08-08-2018, 08:54 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Calligraffitti|Coda|Lato|Roboto+Condensed" rel="stylesheet"><style type="text/css">.toni_container {position: relative;z-index: 1; background-color: black;width: 550px;border-radius: 280px 283px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 8px black;}.toni_container p {margin: 0;}.toni_image {position:relative;z-index:2;width: 550px; border-radius: 270px 274px 0px 0px;}.toni_gradient {position: relative;z-index: 3;top:-30px;width: 550px;height: 30px;background:background: -ms-linear-gradient(top, rgba(125,185,232,0) 0%, rgba(2,0,1,0.99) 99%, rgba(2,0,1,1) 100%);background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(125,185,232,0) 0%,rgba(2,0,1,0.99) 99%,rgba(2,0,1,1) 100%);background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(125,185,232,0) 0%,rgba(2,0,1,0.99) 99%,rgba(2,0,1,1) 100%);filter;padding:0px;margin:0px;}.toni_message {position:relative;z-index:0;background-color:#000;text-align: justify;font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif;padding-left: 25px; padding-right: 25px;padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px;;color: #D7D5D6;border-radius: 0px 0px 18px 18px;}.toni_quote {position: relative; z-index: 10000; text-align:center; margin-bottom:15px;color: #2C0C50;font-size:50px;font:40px 'Calligraffitti', cursive;letter-spacing:30px;}</style><center><div class="toni_container"><img class="toni_image" src="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/4d/da/09/4dda093e1240f0d7f82673cf26bf1c33.jpg"><div class="toni_gradient"></div><div class="toni_message">It’s nearing the end for our Evil Queen; her heart falters in its cage, an organ once so strong now utterly vanquished.
The powerful gust of winter wind sent from the Faerie’s own hand feels like a million stab wounds on each of Casia’s bodies. She wonders, as her duplicates are tossed so flimsily, if she’d ever meant anything to the Faerie: if the years… the decades… the century that they’d spent together, had been meaningful at all. Her nose is snotty as her head jostles against the nondescript ground, eyes tearful though she’d rarely ever been known to cry.
But come to think of it, the only times she had ever cried had been for the Faerie. Whether in mirth, or in misery, or in anger; she’d been the only one to receive such vulnerability from the once regular mare. Once regular, and now? Forever written in history as but a tool for Ascension in the realm of Beqanna’s rightfully cruel hierarchy of Faeries…
Regina Atra.
<i>Sacrifice.</i>
<b>“You always have, my love.”</b>
Flimsy last words, flimsy little girl: how dreadful an end to have come to after everything she went through. A sex slave to a greedy pilgrim, really, it doesn’t sound romantic when phrased as such; but even as she staggers to her thin limbs with the determination of one already dead, she knows that’s not how she would phrase it, even now. Even as the silver-blood Faerie breathes with a ragged, passionless anger towards her, Casia knows that’s not how she would phrase it.
It was love. It was an adventure. And it had always, always been the Faerie’s story; she’d known that ever since day one. And she was grateful to have ever been even a side character in her lover’s epic tale.
As the distance between them closes, so too does the window of patience and calm that had briefly remained in the Faerie’s eyes. It’s tragic, really; just as the little, ghostly figure opens her mouth to breathe a last confession of eternal love, her winter master raises a bloody hand before slashing it across her body. The stroke of death is hollow; an ironic slap to a face well used to physical intimacy.
Around the heaving Faerie, the little replicas of her earthly figure gently dissolve, one by one as the fall to their knees and then into nauseating clumps of skinny legs and snivelling eyes. Though there seemed infinite duplicates before, to her Ascending eyes, there could now never be enough of them: she scrambles over bodies and slips right through them as they dissolve, straining to reach the last of them. It’s not long before no more than she can count on her fingers remain; and it’s even shorter before she holds the last of Casia in the palm of her hands.
Where her winter-cold fingers touch, soft splotches of purple glowingly appear.
