08-11-2020, 08:03 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Playfair+Display' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .svedka_container { position: relative; background-color: #FCFEFD; width: 600px; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px 1px #000; } .svedka_container p { margin: 0; } .svedka_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .svedka_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 550px; margin-bottom: -400px; } .svedka_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #1e4c56; border-left: solid 1px; border-right: solid 1px; padding: 20px 30px; } .svedka_name { text-align: right; font: 20px 'Playfair Display', serif; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 10px; padding-right: 10px; color: #1e4c56; } .svedka_quote { text-align: center; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; letter-spacing: 2px; color: #336a6b; border-left: solid 1px; border-right: solid 1px; padding-top: 30px; } </style> <center> <div class="svedka_container"> <div class="svedka_text"> <p class="svedka_quote">let my shadows prove the sunshine</p> <p class="svedka_message">There is nothing here.
Nothing but emptiness - a void that begs to be filled but is continually emptied, an abyss that has so generously brought him so far deep into it that he is already certain he will not return from it. He closes his eyes, wondering and believing that perhaps a thousand years have already passed in this vacant place in just the few moments he’d been standing there, with grey sand biting at his flesh with a ravaging wind that utters no sound. Of course there is no sound; this place is like a vacuum, sucking any and everything dry, and Svedka feels the same process deep within his soul.
Even the buzzing does not stir the two-toned stallion. He is content to stand here forever in this barren place, to be nothing just as the world around him is nothing. It is not until the dark god begins to speak once again does Svedka begin to rouse awake, bleary-eyed and so very tired as his gaze flickers blankly, expressionless and indifferent as he stares upon the grey stallion. There are instructions but the void has scrubbed him clean of all understanding, so as the others move forward into the fog, he wearily turns his head to watch them. For a moment he considers them, blinking slowly, and finds himself wanting to crumble to the ground and to become no one, for all eternity.
Then, like a hot knife into the back of his head, something jerks him back to life. Perhaps it is the dark god ensuring that all his participants do just that - participate - or maybe it is the second soul within him fighting for its own life. Either way, the beast within him roars in protest, turning Svedka’s eyes flat and black with rage and ferocity. The stallion is too tired to fight and willingly gives into the lion’s demands, succumbing to the darkness that he so readily wishes for.
But there is no shift here in the afterlife.
There is nothing.
So the stallion becomes a beast, but this beast is tenfold - he is furious that he remains in such a <i>weak</i> vessel, but rabid with fury and hunger. The lion craves blood and its pound of flesh, causing drool to drip from Svedka’s trembling pearlescent lips, salivating until it becomes foam in the corners of his mouth. The stallion pants heavily, hobbling forward into the fog with deliberate and staggered steps, shuffling into its embrace unceremoniously.
Svedka’s eyes - still black as night - peruse the fog with unearthly rolls and clicks. His muscles spasm and tremor, the lion attempting to break out of its prison completely, but remaining in this terrible and morbid in-between, snapping at nothing as he walks along, groaning and dragging his hooves. The beast in equine form follows the buzzing, drawn to its sound and the hope that its source would bring him flesh and bone to chew between his teeth, for blood that he can bathe in. He snorts and the foaming spittle on his lips spray from him, each inhale fueling the walking nightmare that he is, his adrenaline at an all time high along with whatever the fog is pumping into his lungs.
Something alerts him - a noise, perhaps, but a smell for sure.
His already disparaging walk staggers into an even slower pace, turning his two-toned head towards whatever poor soul has wandered too close to him accidentally. Hunger fills its eyes and he roars violently, moving suddenly with such speed now that a taste of flesh is so near. He attempts to tear into whatever it is, howling madly with desperation when its hooves do not break skin as easily as claws, and that his teeth cannot sever arteries. He now attacks out of sheer frustration, each blow becoming slower and less purposeful with each passing moment.
Just as quickly as he has attacked he goes still, the insectile buzzing growing louder and distracting him from his feeble attempts to rip this being apart. With a garbled hiss, Svedka falls back into the fog, continuing on his way towards that same sound that had called to him in the first place.
Perhaps the buzzing sound has begun to strip him clean of whatever the fog had created in him, for it now echoes in his bones and grates against him, making his hair stand on end. He shakes his head slowly in discomfort, moaning hauntingly as he stumbles forward in this fervent in-between stage, beginning to weaken and tire once again as his hooves scrape wearily against the grey sand. The fog begins to writhe and contort around the mad stallion as he shuffles along, low growls vibrating vaguely in his throat. As the fog dissipates and the cliffside comes into his view, Svedka’s eyes return to their deep cerulean (somehow they are not as bold; whitewashed and dull, instead) as his salivating slows to a stop with each inhale of clear air.
