01-18-2018, 05:42 PM
<center><link href='http://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Herr+Von+Muellerhoff' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'><div style="width:500px;background-color:#131313;border:25px solid #000000;"><img src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/99/c0/a4/99c0a4a0086c19ae0f1296ac391af13b.jpg"><div style="width:500px;height:18px;padding-top:7px;font:6pt tahoma;color:#8E8E8E;text-transform:uppercase;text-shadow:0px 0px 1px #8E8E8E;letter-spacing:2px;">I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife</div><div style="width:400px;background-color:#8E8E8E;padding:20px 25px 25px 25px;font:9pt times;color:#000000;text-align:justify;border-bottom:25px solid #131313;">
She was alone when it happened.
The expanse of Loess before her had been especially captivating today - the rocky canyons and breathtaking mountain tops lulling her into a kind of stupor. For once, her need to scheme and be busy left her completely - no trace of Ivar or Torture occupied her mind, nor pressing thoughts of recruiting, and the field. Despite her duties as a new diplomat, Trissy found herself in a daze - black eyes both entranced and looking beyond the physical world, seeing, but not.
In this way (seeing, but not), the woman passed from one realm to the other. As when the snow falls upon the grass, so did the scenery around her change - gradually, in a kind of mystical way that left her mind blank and her eyes wide. As again to the snow, the ground under hoof slowly became white and firm, and around her, the details of Loess faded into a forgotten time, a disappeared land.
<i>Trissy,</i> the paper read; a wild, strong-willed scrawl.
Her nostrils flared; that ink stank! Her lips peeled back and bit at the pen-yielding hand, but it retreated too quickly. Then, as she fluffed out her mane in a show of disregard, the realization came:
Paper. Scrawl. Ink. Hand.
How did she know these words?
Ears pressing back angrily, the fiesty Arabian reared up and smashed her hooves into her written name, smudging the ink but ultimately not removing its existence. Squealing at her failure, she ran as if to escape that which labelled her so blatantly, leaving little inky hoof-prints in her wake. The name, however, glided along easily next to her, as if to say: you can't hide from me!
Realizing the impossibility of escape from this strange, stinky and stale place, Trissy pulled up short and looked around her. Other horses were milling about here, too, looking as irritated as she, though some were curious and exploring. Skin twitching in utter discomfort, the little mare squared her legs and raised her head high, sending a sharp look to any who came too near.
<I>Poetry, my ass.</i>
<BR><div style="position:relative;text-align:center;left:100px;font:40pt 'Herr Von Muellerhoff', cursive;color:#1A1A1A;margin-bottom:-50px;text-shadow:1px 0px 0px #8E8E8E;">Trissy</div></div></div><font color=black face=tahoma size=1>html by maat</font></center>
She was alone when it happened.
The expanse of Loess before her had been especially captivating today - the rocky canyons and breathtaking mountain tops lulling her into a kind of stupor. For once, her need to scheme and be busy left her completely - no trace of Ivar or Torture occupied her mind, nor pressing thoughts of recruiting, and the field. Despite her duties as a new diplomat, Trissy found herself in a daze - black eyes both entranced and looking beyond the physical world, seeing, but not.
In this way (seeing, but not), the woman passed from one realm to the other. As when the snow falls upon the grass, so did the scenery around her change - gradually, in a kind of mystical way that left her mind blank and her eyes wide. As again to the snow, the ground under hoof slowly became white and firm, and around her, the details of Loess faded into a forgotten time, a disappeared land.
<i>Trissy,</i> the paper read; a wild, strong-willed scrawl.
Her nostrils flared; that ink stank! Her lips peeled back and bit at the pen-yielding hand, but it retreated too quickly. Then, as she fluffed out her mane in a show of disregard, the realization came:
Paper. Scrawl. Ink. Hand.
How did she know these words?
Ears pressing back angrily, the fiesty Arabian reared up and smashed her hooves into her written name, smudging the ink but ultimately not removing its existence. Squealing at her failure, she ran as if to escape that which labelled her so blatantly, leaving little inky hoof-prints in her wake. The name, however, glided along easily next to her, as if to say: you can't hide from me!
Realizing the impossibility of escape from this strange, stinky and stale place, Trissy pulled up short and looked around her. Other horses were milling about here, too, looking as irritated as she, though some were curious and exploring. Skin twitching in utter discomfort, the little mare squared her legs and raised her head high, sending a sharp look to any who came too near.
<I>Poetry, my ass.</i>
<BR><div style="position:relative;text-align:center;left:100px;font:40pt 'Herr Von Muellerhoff', cursive;color:#1A1A1A;margin-bottom:-50px;text-shadow:1px 0px 0px #8E8E8E;">Trissy</div></div></div><font color=black face=tahoma size=1>html by maat</font></center>