10-24-2018, 10:07 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Allura|Jaldi' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .bright_container {width: 550px; border: solid 1px #000; background-color: #22211F; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px black; } .bright_text {width: 500px; background-color: #99AD8A; border-radius: 50px 50px 0 0; margin-top: -95px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px black; } .bright_container p { margin: 0; } .bright_image {height:800px;width:550px; background-image:url('https://s26.postimg.cc/bhvjotyrd/bright.jpg');} .bright_message { text-align: justify; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 0px 35px; color: #262722; } .bright_name { font: 80px 'Allura', cursive; color: #414234; text-align: center; } .bright_quote { font: 11px 'Jaldi', serif; color: #414234; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 1.1em; letter-spacing: 1px; padding-top: 20px; } .bright_grad-bg {width: 550px; height: 300px; background: -moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(34,33,31,0) 0%, rgba(34,33,31,1) 100%); background: -webkit-gradient(linear, left top, left bottom, color-stop(0%,rgba(34,33,31,0)), color-stop(100%,rgba(34,33,31,1))); background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(34,33,31,0) 0%,rgba(34,33,31,1) 100%); background: -o-linear-gradient(top, rgba(34,33,31,0) 0%,rgba(34,33,31,1) 100%); background: -ms-linear-gradient(top, rgba(34,33,31,0) 0%,rgba(34,33,31,1) 100%); background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(34,33,31,0) 0%,rgba(34,33,31,1) 100%); filter: progid
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#0022211f', endColorstr='#22211f',GradientType=0 ); margin-top:-300px;} </style> <center> <div class="bright_container"><div class="bright_image"></div><div class="bright_grad-bg"></div><div class="bright_text"> <p class="bright_quote">with her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean <br>she's the angel of small death and the codeine scene</p> <p class="bright_message">
She is not as keen as she once was - has been dulled by exhaustion, distracted with a magic she pours into the boy at her side and the small girl within the glacial rock. Ruan kept the child safe from the world outside, the beasts carved from fire and sent to kill them, but it is Bright who allows her to sleep in the frozen tomb like a hibernating reptile. Bright who keeps the blood in her veins from narrowing into shards aimed at her heart. She does it for <i>him</i>, though she does not know why.
<i>Doesn’t she, though?</i>
But it means she does not feel Woolf until he is there beside her with his temper lit and burning like a match. She is ill-prepared for the rush of emotion that <i>tries</i> to thread through her veins and tie her nerves in wicked, useless tangles. <i>“No,”</i> she tells him, and her voice is a snarl, wicked and ruined only by the smile that creeps across her lips, <i>“just you would be fine.”</i> But they both know that isn’t how this works, that her life is tethered to his, and his to hers. There cannot be just one of them. Nor should there be. Ever.
God, and how he just moves to her side in acceptance of whatever it is she spends their magic on. There’s a beat where she wants to reach out and brush her nose against his neck, a moment where she wants to rediscover how much of him is still hers. But he is so focused - busy trying to stay alive, she thinks with a flash of sharp amusement - so she lets him be. Just silently accepts the heat of his shoulder, the damp warmth of the blood he darkens her skin with.
Her Woolf.
She can feel the moment the magic changes, like a river of strength redirected into her - magic she had taken forcefully, now given freely. It swells inside her, a high she does not try to resist, a tide she is readily swept away by. She pulls it inside her, lets it tangle in her veins as their blood now does on the ground beneath their feet. He is power, so much power, but she is the shape it needs in this, the one who gives them direction. She is so consumed by it that she does not even notice the tiny tongue struggling to stem the blood that now flows so freely from her. There is nothing her boy can do, though, no way to make it stop until they have finished and her - no, not hers - until the wolf king is out is his self-imprisonment.
Ohh, but he fights them, thrashes hard against the magic they direct into him and there is some part of her that balks, hesitates. She does not <i>want</i> to force him against his will, does not want to <i>make</i> him do anything he has not chosen for himself. But he has chosen this, she can feel it. Can see the way the water sweats from the glacier when he stops storming at them. Can feel, too, the way he curls around his daughter, now collapsed and safely unconscious at his feet when he melts the heart for them. She isn’t like him, does not have this winter in her veins like he does, cannot sustain in such a place. Not without Bright, not with out the magic he is suddenly forcing back at her. At them, because she is trying to force him.
She curses, pins her ears and snakes her head low in frustration. It won’t matter that they are stronger than he is if he emerges a fractured man, ruined by a will so forcefully broken.