But for all the symbolism and for all the romance, her death is no more than any other. We all pass at some point; we all make the journey. It’s those left in our wake that truly suffer, they who must hold our bloodless bones and remember a colour on our faces that will never be there again. We are rarely the heroes of our own stories… But always, always we are the words written on the very pages of others’.
<i>“Regina Atra…”</i> But no Evil Queen could answer.
<I>Come, Winny.</i> The name, so ancient now, feels as hollow as the face clasped between her bleeding hands. A gentle weight settles on her shoulder; the Matriarch. <i>As you once christened this child, so too do I christen you: Winter Faerie. Shed your past self and feel the weightlessness of Ascension filling your being. You have completed your Pilgrimage; you have Sacrified your Offering; and now, you will sit among those who make and who unmake, who give life - and death.</i> The Faerie feels her hands dragged against their will away from her lover’s breathless face. With tear-filled eyes, she watches as the last of the colour she’d bestowed upon Casia so long ago finally and completely drains; and in the next moment, her tiny figure (their tiny figure) dissolves along with the rest, leaving her empty.
Leaving her capable of her newfound duties.
Turning, she closes her eyes; the weightlessness; it fills her.
Stepping forward…
She Ascends.
---
Years pass, or perhaps it’s decades; maybe even a century. Those who determine the very particles which make up Beqanna often forget how to tell mortal time, seasons blending into a slew of colours that seem almost indecipherable the more they swirl together; but it’s not the timing that the Winter Faerie returns for.
It’s the stream.
With a cloud of breath rising from her shuddering mouth, she kneels down next to the very spot that she began her Pilgrimage. The water would chill any other to the bone, but to her, it feels normal; familiar. She glances upwards but once, as if to check if another higher power might be watching her; but the Matriarch is elusive and often caught up elsewhere, usually in the doings of her Pilgrims and their Offerings.
Of course, the Winter Faerie isn’t naive enough to think that her actions will forever go unnoticed; but perhaps, by the time they call attention to themselves, too long will have gone by to warrant reprimand.
It’s a simple magic, all this time later. As easy as changing the colour of a mortal’s coat.
<i>“Casia…”</i> She smiles, tears in her eyes for the first time in centuries. <i>“Be free.”</i>
As her hands lift from where she’s resculpted the soul of her epic lover into that same, lovely, beautiful physical self, two splotches are left white. Her Evil Queen won’t know why - in fact, she won’t know anything besides her own name - but she will know.
And, even from high above in the clouds, she will always be watching.
Casia awakens.</br></br><div class="toni_quote">casia</div> </div></div></center>
word count: 1000 ish
*while trying to kill the Faerie, Casia encounters winter magic that hurts and then kills her.
*she dies, and is then returned to Beqanna by her rogue lover (unbeknownst to her) at an undetermined later time.
The powerful gust of winter wind sent from the Faerie’s own hand feels like a million stab wounds on each of Casia’s bodies. She wonders, as her duplicates are tossed so flimsily, if she’d ever meant anything to the Faerie: if the years… the decades… the century that they’d spent together, had been meaningful at all. Her nose is snotty as her head jostles against the nondescript ground, eyes tearful though she’d rarely ever been known to cry.
But come to think of it, the only times she had ever cried had been for the Faerie. Whether in mirth, or in misery, or in anger; she’d been the only one to receive such vulnerability from the once regular mare. Once regular, and now? Forever written in history as but a tool for Ascension in the realm of Beqanna’s rightfully cruel hierarchy of Faeries…
Regina Atra.
<i>Sacrifice.</i>
<b>“You always have, my love.”</b>
Flimsy last words, flimsy little girl: how dreadful an end to have come to after everything she went through. A sex slave to a greedy pilgrim, really, it doesn’t sound romantic when phrased as such; but even as she staggers to her thin limbs with the determination of one already dead, she knows that’s not how she would phrase it, even now. Even as the silver-blood Faerie breathes with a ragged, passionless anger towards her, Casia knows that’s not how she would phrase it.
