06-02-2020, 11:18 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Baloo+Tamma+2|Dr+Sugiyama&display=swap" rel="stylesheet"><style type="text/css">.shipka_container{position:relative;z-index:1;width:500px;height:800px;background-image:url("https://i.postimg.cc/3xNZTWnT/guille-pozzi-sbc-IAn4-Mn14-unsplash.jpg");font:13px 'Baloo Tamma 2', sans-serif;line-height: 1.55;border-radius: 20px;border-left: 0px solid #5f80a2;border-right: 0px solid #5f80a2;box-shadow: 0 0 5px #fff;}.shipka_container img{width: 500px;border-radius: 0 0 10px 10px}.shipka_container p{margin: 0;}.shipka_message {position: relative: z-index: 0;right: -0px;top: 0px;text-align: justify;width: 425px;height: 600px;overflow-y: scroll;padding: 5px;color: #fff;text-shadow: 0px 0px 25px #000,0px 0px 25px #000,0px 0px 10px #000,0px 0px 5px #000;border-radius: 10px;}.shipka_name {position: relative;z-index: 1;right: 0px;top:0px;font: 98px 'Dr Sugiyama';color: #fff;}</style><center><div class="shipka_container"><p class="shipka_name">Shipka</p><div class="shipka_message">Shipka is sullen tonight, the delicate features of her faced curling into a petulant frown as she wanders the meadow near the border with red Pangea. She idly searches for Islas the starwoman, but, like the stars that hide behind the thick layer of black cloud above, she is nowhere to be seen. Time and time again, Shipka reaches out, she even calls softly into the pitch of night, but only a passing stranger calls back, hallooing into the darkness, and then rushing off awkwardly when the midnight blue girl freezes and remains silent, nearly invisible.
She does not think he saw her and she wonders what he thought as he scurried away.
A rumbling that is not thunder catches her attention and Shipka turns to look for its source, the Mountain is close here and its noise vibrates against the soles of her feets, a growling, crashing, an exhalation. Grey eyes glance upwards in time to see the cloud that pours form the mountain center, and perhaps she should be more startled than she is, perhaps she should be more wary, but she knows only the joy of magic, and she lives so near Pangea that she is certainly not about to be troubled by a bit of dust.
With a wag of her flowered tail, Shipka turns away from the Mountain and its magic cloud, returning to her fruitless search for stars, for Islas, for anyone that is like her, searching night sky. The dust cloud settles heavily on her as she wishes - and not for the first time - for this muted feeling to be burned away by a taste of starlight.
The change comes on her suddenly, but it is subtle at first. It is hard to tell the difference between a foal-short mane and the black, starry wisps like that curl softly at her neck like clouds. Without hair, the flowers in her mane gather along her crest and at the dock of her tail, resting in the strange place where flesh turns to darkness. The starlight catches her attention, of course, startlingly close. Shipka gasps, sucking in a lungful of heavy magic dust that sets her to coughing and crying, wheezing and weaving in circles trying to catch an awkward glimpse at the patch of brilliant night sky the clings to her as desperately as she had sought it.
It is not the same, she finds, it is like the magic she can draw at noon when the Sun sits at his peak and spreads his bright rays across the land, smothering the distant stars with his flame. Barely enough to shift an acorn, she thinks, with a smirk, and yet, the music of the stars hums gently in her ears again, and perhaps that is enough, for now.
<center></div></div>Photo by guille pozzi on Unsplash</center>
Shipka's mane and tail have been turned into tiny nebulas and without any hair to grow in, her flowers sit along her crest and tailbone because I cannot get on board with flowers floating through space.
She does not think he saw her and she wonders what he thought as he scurried away.
A rumbling that is not thunder catches her attention and Shipka turns to look for its source, the Mountain is close here and its noise vibrates against the soles of her feets, a growling, crashing, an exhalation. Grey eyes glance upwards in time to see the cloud that pours form the mountain center, and perhaps she should be more startled than she is, perhaps she should be more wary, but she knows only the joy of magic, and she lives so near Pangea that she is certainly not about to be troubled by a bit of dust.
With a wag of her flowered tail, Shipka turns away from the Mountain and its magic cloud, returning to her fruitless search for stars, for Islas, for anyone that is like her, searching night sky. The dust cloud settles heavily on her as she wishes - and not for the first time - for this muted feeling to be burned away by a taste of starlight.
The change comes on her suddenly, but it is subtle at first. It is hard to tell the difference between a foal-short mane and the black, starry wisps like that curl softly at her neck like clouds. Without hair, the flowers in her mane gather along her crest and at the dock of her tail, resting in the strange place where flesh turns to darkness. The starlight catches her attention, of course, startlingly close. Shipka gasps, sucking in a lungful of heavy magic dust that sets her to coughing and crying, wheezing and weaving in circles trying to catch an awkward glimpse at the patch of brilliant night sky the clings to her as desperately as she had sought it.
It is not the same, she finds, it is like the magic she can draw at noon when the Sun sits at his peak and spreads his bright rays across the land, smothering the distant stars with his flame. Barely enough to shift an acorn, she thinks, with a smirk, and yet, the music of the stars hums gently in her ears again, and perhaps that is enough, for now.
<center></div></div>Photo by guille pozzi on Unsplash</center>
Shipka's mane and tail have been turned into tiny nebulas and without any hair to grow in, her flowers sit along her crest and tailbone because I cannot get on board with flowers floating through space.