01-03-2020, 10:46 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Roboto+Condensed:400,700' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .atrox_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #fefefe; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .atrox_container p { margin: 0; } .atrox_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .atrox_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; margin-top: 0px; } .atrox_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #000; padding: 35px; } .atrox_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; color: #fff; font: 10px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; line-height: 0.8; bottom: 330px; right: 115px; letter-spacing: 1px; } .atrox_quote { font: 10px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: center; color: #000; padding-top: 40px; letter-spacing: 1px; }</style> <center> <div class="atrox_container"> <div class="atrox_text"> <p class="atrox_quote">hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive</p> <p class="atrox_message"> Atrox was getting sick of being taken places against his will, whether conscious or not.
He hears that strange call, that thrill beneath his skin, and he breathes it in deep—drawing the air down into his lungs. Then before he can make up his mind, or even begin to decipher the nature of the call, he feels himself shimmer in place. He curses beneath his breath before he even opens his eyes because he knows, he knows that he has once again found himself at the mercy of the faeries, of Beqanna herself.
The curse becomes a snarl when he finally does open his eyes and realizes where he has landed.
The Plains.
For all of the wars that has he fought, all of the raids he has led, he has not spent much time here. He never participated in the Alliance and never had a reason to spill blood here, but the doesn’t stop him from knowing that which drenches the earth. He knows this land because he is made of it. The scream of the dying. The guttural cries of the vanquished. It’s as much a part of him as the pine forests once had been.
Yet—
And yet.
The kinship that he feels with the blood-soaked earth does not override his fury at being dropped here. The wind whips around him, practically through him as it tangles his heavy mane even further, and it is then that he realizes that he has been stripped clean. He doesn’t care that he can no longer pull on the threads of the afterlife, yanking in souls on a whim, but to lose the panther? That feels unthinkable. That leaves him feeling emptier than when he had first opened his eyes to find himself without a pulse.
His yellow gaze flicks forward, his instincts going on high alert as everything clicks into place. He sees the large stone that rises before him. Furious he stalks forward to inspect them further, vision obscured by the red dust and clay that rise around them. When he gets close enough, he sees them for what they are—the way they are covered with wings and horns and there is a sudden understanding, a stone in his chest.
A fire in his belly.
Wings had their place, he knew. He had seen plenty use them to their advantage and were perhaps the wiser of the choices, but they were largely a defensive weapon. Atrox had never been defensive. He was a brutish fighter, a brawler, and he knows instantly that they will not be his weapon of choice. His gaze flicks to the darker stone and he steps forward, taking a deep breath before reaching out and touching it.
It is much like when the panther first settled into him, although this feels much less natural. This was like borrowing a coat and not slipping into a second skin and he grunts as he feels the weight settle onto the crown of his head. So be it, he thinks, taking a step back and straightening. He cannot see them, but he knows that the strange feeling is due to the wicked horns that now curve from both sides of his head, starting as nearly ivory where they are planted and deepening at the vicious edge into a depthless onyx.
He settles his weight, snorts, and continues to look around.
Something was coming.
He was ready. </p> </div> <div class="atrox_name">ATROX | <b>THE PANTHER KING</b></div> <img class="atrox_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/VNR4hxCt/atrox.png"> </div> </center>
Atrox is from Hyaline. He acquired Spanish bull horns.
He hears that strange call, that thrill beneath his skin, and he breathes it in deep—drawing the air down into his lungs. Then before he can make up his mind, or even begin to decipher the nature of the call, he feels himself shimmer in place. He curses beneath his breath before he even opens his eyes because he knows, he knows that he has once again found himself at the mercy of the faeries, of Beqanna herself.
The curse becomes a snarl when he finally does open his eyes and realizes where he has landed.
The Plains.
For all of the wars that has he fought, all of the raids he has led, he has not spent much time here. He never participated in the Alliance and never had a reason to spill blood here, but the doesn’t stop him from knowing that which drenches the earth. He knows this land because he is made of it. The scream of the dying. The guttural cries of the vanquished. It’s as much a part of him as the pine forests once had been.
Yet—
And yet.
The kinship that he feels with the blood-soaked earth does not override his fury at being dropped here. The wind whips around him, practically through him as it tangles his heavy mane even further, and it is then that he realizes that he has been stripped clean. He doesn’t care that he can no longer pull on the threads of the afterlife, yanking in souls on a whim, but to lose the panther? That feels unthinkable. That leaves him feeling emptier than when he had first opened his eyes to find himself without a pulse.
His yellow gaze flicks forward, his instincts going on high alert as everything clicks into place. He sees the large stone that rises before him. Furious he stalks forward to inspect them further, vision obscured by the red dust and clay that rise around them. When he gets close enough, he sees them for what they are—the way they are covered with wings and horns and there is a sudden understanding, a stone in his chest.
A fire in his belly.
Wings had their place, he knew. He had seen plenty use them to their advantage and were perhaps the wiser of the choices, but they were largely a defensive weapon. Atrox had never been defensive. He was a brutish fighter, a brawler, and he knows instantly that they will not be his weapon of choice. His gaze flicks to the darker stone and he steps forward, taking a deep breath before reaching out and touching it.
It is much like when the panther first settled into him, although this feels much less natural. This was like borrowing a coat and not slipping into a second skin and he grunts as he feels the weight settle onto the crown of his head. So be it, he thinks, taking a step back and straightening. He cannot see them, but he knows that the strange feeling is due to the wicked horns that now curve from both sides of his head, starting as nearly ivory where they are planted and deepening at the vicious edge into a depthless onyx.
He settles his weight, snorts, and continues to look around.
Something was coming.
He was ready. </p> </div> <div class="atrox_name">ATROX | <b>THE PANTHER KING</b></div> <img class="atrox_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/VNR4hxCt/atrox.png"> </div> </center>
Atrox is from Hyaline. He acquired Spanish bull horns.
![[Image: atrox.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/XBppy9VY/atrox.png)
now be defiant, the lion, give them the fight that will open their eyes