02-19-2021, 12:07 AM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .firion_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #0d1417; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 5px #2e404d; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .firion_container p { margin: 0; } .firion_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .firion_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; border-left: 1px solid #243035; margin-top: 20px; margin-bottom: -300px; border: 1px solid #243035; background: #0D1417; } .firion_quote { font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-align: left; color: #2e404d; padding: 10px; border-bottom: 1px solid #2e404d; letter-spacing: 0.5px; } .firion_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #434952; padding: 20px; } .firion_quotetwo { font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-align: right; color: #2e404d; padding: 10px; border-top: 1px solid #2e404d; letter-spacing: 0.5px; } </style> <center> <div class="firion_container"> <div class="firion_text"> <p class="firion_quote">that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried</p> <p class="firion_message"> He does not recognize the contrast between dark and light anymore—is not sure if he even has the memory of it to sustain him. He does not understand the difference between awake and sleep. Instead, he remains constantly caught in the in-between. He stumbles forward with a body in near constant decay, his mind threadbare. There are screams, somewhere, but he doesn’t follow them. There is a hunger that is always just acute enough—pinching his belly with a dark desire that he is afraid to look at too closely.
It haunts him.
It drives him forward.
A fever-pitch madness that makes him gnash his teeth as he goes, legs stumbling over root and stalk, his flesh peeling back to show the bones underneath. There is more control in this constant darkness than there had been before, when he had only worn this form at night, but the consciousness comes with a cost. He keeps some of his mind, but not enough to stop himself—only enough to witness. Only enough to exert the barest control in only some of the moments, throwing his weight against himself to stop him.
It’s that control that causes him to hear the cry for help at all.
He had fallen to his knees when he had heard it—not because sleep was claiming him but because he had finally nearly fallen into a stupor, the kind of blackout that was his only reprieve these days. But just before the blackness had swallowed him, he had heard it. A thin, reedy cry. The kind that he had heard whistle out of so many mouths. It churns his stomach and he groans through gritted teeth, his throat nearly exposed. There is no small part of him that wants to ignore it. That would rather turn his cheek.
But he imagines faces on the other side of that call.
His mother, angelic and sweet. Iridian, somehow escaped from the dreamworld she had created for them. Even Mazikeen, spitting mad and ready to (deservedly) tear him to shreds. He imagines them all and he finds that he cannot bear it. The piece of him that is still his own rises up and pushes him forward. He comes to his feet with no little effort and begins to stumble forward once more, barely noticing when the monsters whistle by him (they did not seem to care much for his half-dead form) or when the tree branches reached out to snag at his loose flesh. He barely notices how long he walks at all.
That is until he comes to the foot of the mountain. Until he tips forward toward it, his broken and tangled tail brushing against his hocks, his golden eyes rolling back into his skull. He groans again, somewhat conscious of the others around him but only focused on the call that had driven him here—that sirens call. He flares his nostrils as though he could smell them, the ones that he would fight for, and when he doesn’t sense them at all, he feels tears hot against his ruined cheeks. “Why did you call?” it comes out rattled and broken on his tongue, nearly nonsensical. “I can’t help,” he murmurs, dropping his head. “I can’t help.”
No matter how much he wanted to. </p> <p class="firion_quotetwo">so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried</p> </div> <img class="firion_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/SQJBb2f8/firion.png"> </div> </center>
It haunts him.
It drives him forward.
A fever-pitch madness that makes him gnash his teeth as he goes, legs stumbling over root and stalk, his flesh peeling back to show the bones underneath. There is more control in this constant darkness than there had been before, when he had only worn this form at night, but the consciousness comes with a cost. He keeps some of his mind, but not enough to stop himself—only enough to witness. Only enough to exert the barest control in only some of the moments, throwing his weight against himself to stop him.
It’s that control that causes him to hear the cry for help at all.
He had fallen to his knees when he had heard it—not because sleep was claiming him but because he had finally nearly fallen into a stupor, the kind of blackout that was his only reprieve these days. But just before the blackness had swallowed him, he had heard it. A thin, reedy cry. The kind that he had heard whistle out of so many mouths. It churns his stomach and he groans through gritted teeth, his throat nearly exposed. There is no small part of him that wants to ignore it. That would rather turn his cheek.
But he imagines faces on the other side of that call.
His mother, angelic and sweet. Iridian, somehow escaped from the dreamworld she had created for them. Even Mazikeen, spitting mad and ready to (deservedly) tear him to shreds. He imagines them all and he finds that he cannot bear it. The piece of him that is still his own rises up and pushes him forward. He comes to his feet with no little effort and begins to stumble forward once more, barely noticing when the monsters whistle by him (they did not seem to care much for his half-dead form) or when the tree branches reached out to snag at his loose flesh. He barely notices how long he walks at all.
That is until he comes to the foot of the mountain. Until he tips forward toward it, his broken and tangled tail brushing against his hocks, his golden eyes rolling back into his skull. He groans again, somewhat conscious of the others around him but only focused on the call that had driven him here—that sirens call. He flares his nostrils as though he could smell them, the ones that he would fight for, and when he doesn’t sense them at all, he feels tears hot against his ruined cheeks. “Why did you call?” it comes out rattled and broken on his tongue, nearly nonsensical. “I can’t help,” he murmurs, dropping his head. “I can’t help.”
No matter how much he wanted to. </p> <p class="firion_quotetwo">so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried</p> </div> <img class="firion_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/SQJBb2f8/firion.png"> </div> </center>