10-23-2018, 05:33 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Parisienne|Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .glassheart_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 500px; border: solid 1px #000; background-color: #140606; border-radius: 200px 200px 0 0; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .glassheart_grad-bg { z-index: 2; position: absolute; top: 550px; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 200px; background: -moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(20, 6, 6, 0) 0%, rgba(20, 6, 6, 0.75) 51%, rgba(20, 6, 6, 1) 100%); background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(20, 6, 6, 0) 0%, rgba(20, 6, 6, 0.75) 51%, rgba(20, 6, 6, 1) 100%); background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(20, 6, 6, 0) 0%, rgba(20, 6, 6, 0.75) 51%, rgba(20, 6, 6, 1) 100%); filter: progid
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient(startColorstr='#00140606', endColorstr='#140606', GradientType=0); } .glassheart_image { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 500px; border-radius: 200px 200px 0 0; } .glassheart_text { position: relative; z-index: 3; width: 490px; background-color: #c9ccce; margin-top: -200px; border-top: solid 10px #556671; border-left: solid 1px #556671; border-right: solid 1px #556671; } .glassheart_container p { margin: 0; } .glassheart_message { text-align: justify; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 30px; color: #333535; } .glassheart_quote { text-align: center; font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-top: 2px; padding-left: 35px; letter-spacing: 2px; color: #556671; } .glassheart_name { font: 60px 'Parisienne', cursive; color: #556671; width: 55%; line-height: 0.4em; border-bottom: dotted 1px; } </style> <center> <div class="glassheart_container"> <img class="glassheart_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/63wZwjyX/Glassheart.jpg"> <div class="glassheart_grad-bg"></div> <div class="glassheart_text"> <p class="glassheart_message"> His knife doesn’t need to find her.
She’s dying, already, tangling blood with water until the horse she rides is red with it. They only make it to a small hazel along the shoreline before it wavers, and as it begins to dismantle it looks as though its falling to its knees. As it collapses it turns, so she is facing once again the enemies that she flees (a last ditch effort to give her the advantage, perhaps, though it will be of no use today), sending out a wild spray of river water before she is left beached in the dirt.
She cries out, in anguish or defeat she isn’t sure, and that’s when the knife finds her. It sinks straight through the middle of her ribs, halves her heart into two pieces, and all that she can bring herself to do is clutch the handle of the blade out of reflex alone.
This is the end, she thinks.
And this time it is.
A kaleidoscope of memories hit her then. She sees everything that Spyndle knew as though it were a highlight reel. She sees the beginning, the cave, the ruin, the birth of her mother. She sees the way that Spyndle’s wings sprouted from nothing so that she could find a way to leave the mountain cave, how she never looked back. She sees the slanted willow, and the river that violently met the ocean. She sees the end.
She lays flat across the damp ground, and as the magic spills from her body with the blood she is losing the earth around her glows a soft blue as though it is mourning. The gentle webbing between her fingers recedes, as do the gills, and her tail turns back into a set of fragile, pink legs. Before she loses consciousness she thinks she can see Spyndle again, standing just in her peripheral; gold, and beautiful, and tragic.
“Not yet,” she thinks she can hear her say, but the static is so loud now.
“It’s not time.”
The frozen spire collapses in on itself, and the ice along the river melts. The bodies are swallowed by the water, like they were never there at all. ‘Not yet,’ she repeats in her mind as a single tear rolls down her right cheek. But death disagrees and her whole body quivers, and her eyes softly flutter in a way that isn’t haunting, or grotesque - just sad - and then, then she is gone.
(A river. A mermaid. A hazel.)
(A bloodied shoreline. A sunset. A beacon.)
</p> <p class="glassheart_name">Glassheart</p> <p class="glassheart_quote">i'll always love you the most </p> </div> </div> </center>
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient(startColorstr='#00140606', endColorstr='#140606', GradientType=0); } .glassheart_image { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 500px; border-radius: 200px 200px 0 0; } .glassheart_text { position: relative; z-index: 3; width: 490px; background-color: #c9ccce; margin-top: -200px; border-top: solid 10px #556671; border-left: solid 1px #556671; border-right: solid 1px #556671; } .glassheart_container p { margin: 0; } .glassheart_message { text-align: justify; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 30px; color: #333535; } .glassheart_quote { text-align: center; font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-top: 2px; padding-left: 35px; letter-spacing: 2px; color: #556671; } .glassheart_name { font: 60px 'Parisienne', cursive; color: #556671; width: 55%; line-height: 0.4em; border-bottom: dotted 1px; } </style> <center> <div class="glassheart_container"> <img class="glassheart_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/63wZwjyX/Glassheart.jpg"> <div class="glassheart_grad-bg"></div> <div class="glassheart_text"> <p class="glassheart_message"> His knife doesn’t need to find her.She’s dying, already, tangling blood with water until the horse she rides is red with it. They only make it to a small hazel along the shoreline before it wavers, and as it begins to dismantle it looks as though its falling to its knees. As it collapses it turns, so she is facing once again the enemies that she flees (a last ditch effort to give her the advantage, perhaps, though it will be of no use today), sending out a wild spray of river water before she is left beached in the dirt.
She cries out, in anguish or defeat she isn’t sure, and that’s when the knife finds her. It sinks straight through the middle of her ribs, halves her heart into two pieces, and all that she can bring herself to do is clutch the handle of the blade out of reflex alone.
This is the end, she thinks.
And this time it is.
A kaleidoscope of memories hit her then. She sees everything that Spyndle knew as though it were a highlight reel. She sees the beginning, the cave, the ruin, the birth of her mother. She sees the way that Spyndle’s wings sprouted from nothing so that she could find a way to leave the mountain cave, how she never looked back. She sees the slanted willow, and the river that violently met the ocean. She sees the end.
She lays flat across the damp ground, and as the magic spills from her body with the blood she is losing the earth around her glows a soft blue as though it is mourning. The gentle webbing between her fingers recedes, as do the gills, and her tail turns back into a set of fragile, pink legs. Before she loses consciousness she thinks she can see Spyndle again, standing just in her peripheral; gold, and beautiful, and tragic.
“Not yet,” she thinks she can hear her say, but the static is so loud now.
“It’s not time.”
The frozen spire collapses in on itself, and the ice along the river melts. The bodies are swallowed by the water, like they were never there at all. ‘Not yet,’ she repeats in her mind as a single tear rolls down her right cheek. But death disagrees and her whole body quivers, and her eyes softly flutter in a way that isn’t haunting, or grotesque - just sad - and then, then she is gone.
(A river. A mermaid. A hazel.)
(A bloodied shoreline. A sunset. A beacon.)
</p> <p class="glassheart_name">Glassheart</p> <p class="glassheart_quote">i'll always love you the most </p> </div> </div> </center>