11-09-2019, 12:31 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Playfair+Display|Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .brigade_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #28271a; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; min-height: 500px; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .brigade_container p { margin: 0; } .brigade_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .brigade_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; margin-top: -100px; margin-bottom: 20px; background: #00000070; border: solid 2px #252521; box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px 1px #000; } .brigade_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #797971; padding: 24px; line-height: 1.45em; } .brigade_name { font: 50px 'Playfair Display', serif; color: #252521; line-height: 0.8; padding-left: 20px; letter-spacing: 20px; } .brigade_quote { font: 10px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #797971; line-height: 1.5; letter-spacing: 1px; padding: 10px 0 20px 0; } </style> <center> <div class="brigade_container"> <img class="brigade_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/httFVHP6/brigadetwo.png"> <div class="brigade_text"> <p class="brigade_message"> Brigade does not remember dying.
He does not remember what it was like when the life was sucked out of him—when he was left with nothing but the tired ache in his bones and the vision beginning to blur and everything falling away from him. He does not remember when his heart finally gave out. When his body had finally had enough.
He does not remember.
All he knows is that he wakes up and he is somewhere that he does not recognize. He wakes up and it is unlike any other waking that he has done before. His entire body stiffens and he gasps for air that does not come, that does not fill his lungs. His mouth just opens wide and then clamps shut. It is somewhere dark and damp and his brow furrows with confusion because he is not sure how he ended up here.
This is not Sylva, he thinks, because it was the last place he remembered being. Sylva with its ghosts and his endless fury and pain. Sylva where the only friends he had was a mare who had destroyed whatever semblance of happiness he had without blinking and another mare who was desperate to end it all.
Home. Oddly enough.
Sighing without noise, Brigade rolls from his side to his knees and then heaves himself up.
His wings pull tight around him and he swings his antlered head to peer into the darkness as though he expects that something might be there waiting for him—except he is alone and there is no one. There is something like dread curling like smoke in his chest, but it is met with an equally powerful apathy because of course he was going to die. Of course he would not remember how. Of course. Of course.
For a moment, he is unsure of what to do but his body responds before his mind. It simply moves him forward, pressing him into the nearly tangible darkness that folds around his red body. The wine dark of him darkens even more as he continues forward and his eyes never do adjust to what surrounds him.
He just moves because it is the only thing that he can do.
He moves until there is a tiny pinprick of light in front of him. Until the tiny pinprick of light become a bluish glow surrounding things that he does not recognize. He moves at a slightly hurried pace, his dead heart clenching in memory in his chest. He moves until the tiny pinpricks become spectral creatures that are dancing in a way that is almost elegant. One, and then two, and then three of them become clear and he recognizes them as wolves—although they are not the wolves that he grew up with from his father.
And then the larger creature in the middle begins to come into focus.
It’s him.
Brigade pauses, watching as the animals leap around one another. Watching as this ghastly version of him pounds his legs and shakes his antlers and flares his bloodied wings. The blood that drips from this version of him is a glowing blue and it splatters as it hits the darkness before sinking into nothingness.
It is like a dance.
He swallows, unable to look away. Unable to break his concentration as he watches the pack of them close in on him, as he recognizes his own exhaustion in the way that his legs drag against the ground, leaving a trail of light in their wake. Watches as one of the wolf leaps up and finds his own throat and he blinks and suddenly he is that spectral creature and the wolf that is not a wolf is latched onto him.
He hits the ground with a thud and feels the teeth of them sink in.
He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, the wolves are gone.
But he feels the warmth of blood on his throat and he knows—he knows it is red. </p> <p class="brigade_name">BRIGADE</p> <p class="brigade_quote">when I was a man I thought it ended when I knew love's perfect ache <br>but my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake</p> </div> </div> </center>
He does not remember what it was like when the life was sucked out of him—when he was left with nothing but the tired ache in his bones and the vision beginning to blur and everything falling away from him. He does not remember when his heart finally gave out. When his body had finally had enough.
He does not remember.
All he knows is that he wakes up and he is somewhere that he does not recognize. He wakes up and it is unlike any other waking that he has done before. His entire body stiffens and he gasps for air that does not come, that does not fill his lungs. His mouth just opens wide and then clamps shut. It is somewhere dark and damp and his brow furrows with confusion because he is not sure how he ended up here.
This is not Sylva, he thinks, because it was the last place he remembered being. Sylva with its ghosts and his endless fury and pain. Sylva where the only friends he had was a mare who had destroyed whatever semblance of happiness he had without blinking and another mare who was desperate to end it all.
Home. Oddly enough.
Sighing without noise, Brigade rolls from his side to his knees and then heaves himself up.
His wings pull tight around him and he swings his antlered head to peer into the darkness as though he expects that something might be there waiting for him—except he is alone and there is no one. There is something like dread curling like smoke in his chest, but it is met with an equally powerful apathy because of course he was going to die. Of course he would not remember how. Of course. Of course.
For a moment, he is unsure of what to do but his body responds before his mind. It simply moves him forward, pressing him into the nearly tangible darkness that folds around his red body. The wine dark of him darkens even more as he continues forward and his eyes never do adjust to what surrounds him.
He just moves because it is the only thing that he can do.
He moves until there is a tiny pinprick of light in front of him. Until the tiny pinprick of light become a bluish glow surrounding things that he does not recognize. He moves at a slightly hurried pace, his dead heart clenching in memory in his chest. He moves until the tiny pinpricks become spectral creatures that are dancing in a way that is almost elegant. One, and then two, and then three of them become clear and he recognizes them as wolves—although they are not the wolves that he grew up with from his father.
And then the larger creature in the middle begins to come into focus.
It’s him.
Brigade pauses, watching as the animals leap around one another. Watching as this ghastly version of him pounds his legs and shakes his antlers and flares his bloodied wings. The blood that drips from this version of him is a glowing blue and it splatters as it hits the darkness before sinking into nothingness.
It is like a dance.
He swallows, unable to look away. Unable to break his concentration as he watches the pack of them close in on him, as he recognizes his own exhaustion in the way that his legs drag against the ground, leaving a trail of light in their wake. Watches as one of the wolf leaps up and finds his own throat and he blinks and suddenly he is that spectral creature and the wolf that is not a wolf is latched onto him.
He hits the ground with a thud and feels the teeth of them sink in.
He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, the wolves are gone.
But he feels the warmth of blood on his throat and he knows—he knows it is red. </p> <p class="brigade_name">BRIGADE</p> <p class="brigade_quote">when I was a man I thought it ended when I knew love's perfect ache <br>but my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake</p> </div> </div> </center>