06-03-2020, 09:02 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .firion_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #0d1417; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 5px #2e404d; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .firion_container p { margin: 0; } .firion_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .firion_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; border-left: 1px solid #243035; margin-top: 20px; margin-bottom: -300px; border: 1px solid #243035; background: #0D1417; } .firion_quote { font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-align: left; color: #2e404d; padding: 10px; border-bottom: 1px solid #2e404d; letter-spacing: 0.5px; } .firion_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #434952; padding: 20px; } .firion_quotetwo { font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-align: right; color: #2e404d; padding: 10px; border-top: 1px solid #2e404d; letter-spacing: 0.5px; } </style> <center> <div class="firion_container"> <div class="firion_text"> <p class="firion_quote">that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried</p> <p class="firion_message"> Firion has not been alive long enough to know when things are odd.
To know when there is a change in the tide, a shift in the winds. He simply knows the things that make him a boy—that make him alive. He knows the way that the water tastes sweet on his tongue and the way it feels to sleep underneath the wide open expanse of the Hyaline sky. He knows the simple pleasures of life, as any young boy should. His father had even taken a sporadic interest in him—teaching him the way of the predator. It struck him as odd how he would sometimes find Atrox’s sharp eyes on him, sometimes almost thoughtful as if trying to pick at something under his skin, but never dwelled on it.
Today though. Today rises him early and brings him to the edge of the Mountain.
Leaves him there standing with his head tilted back and his wide, gold eyes curious.
Leaves him feeling a strange strike of sorrow, a weight that settles on him.
When the wind whips across him, when the dust strikes his eyes and finds his lungs, he has no word for it. Does not understand the sudden bitterness on his tongue or the agony that begins to scream through his veins. He does not understand the burning, searing pain across his spine. The cracking of his marrow.
He takes a deep breath and tastes something like the copper of his own blood on the back of his tongue but he does not know why. He frowns, his mouth creasing in the corners, and takes a step back.
Something different, but he does not know what. Something is wrong, but he does not know why. The day stretches long before him and, behind it, the night—and, with it, answers he should never have wanted. </p> <p class="firion_quotetwo">so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried</p> </div> <img class="firion_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/SQJBb2f8/firion.png"> </div> </center>
Claiming Cursed for Firion because he should not have nice things.
To know when there is a change in the tide, a shift in the winds. He simply knows the things that make him a boy—that make him alive. He knows the way that the water tastes sweet on his tongue and the way it feels to sleep underneath the wide open expanse of the Hyaline sky. He knows the simple pleasures of life, as any young boy should. His father had even taken a sporadic interest in him—teaching him the way of the predator. It struck him as odd how he would sometimes find Atrox’s sharp eyes on him, sometimes almost thoughtful as if trying to pick at something under his skin, but never dwelled on it.
Today though. Today rises him early and brings him to the edge of the Mountain.
Leaves him there standing with his head tilted back and his wide, gold eyes curious.
Leaves him feeling a strange strike of sorrow, a weight that settles on him.
When the wind whips across him, when the dust strikes his eyes and finds his lungs, he has no word for it. Does not understand the sudden bitterness on his tongue or the agony that begins to scream through his veins. He does not understand the burning, searing pain across his spine. The cracking of his marrow.
He takes a deep breath and tastes something like the copper of his own blood on the back of his tongue but he does not know why. He frowns, his mouth creasing in the corners, and takes a step back.
Something different, but he does not know what. Something is wrong, but he does not know why. The day stretches long before him and, behind it, the night—and, with it, answers he should never have wanted. </p> <p class="firion_quotetwo">so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried</p> </div> <img class="firion_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/SQJBb2f8/firion.png"> </div> </center>
Claiming Cursed for Firion because he should not have nice things.