Once again he is expressionless, devoid of any realization or understanding, perhaps not even noticing that he has made the journey forward through the fog and nearly begins a venture into uncharted territory. <p class="svedka_name">svedka</p> </div> <img class="svedka_image" src="https://s15.postimg.cc/pwoma9yh7/svedka.jpg"> </center>
Nothing but emptiness - a void that begs to be filled but is continually emptied, an abyss that has so generously brought him so far deep into it that he is already certain he will not return from it. He closes his eyes, wondering and believing that perhaps a thousand years have already passed in this vacant place in just the few moments he’d been standing there, with grey sand biting at his flesh with a ravaging wind that utters no sound. Of course there is no sound; this place is like a vacuum, sucking any and everything dry, and Svedka feels the same process deep within his soul.
Even the buzzing does not stir the two-toned stallion. He is content to stand here forever in this barren place, to be nothing just as the world around him is nothing. It is not until the dark god begins to speak once again does Svedka begin to rouse awake, bleary-eyed and so very tired as his gaze flickers blankly, expressionless and indifferent as he stares upon the grey stallion. There are instructions but the void has scrubbed him clean of all understanding, so as the others move forward into the fog, he wearily turns his head to watch them. For a moment he considers them, blinking slowly, and finds himself wanting to crumble to the ground and to become no one, for all eternity.
Then, like a hot knife into the back of his head, something jerks him back to life. Perhaps it is the dark god ensuring that all his participants do just that - participate - or maybe it is the second soul within him fighting for its own life. Either way, the beast within him roars in protest, turning Svedka’s eyes flat and black with rage and ferocity. The stallion is too tired to fight and willingly gives into the lion’s demands, succumbing to the darkness that he so readily wishes for.
But there is no shift here in the afterlife.
There is nothing.
So the stallion becomes a beast, but this beast is tenfold - he is furious that he remains in such a <i>weak</i> vessel, but rabid with fury and hunger. The lion craves blood and its pound of flesh, causing drool to drip from Svedka’s trembling pearlescent lips, salivating until it becomes foam in the corners of his mouth. The stallion pants heavily, hobbling forward into the fog with deliberate and staggered steps, shuffling into its embrace unceremoniously.
Svedka’s eyes - still black as night - peruse the fog with unearthly rolls and clicks. His muscles spasm and tremor, the lion attempting to break out of its prison completely, but remaining in this terrible and morbid in-between, snapping at nothing as he walks along, groaning and dragging his hooves. The beast in equine form follows the buzzing, drawn to its sound and the hope that its source would bring him flesh and bone to chew between his teeth, for blood that he can bathe in. He snorts and the foaming spittle on his lips spray from him, each inhale fueling the walking nightmare that he is, his adrenaline at an all time high along with whatever the fog is pumping into his lungs.
Something alerts him - a noise, perhaps, but a smell for sure.
His already disparaging walk staggers into an even slower pace, turning his two-toned head towards whatever poor soul has wandered too close to him accidentally. Hunger fills its eyes and he roars violently, moving suddenly with such speed now that a taste of flesh is so near. He attempts to tear into whatever it is, howling madly with desperation when its hooves do not break skin as easily as claws, and that his teeth cannot sever arteries. He now attacks out of sheer frustration, each blow becoming slower and less purposeful with each passing moment.
Just as quickly as he has attacked he goes still, the insectile buzzing growing louder and distracting him from his feeble attempts to rip this being apart. With a garbled hiss, Svedka falls back into the fog, continuing on his way towards that same sound that had called to him in the first place.
Perhaps the buzzing sound has begun to strip him clean of whatever the fog had created in him, for it now echoes in his bones and grates against him, making his hair stand on end. He shakes his head slowly in discomfort, moaning hauntingly as he stumbles forward in this fervent in-between stage, beginning to weaken and tire once again as his hooves scrape wearily against the grey sand. The fog begins to writhe and contort around the mad stallion as he shuffles along, low growls vibrating vaguely in his throat. As the fog dissipates and the cliffside comes into his view, Svedka’s eyes return to their deep cerulean (somehow they are not as bold; whitewashed and dull, instead) as his salivating slows to a stop with each inhale of clear air.
Once again he is expressionless, devoid of any realization or understanding, perhaps not even noticing that he has made the journey forward through the fog and nearly begins a venture into uncharted territory. <p class="svedka_name">svedka</p> </div> <img class="svedka_image" src="https://s15.postimg.cc/pwoma9yh7/svedka.jpg"> </center>