04-16-2019, 11:27 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Mrs+Saint+Delafield|Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .sochi3_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #1f2021; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; min-height: 500px; border: solid 3px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .sochi3_container p { margin: 0; } .sochi3_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .sochi3_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; width: 100%; text-align: center; top: 450px; right: 10px; font: 130px 'Mrs Saint Delafield', cursive; color: #d3ceca; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #000; } .sochi3_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; background: #000000bf; border-top: solid 1px #d3ceca; margin-top: -350px; margin-bottom: 10px; } .sochi3_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #d3ceca; padding: 0px 30px; line-height: 1.45em; } .sochi3_quote { width: 100%; text-align: center; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; color: #3f5663; letter-spacing: 1px; padding: 30px 0px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 10px #000; } </style> <center> <div class="sochi3_container"> <div class="sochi3_name">Sochi</div> <img class="sochi3_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/7ZwrPdKc/sochi.png"> <div class="sochi3_text"> <p class="sochi3_quote">darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied <br>maybe you need me or maybe you don't</p> <p class="sochi3_message"> She doesn’t fight because she loves this home.
She has no particular ties to the land, no deep-seated loyalty to Beqanna itself and perhaps that makes her a traitor, but she cannot stop the way that she feels. Instead, she fights for her child. She fights for the man she loves—even if she cannot admit it yet. She fights because it is the path before her, and she has always been one to put her head down and fight through it. Whether it is swimming to the depths of the ocean, cursing Carnage every step of the way, or plunging forward to sink her teeth into the throat of a man she doesn’t know, or learning to serve a kingdom even though she has never had interest in such things.
But it doesn’t matter.
He reasons are meaningless.
Because regardless of what is around her and what is to come, she is to see this through. So when the mountain begins to shake, when the ground begins to growl and rumble and tear apart, she is quick to lunge forward. She doesn’t overthink it, she just reacts—her back legs gathering beneath her and throwing her forward as the world turns upside down and everything begins to plunge inward.
She tries to call on the tiger—because such things are easier when in such a form—but it doesn’t come. She tries again—and, again, she feels resistance. For a moment, she feels absolute panic. She feels it settle into her bones, this feeling of being trapped. She coughs and blood floods her mouth. It’s escalating quicker than an average disease has any right to spread, but she knows that this is no normal disease.
But it doesn’t matter.
She can’t stop.
So she fights around the panic rising in her. She fights against the fear that grips her—the feeling that she has run from for so long now—and she lets it settle into her belly. She accepts the rhythms of it and tries to harness it into adrenaline to keep moving forward past the fatigue and weakness.
She tries to find the path and she stumbles down it, feeling her body morph in increasing alien ways. First, she feels her teeth stretch into their feline curves and then snap back into place. Then, she feels her tail grow muscular before flowing out with hair once more. Her hair ripples into ivory and orange and onyx before settling back into its familiar smoky black. It is painful, when her transitions have never hurt before, and she growls in her throat, clenching her jaw against the sickness and the rebelling of her body.
But she doesn’t stop.
She continues forward, coughing with rattling lungs. She continues and the vision before her comes in and out of focus. It is the heart of the mountain and then it is the heart of Pangea with its sickly green glow. Then it is Loess and she is blinking into the sunlight. It is all of them, none of them.
She cries out, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the core of it and stumbles forward. Her mind nearly splits trying to hold this moment with her efforts in raising Pangea. He body nearly splits too, and when she looks down, she sees the legs of the tiger. She knows what to do. Of course, she does.
It is what she did to help bring about this damn disease.
And now she needs to be the counterweight to it.
For dust thou art—
She screams when she rips at her chest again, as her claws dig into the tattoo that runs jagged across her flesh. It is throaty and marked with the hoarse signs of her disease. She screams as the blood runs thick and syrupy down her chest and she falls to her knees. Her silvery, mercurial eyes close and she begins to murmur beneath her breath. Prayers, promises, threats—it doesn’t matter. Because she doesn’t stop.
—and unto dust shalt thou return. </p> <p class="sochi3_quote">playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons <br>if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf</p> </div> </div> </center>
She has no particular ties to the land, no deep-seated loyalty to Beqanna itself and perhaps that makes her a traitor, but she cannot stop the way that she feels. Instead, she fights for her child. She fights for the man she loves—even if she cannot admit it yet. She fights because it is the path before her, and she has always been one to put her head down and fight through it. Whether it is swimming to the depths of the ocean, cursing Carnage every step of the way, or plunging forward to sink her teeth into the throat of a man she doesn’t know, or learning to serve a kingdom even though she has never had interest in such things.
But it doesn’t matter.
He reasons are meaningless.
Because regardless of what is around her and what is to come, she is to see this through. So when the mountain begins to shake, when the ground begins to growl and rumble and tear apart, she is quick to lunge forward. She doesn’t overthink it, she just reacts—her back legs gathering beneath her and throwing her forward as the world turns upside down and everything begins to plunge inward.
She tries to call on the tiger—because such things are easier when in such a form—but it doesn’t come. She tries again—and, again, she feels resistance. For a moment, she feels absolute panic. She feels it settle into her bones, this feeling of being trapped. She coughs and blood floods her mouth. It’s escalating quicker than an average disease has any right to spread, but she knows that this is no normal disease.
But it doesn’t matter.
She can’t stop.
So she fights around the panic rising in her. She fights against the fear that grips her—the feeling that she has run from for so long now—and she lets it settle into her belly. She accepts the rhythms of it and tries to harness it into adrenaline to keep moving forward past the fatigue and weakness.
She tries to find the path and she stumbles down it, feeling her body morph in increasing alien ways. First, she feels her teeth stretch into their feline curves and then snap back into place. Then, she feels her tail grow muscular before flowing out with hair once more. Her hair ripples into ivory and orange and onyx before settling back into its familiar smoky black. It is painful, when her transitions have never hurt before, and she growls in her throat, clenching her jaw against the sickness and the rebelling of her body.
But she doesn’t stop.
She continues forward, coughing with rattling lungs. She continues and the vision before her comes in and out of focus. It is the heart of the mountain and then it is the heart of Pangea with its sickly green glow. Then it is Loess and she is blinking into the sunlight. It is all of them, none of them.
She cries out, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the core of it and stumbles forward. Her mind nearly splits trying to hold this moment with her efforts in raising Pangea. He body nearly splits too, and when she looks down, she sees the legs of the tiger. She knows what to do. Of course, she does.
It is what she did to help bring about this damn disease.
And now she needs to be the counterweight to it.
For dust thou art—
She screams when she rips at her chest again, as her claws dig into the tattoo that runs jagged across her flesh. It is throaty and marked with the hoarse signs of her disease. She screams as the blood runs thick and syrupy down her chest and she falls to her knees. Her silvery, mercurial eyes close and she begins to murmur beneath her breath. Prayers, promises, threats—it doesn’t matter. Because she doesn’t stop.
—and unto dust shalt thou return. </p> <p class="sochi3_quote">playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons <br>if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf</p> </div> </div> </center>
![[Image: sochi.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/rs3xFJR0/sochi.png)
I was less than graceful, I was not kind
be out watching other lovers lose their spine