It was love. It was an adventure. And it had always, always been the Faerie’s story; she’d known that ever since day one. And she was grateful to have ever been even a side character in her lover’s epic tale.
As the distance between them closes, so too does the window of patience and calm that had briefly remained in the Faerie’s eyes. It’s tragic, really; just as the little, ghostly figure opens her mouth to breathe a last confession of eternal love, her winter master raises a bloody hand before slashing it across her body. The stroke of death is hollow; an ironic slap to a face well used to physical intimacy.
Around the heaving Faerie, the little replicas of her earthly figure gently dissolve, one by one as the fall to their knees and then into nauseating clumps of skinny legs and snivelling eyes. Though there seemed infinite duplicates before, to her Ascending eyes, there could now never be enough of them: she scrambles over bodies and slips right through them as they dissolve, straining to reach the last of them. It’s not long before no more than she can count on her fingers remain; and it’s even shorter before she holds the last of Casia in the palm of her hands.
Where her winter-cold fingers touch, soft splotches of purple glowingly appear.
But for all the symbolism and for all the romance, her death is no more than any other. We all pass at some point; we all make the journey. It’s those left in our wake that truly suffer, they who must hold our bloodless bones and remember a colour on our faces that will never be there again. We are rarely the heroes of our own stories… But always, always we are the words written on the very pages of others’.
<i>“Regina Atra…”</i> But no Evil Queen could answer.
<I>Come, Winny.</i> The name, so ancient now, feels as hollow as the face clasped between her bleeding hands. A gentle weight settles on her shoulder; the Matriarch. <i>As you once christened this child, so too do I christen you: Winter Faerie. Shed your past self and feel the weightlessness of Ascension filling your being. You have completed your Pilgrimage; you have Sacrified your Offering; and now, you will sit among those who make and who unmake, who give life - and death.</i> The Faerie feels her hands dragged against their will away from her lover’s breathless face. With tear-filled eyes, she watches as the last of the colour she’d bestowed upon Casia so long ago finally and completely drains; and in the next moment, her tiny figure (their tiny figure) dissolves along with the rest, leaving her empty.
Leaving her capable of her newfound duties.
Turning, she closes her eyes; the weightlessness; it fills her.
Stepping forward…
She Ascends.
---
Years pass, or perhaps it’s decades; maybe even a century. Those who determine the very particles which make up Beqanna often forget how to tell mortal time, seasons blending into a slew of colours that seem almost indecipherable the more they swirl together; but it’s not the timing that the Winter Faerie returns for.
It’s the stream.
With a cloud of breath rising from her shuddering mouth, she kneels down next to the very spot that she began her Pilgrimage. The water would chill any other to the bone, but to her, it feels normal; familiar. She glances upwards but once, as if to check if another higher power might be watching her; but the Matriarch is elusive and often caught up elsewhere, usually in the doings of her Pilgrims and their Offerings.
Of course, the Winter Faerie isn’t naive enough to think that her actions will forever go unnoticed; but perhaps, by the time they call attention to themselves, too long will have gone by to warrant reprimand.
It’s a simple magic, all this time later. As easy as changing the colour of a mortal’s coat.
<i>“Casia…”</i> She smiles, tears in her eyes for the first time in centuries. <i>“Be free.”</i>
As her hands lift from where she’s resculpted the soul of her epic lover into that same, lovely, beautiful physical self, two splotches are left white. Her Evil Queen won’t know why - in fact, she won’t know anything besides her own name - but she will know.
And, even from high above in the clouds, she will always be watching.
Casia awakens.</br></br><div class="toni_quote">casia</div> </div></div></center>
word count: 1000 ish
*while trying to kill the Faerie, Casia encounters winter magic that hurts and then kills her.
*she dies, and is then returned to Beqanna by her rogue lover (unbeknownst to her) at an undetermined later time.