11-11-2020, 09:13 PM
<div style="background:linear-gradient(to bottom,rgba(0,0,0,0)300px,rgba(0,0,0,1)500px),url('https://i.pinimg.com/originals/4c/0d/89/4c0d897d2abcdc865788415f66cf90ac.jpg') top no-repeat;width:450px;margin:auto;border:1px solid #000;padding:275px 10px 0px 10px;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #000,0px 0px 10px #000;"><div style="font:63px georgia;color:rgba(256,256,256,0.12);text-align:center;letter-spacing:60px;padding:0px 0px 30px 50px;text-shadow:0px 0px 15px #000;">WILT</div><div style="color:#666;font:16px times new roman;padding:25px 10px 10px 10px;text-align:justify;border:3px double #eee;border-radius:35%/35px 35px 0px 0px;border-bottom:0px;border-top:0px;">In a sudden whirl of smoke all around him, he is transported. He coughs and his eyes water enough that he doesn’t quite notice whenever the black haze clears. All Wilt knows is that the sudden quiet is eerie. His ears perk and turn this way and that as he studies his surroundings: unsaturated, muted, and suffocating in their wrongness. The creature flexes his magic to raise roots to guard him, but he finds nothing to answer his call. The things here are all dead and they refuse to return to life once more. Is this the afterlife, then?
He takes a step back and tilts his head. Something laughs from all around him, its voice echoing over itself like a horrible choir. Wilt bristles and gnashes his pointed teeth. He cannot manipulate the plants around him, but the flytraps and pitcher plants that are one with him all stir and snap alongside him.
The laughter cuts itself off abruptly. Something is coming near, from behind him? He spins to meet them and prepares to lunge, but there is nothing there now. Wilt hurries forward as he decides he will not wait to become prey to some vile thing that plays games. He will find them first and rend the meat from their carcass. He tells himself this, and then he feels angry claws tear into his hindleg. He yelps in pain while the flytraps all reach and bite for their assailant, yet they close on nothing.
She’s too quick.
Limping now, he turns and bares his teeth at the aggressor. There, beneath the pale moonlight, is the first woman he killed - or so he thought. Sochi smiles with the smear of his blood across her teeth and rage engulfs him. Wilt surges toward her despite the burning agony in his leg and he takes her by the throat, tossing his head so her body flails like a ragdoll. He doesn’t stop until she gives up the fight and goes limp, just like before.
Then he drops her. And she gets right back up.
He snaps his teeth across her face and destroys whatever beauty she had before. Wilt mangles the fine curve of her jaw, the sharp angle of her brow. He takes those gorgeous silver eyes and he devours them. Then, at last, he drops her to the ground again.
And she gets right back up.
She takes a step toward him. Her blood oozes black from the pits where her eyes used to be. Her broken jaw is a fountain of midnight colored pus. He takes a step back and she follows with two of her own, then a third, again and again until she is leaping at him with her claws outstretched. Wilt shrieks and cries out as she tackles him to the dry dirt. Sochi says nothing, does nothing then. She just lets all that bile pour over his face until it’s all he can see or smell or taste. It forces its way down his throat as he chokes and gasps, his consciousness dwindling.
And then, quite suddenly, he is sputtering on the ground in front of the shadow creature. He is as he was, though certainly less sure of himself.</div></div>
He takes a step back and tilts his head. Something laughs from all around him, its voice echoing over itself like a horrible choir. Wilt bristles and gnashes his pointed teeth. He cannot manipulate the plants around him, but the flytraps and pitcher plants that are one with him all stir and snap alongside him.
The laughter cuts itself off abruptly. Something is coming near, from behind him? He spins to meet them and prepares to lunge, but there is nothing there now. Wilt hurries forward as he decides he will not wait to become prey to some vile thing that plays games. He will find them first and rend the meat from their carcass. He tells himself this, and then he feels angry claws tear into his hindleg. He yelps in pain while the flytraps all reach and bite for their assailant, yet they close on nothing.
She’s too quick.
Limping now, he turns and bares his teeth at the aggressor. There, beneath the pale moonlight, is the first woman he killed - or so he thought. Sochi smiles with the smear of his blood across her teeth and rage engulfs him. Wilt surges toward her despite the burning agony in his leg and he takes her by the throat, tossing his head so her body flails like a ragdoll. He doesn’t stop until she gives up the fight and goes limp, just like before.
Then he drops her. And she gets right back up.
He snaps his teeth across her face and destroys whatever beauty she had before. Wilt mangles the fine curve of her jaw, the sharp angle of her brow. He takes those gorgeous silver eyes and he devours them. Then, at last, he drops her to the ground again.
And she gets right back up.
She takes a step toward him. Her blood oozes black from the pits where her eyes used to be. Her broken jaw is a fountain of midnight colored pus. He takes a step back and she follows with two of her own, then a third, again and again until she is leaping at him with her claws outstretched. Wilt shrieks and cries out as she tackles him to the dry dirt. Sochi says nothing, does nothing then. She just lets all that bile pour over his face until it’s all he can see or smell or taste. It forces its way down his throat as he chokes and gasps, his consciousness dwindling.
And then, quite suddenly, he is sputtering on the ground in front of the shadow creature. He is as he was, though certainly less sure of himself.</div></div>