vapor that floats gently around his stoic face before evaporating into nothingness.
There is no other way.
The stallion does not fly towards the precipice of the mountain. Many times had he trekked the volcanic mountainside of his home, and though the mystical mountain is grander in every way <i>(larger, more terrifying)</i>, Warrick could not help but think he would be doing himself a disservice to merely take to the skies and avoid the journey that awaits him through winding, thin paths riddled with rock and ice. Already his journey up the side of the mountain proves difficult as the wind begins to stir more aggressively, tugging at the dark tendrils of his mane and forelock, snapping them around his face as his jaw clenches with exertion, pressing each hoof carefully and purposefully into the rocky terrain.
The onslaught of winter is already evident as he scales the mountain - his body begins to quake with the decreasing temperatures and the mighty gales that threaten to blow him easily off his course, to throw him to the ground with one easy and icy breath. He presses into the wind, lowering his head to face the brunt of it. He would not be found facedown in the dirt again. The air howls mournfully and Warrick feels dreadfully alone in each step he takes, fueled by the thoughts that ravage his mind savagely, tormenting him in a way that he had never experienced.
<i>Someone who will thrust Tephra into greatness.</i>
The wind tears at his skin, biting and forceful.
<i>Are there not wolves at your door?</i>
He loses his balance, stumbling against the unforgiving wall of stone that catches his shoulder, scraping with inanimate teeth into his skin to peel back the skin and reveal blood.
<i>Respect your father, especially when your father is a god.</i>
His face presses into the rock of the mountain, teetering on the edge as he carefully moves along the thin path, the feeling of grit and rugged stone bloodying his face reminding him of the way he had been ground into the dirt by an invisible hand, plucked from the sky by a mere thought. The path opens up before him and Warrick is able to breathe easier, though part of his heart still clutches in his throat at the sight of the edge, his body shivering with the bitter cold.
Hours pass. He is even convinced that it had been days to finish the trek to the very top, where the snow is thick and full, made smooth by the constant wind that careens into each crevice of the mountain. He is tired and exhausted, finding his muscles atrophying in the frigid temperatures. He groans with each step, wondering if bone would shatter with the movement he insists on as he continues to move forward. He cannot remember how long his eyes had been closed and for a moment he wonders if the lids have frozen shut, his sweat and perspiration frozen in droplets across his body, tendrils of tangled mane dreaded and stiff.
Finally, the osprey-King halts - he can go no further, for even though his mind begs, his body cannot react to his will. There is nothing on the mountain save for the white of the snow and the blackness of stone, swirling wind bitterly howling in his ears. He can hear them whispering and their faces appear - Tangerine, Solace, Svedka, Wishbone, Kagerus, Wound - in his bleary mind. Wound’s disappearance, the trail of blood left on the shores of the inlet, signaling the worst. The image of Longclaw presses in, coughing and sputtering blood onto the Tephran plains, his life burning out before Warrick’s eyes as he succumbs to a plague that eats his flesh from the inside out, giving up his life to protect his King.
He cannot keep them safe from the terrors of the world.
Murderers, plagues, robbers, usurpers...
He has failed. He is not enough.
There is no other way.
He lifts his chin, the movement shuddering and slow.
<b>“Help me,”</b> he exclaims in a breath, his cerulean gaze flickering through flashing white that surrounds him as if he would be able to see someone in the midst of the blizzard, <b>“help me protect them.”</b> Warrick falls to his knees from sheer exhaustion, the hard snow welcoming him in a tender embrace of ice and searing cold.
</br></br><div class="toni_quote">WARRICK</div></div></div></div></center>
@[Officials] @[devin]
There is no other way.
The stallion does not fly towards the precipice of the mountain. Many times had he trekked the volcanic mountainside of his home, and though the mystical mountain is grander in every way <i>(larger, more terrifying)</i>, Warrick could not help but think he would be doing himself a disservice to merely take to the skies and avoid the journey that awaits him through winding, thin paths riddled with rock and ice. Already his journey up the side of the mountain proves difficult as the wind begins to stir more aggressively, tugging at the dark tendrils of his mane and forelock, snapping them around his face as his jaw clenches with exertion, pressing each hoof carefully and purposefully into the rocky terrain.
The onslaught of winter is already evident as he scales the mountain - his body begins to quake with the decreasing temperatures and the mighty gales that threaten to blow him easily off his course, to throw him to the ground with one easy and icy breath. He presses into the wind, lowering his head to face the brunt of it. He would not be found facedown in the dirt again. The air howls mournfully and Warrick feels dreadfully alone in each step he takes, fueled by the thoughts that ravage his mind savagely, tormenting him in a way that he had never experienced.
<i>Someone who will thrust Tephra into greatness.</i>
The wind tears at his skin, biting and forceful.
<i>Are there not wolves at your door?</i>
He loses his balance, stumbling against the unforgiving wall of stone that catches his shoulder, scraping with inanimate teeth into his skin to peel back the skin and reveal blood.
<i>Respect your father, especially when your father is a god.</i>
His face presses into the rock of the mountain, teetering on the edge as he carefully moves along the thin path, the feeling of grit and rugged stone bloodying his face reminding him of the way he had been ground into the dirt by an invisible hand, plucked from the sky by a mere thought. The path opens up before him and Warrick is able to breathe easier, though part of his heart still clutches in his throat at the sight of the edge, his body shivering with the bitter cold.
Hours pass. He is even convinced that it had been days to finish the trek to the very top, where the snow is thick and full, made smooth by the constant wind that careens into each crevice of the mountain. He is tired and exhausted, finding his muscles atrophying in the frigid temperatures. He groans with each step, wondering if bone would shatter with the movement he insists on as he continues to move forward. He cannot remember how long his eyes had been closed and for a moment he wonders if the lids have frozen shut, his sweat and perspiration frozen in droplets across his body, tendrils of tangled mane dreaded and stiff.
Finally, the osprey-King halts - he can go no further, for even though his mind begs, his body cannot react to his will. There is nothing on the mountain save for the white of the snow and the blackness of stone, swirling wind bitterly howling in his ears. He can hear them whispering and their faces appear - Tangerine, Solace, Svedka, Wishbone, Kagerus, Wound - in his bleary mind. Wound’s disappearance, the trail of blood left on the shores of the inlet, signaling the worst. The image of Longclaw presses in, coughing and sputtering blood onto the Tephran plains, his life burning out before Warrick’s eyes as he succumbs to a plague that eats his flesh from the inside out, giving up his life to protect his King.
He cannot keep them safe from the terrors of the world.
Murderers, plagues, robbers, usurpers...
He has failed. He is not enough.
There is no other way.
He lifts his chin, the movement shuddering and slow.
<b>“Help me,”</b> he exclaims in a breath, his cerulean gaze flickering through flashing white that surrounds him as if he would be able to see someone in the midst of the blizzard, <b>“help me protect them.”</b> Warrick falls to his knees from sheer exhaustion, the hard snow welcoming him in a tender embrace of ice and searing cold.
</br></br><div class="toni_quote">WARRICK</div></div></div></div></center>
@[Officials] @[devin]