10-15-2018, 09:41 PM
<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 can feel it, the way she pulls on him or rather <i>them</i>.
He can feel it building slowly over time, starting as small withdrawals and then larger ones. He can feel her starting to pull from more than just her own reserves, tapping into their connection and then his own source of power. At first, he chooses to ignore it. He chooses to let her have it; after all, their magic was a shared thing, a permanent connection between the two no matter how far they should roam.
But soon, today, it becomes more, her exhaustion beginning to creep up the vine and into his heart.
It strikes a rare anger in him and he lifts his heavy head toward the mountain, a scowl darkening the edges of his otherwise handsome face. He has no desire to traipse up the mountainside, has no desire to find out whatever is occupying his dear sister’s time, has no desire to open himself up more to her greedy fingers—putting the well right beneath her nose for her to drain as she wishes. Yet, yet, he can feel the ache in her bones and the need with which she pulls from their magic and he cannot deny he is concerned.
Curious?
Either way, it is enough to rouse him. Enough to get him to his feet, powerful shoulder stained crimson, his emerald eyes glittering and sharp. He takes his time getting to them, using his magic only in small bursts where the path becomes too dangerous to walk. It gives him the time to get better control of his anger, to sort through his emotions, to try and reach out for her mind. He wants to flip through it, to try and understand where she has been, but his path there is just as blocked as his path upward.
Whatever she is dabbling in, she doesn’t want to share.
So perhaps he needed longer because by the time he is by her side, his temper is flaring. His face is wide open and terrible, lips pulled wide into a fierce scowl. “Are you trying to get the both of us killed?” he snarls, barely registering the small child at her side. He turns his gaze toward the block of ice before her, feeling her magic reaching for and through it. Growling low and deep he sidles next to her, splitting his shoulder open and letting his blood join hers on the floor, the streams of them sliding closer to merge.
“Don’t answer that. Just shut up and focus.”
He closes his eyes, his injured shoulder pressed into her own, the blood smearing across the brilliant purple of her coat. With another wild growl, he pushes his magic forward to join her own, striking through to the heart of the ice block where he can feel something with the semblance of life stuck inside.
But not for much longer.
</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>
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 can feel it, the way she pulls on him or rather <i>them</i>.
He can feel it building slowly over time, starting as small withdrawals and then larger ones. He can feel her starting to pull from more than just her own reserves, tapping into their connection and then his own source of power. At first, he chooses to ignore it. He chooses to let her have it; after all, their magic was a shared thing, a permanent connection between the two no matter how far they should roam.
But soon, today, it becomes more, her exhaustion beginning to creep up the vine and into his heart.
It strikes a rare anger in him and he lifts his heavy head toward the mountain, a scowl darkening the edges of his otherwise handsome face. He has no desire to traipse up the mountainside, has no desire to find out whatever is occupying his dear sister’s time, has no desire to open himself up more to her greedy fingers—putting the well right beneath her nose for her to drain as she wishes. Yet, yet, he can feel the ache in her bones and the need with which she pulls from their magic and he cannot deny he is concerned.
Curious?
Either way, it is enough to rouse him. Enough to get him to his feet, powerful shoulder stained crimson, his emerald eyes glittering and sharp. He takes his time getting to them, using his magic only in small bursts where the path becomes too dangerous to walk. It gives him the time to get better control of his anger, to sort through his emotions, to try and reach out for her mind. He wants to flip through it, to try and understand where she has been, but his path there is just as blocked as his path upward.
Whatever she is dabbling in, she doesn’t want to share.
So perhaps he needed longer because by the time he is by her side, his temper is flaring. His face is wide open and terrible, lips pulled wide into a fierce scowl. “Are you trying to get the both of us killed?” he snarls, barely registering the small child at her side. He turns his gaze toward the block of ice before her, feeling her magic reaching for and through it. Growling low and deep he sidles next to her, splitting his shoulder open and letting his blood join hers on the floor, the streams of them sliding closer to merge.
“Don’t answer that. Just shut up and focus.”
He closes his eyes, his injured shoulder pressed into her own, the blood smearing across the brilliant purple of her coat. With another wild growl, he pushes his magic forward to join her own, striking through to the heart of the ice block where he can feel something with the semblance of life stuck inside.
But not for much longer.
</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>