<i>But he wants this, she can feel it.</i>
Her magic reshapes, digging even deeper than before, and she can feel the toll it takes on her, feel the way she sways into her brothers side. <i>Ruan,</i> she tries, packing all of her strange, new emotion into that single thought, that single word, into him, <i>I need you here.</i> And it is a command, it is still all their magic forced past his barriers, forced into him in the shape of the ache in Soldat’s heart, in the need of hers (though she tries to hide that from Woolf, tries not to let him see that the man in there matters to her now, in some strange small way she cannot ignore). It is all the ability she has left to reason with him, the last thing she can offer him before they rip him from the tomb he hides in.
</p><p class="bright_name">bright</p></div></div></center>
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#0022211f', endColorstr='#22211f',GradientType=0 ); margin-top:-300px;} </style> <center> <div class="bright_container"><div class="bright_image"></div><div class="bright_grad-bg"></div><div class="bright_text"> <p class="bright_quote">with her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean <br>she's the angel of small death and the codeine scene</p> <p class="bright_message"> She is not as keen as she once was - has been dulled by exhaustion, distracted with a magic she pours into the boy at her side and the small girl within the glacial rock. Ruan kept the child safe from the world outside, the beasts carved from fire and sent to kill them, but it is Bright who allows her to sleep in the frozen tomb like a hibernating reptile. Bright who keeps the blood in her veins from narrowing into shards aimed at her heart. She does it for <i>him</i>, though she does not know why.
<i>Doesn’t she, though?</i>
But it means she does not feel Woolf until he is there beside her with his temper lit and burning like a match. She is ill-prepared for the rush of emotion that <i>tries</i> to thread through her veins and tie her nerves in wicked, useless tangles. <i>“No,”</i> she tells him, and her voice is a snarl, wicked and ruined only by the smile that creeps across her lips, <i>“just you would be fine.”</i> But they both know that isn’t how this works, that her life is tethered to his, and his to hers. There cannot be just one of them. Nor should there be. Ever.
God, and how he just moves to her side in acceptance of whatever it is she spends their magic on. There’s a beat where she wants to reach out and brush her nose against his neck, a moment where she wants to rediscover how much of him is still hers. But he is so focused - busy trying to stay alive, she thinks with a flash of sharp amusement - so she lets him be. Just silently accepts the heat of his shoulder, the damp warmth of the blood he darkens her skin with.
Her Woolf.
She can feel the moment the magic changes, like a river of strength redirected into her - magic she had taken forcefully, now given freely. It swells inside her, a high she does not try to resist, a tide she is readily swept away by. She pulls it inside her, lets it tangle in her veins as their blood now does on the ground beneath their feet. He is power, so much power, but she is the shape it needs in this, the one who gives them direction. She is so consumed by it that she does not even notice the tiny tongue struggling to stem the blood that now flows so freely from her. There is nothing her boy can do, though, no way to make it stop until they have finished and her - no, not hers - until the wolf king is out is his self-imprisonment.
Ohh, but he fights them, thrashes hard against the magic they direct into him and there is some part of her that balks, hesitates. She does not <i>want</i> to force him against his will, does not want to <i>make</i> him do anything he has not chosen for himself. But he has chosen this, she can feel it. Can see the way the water sweats from the glacier when he stops storming at them. Can feel, too, the way he curls around his daughter, now collapsed and safely unconscious at his feet when he melts the heart for them. She isn’t like him, does not have this winter in her veins like he does, cannot sustain in such a place. Not without Bright, not with out the magic he is suddenly forcing back at her. At them, because she is trying to force him.
She curses, pins her ears and snakes her head low in frustration. It won’t matter that they are stronger than he is if he emerges a fractured man, ruined by a will so forcefully broken.
<i>But he wants this, she can feel it.</i>
Her magic reshapes, digging even deeper than before, and she can feel the toll it takes on her, feel the way she sways into her brothers side. <i>Ruan,</i> she tries, packing all of her strange, new emotion into that single thought, that single word, into him, <i>I need you here.</i> And it is a command, it is still all their magic forced past his barriers, forced into him in the shape of the ache in Soldat’s heart, in the need of hers (though she tries to hide that from Woolf, tries not to let him see that the man in there matters to her now, in some strange small way she cannot ignore). It is all the ability she has left to reason with him, the last thing she can offer him before they rip him from the tomb he hides in.
</p><p class="bright_name">bright</p></div></div></center>