11-17-2019, 10:12 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Amatic+SC" rel="stylesheet"><div align="center"><div style="border-left:#273a40 3px solid;border-right:#273a40 3px solid;background:#99a3a4;padding:16px 16px 12px 16px;width:500px;"><img src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a4/05/47/a40547754bbee4421bf6eea84ca20509.jpg" style="max-width:100%;border:1px solid #000;"><div style="width:500px;line-height:24px;font-family:amatic sc;font-size:50px;margin-left:-4px;text-shadow:#000 2px 0px 2px;color:#273a40;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:lowercase;text-align:center;">take my soul & make it undone</div><div style="width:450px;padding:12px 4px 12px 4px;font-family:arial;text-transform:uppercase;font-size:9px;line-height:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;color:#33454f;">be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.</div><div style="font-family:times;font-size:13px;line-height:100%;text-align:justify;color:#273a40;">The anger of the river swells upwards while she is in mid-air. Wishbone catches a glimpse of her father’s eyes watching her with sheer terror before the darkness of the water swallows her vision. <i>The heavy pain of hooves push firmly into her back once and then twice… Then an odd weightless sensation accompanied by the warmth of the Ischian sea.</i> The taste of river-water floods her mouth and with it comes the panic of reliving nightmares. How often had she seen the depths of a gray ocean in the land of the Dead and felt her spine shiver with fear? <i>The weightless sensation is followed by the feeling of skin and muscle shredding on her throat; she sees a stream of deep red blood float past her vision.</i>
The harsh memories stop with a <i>bang.</i>
When her mind swims back into reality (or whatever form of reality this might be), Wishbone knows that this is Death a second time. This one is much worse because she <i>feels everything</i> and the pain brings a sob so heavy that it gets stuck in the back of her throat. It is every type of pain that roars at the forefront of her mind — aching, bone-shattering, pinpricking, sharp, throbbing — and it coats her entire body as though she were a canvas for an avid painter. The lingering sensations from the memories are the most prominent; the stretch of her lungs unnaturally filled with water, the blossoming bruising of the hooves placed into her back, the unbearable ripped feeling of her throat and the subsequent weakness from such blood loss.
Wishbone rises onto her shaky mahogany legs, leaving a puddle of slippery blood where her body had just been wrecked against the rocks. Her father has already risen, though his right wing is bent at an angle that suggests he will never fly again and there is heavy bruising spreading across his cheeks. <b>“Fuck, this isn’t good.”</b> She’s had the mouth of a sailor since her young years, but that doesn’t stop Warrick’s look of warning. Before the mahogany has time to make a comment, the grullo who had started it all (or so Wishbone thinks) begins to speak.
Everyone will have to choose.
And quieter now, so he doesn’t hear her, <b>“Fuck, this isn’t good.”</b> It seems Warrick has already decided for her, his nose pressed into the curve of her shoulder. The nerves flare with pain there, but the comfort of her father’s touch makes it easier to bear. <i>“Daughter, you should be the one to go.”</i> She knew he would say that, just as she knew that ocean-water tasted like salt and lava was hot and the smell of her father would be sun and wind. Even now, in this strange place between the line of Life and Death, he smelled like the updraft of wind currents and the warmth of the summer sun.
<b>“Are you sure?”</b>
Wishbone can’t deny the fact that she wants to go back. Her daughters are in the land of the Living. Her spirit aches with the desire for <i>Life</i> and no one in her vicinity can deny that. Even through the shadows of pain in her amber eyes, there is fire. The soft touch of a kiss greets the bend of her withers, Warrick’s silent acceptance of his daughter’s revival and his subsequent Death (or what this reality saw it as). <b>“I love you,”</b> she whispers in that honey-whiskey voice. She needed to say it just one last time.
With a shaky breath and a limping gait, Wishbone steps forward. <b>“I will return to Life.”</b></div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center>
The harsh memories stop with a <i>bang.</i>
When her mind swims back into reality (or whatever form of reality this might be), Wishbone knows that this is Death a second time. This one is much worse because she <i>feels everything</i> and the pain brings a sob so heavy that it gets stuck in the back of her throat. It is every type of pain that roars at the forefront of her mind — aching, bone-shattering, pinpricking, sharp, throbbing — and it coats her entire body as though she were a canvas for an avid painter. The lingering sensations from the memories are the most prominent; the stretch of her lungs unnaturally filled with water, the blossoming bruising of the hooves placed into her back, the unbearable ripped feeling of her throat and the subsequent weakness from such blood loss.
Wishbone rises onto her shaky mahogany legs, leaving a puddle of slippery blood where her body had just been wrecked against the rocks. Her father has already risen, though his right wing is bent at an angle that suggests he will never fly again and there is heavy bruising spreading across his cheeks. <b>“Fuck, this isn’t good.”</b> She’s had the mouth of a sailor since her young years, but that doesn’t stop Warrick’s look of warning. Before the mahogany has time to make a comment, the grullo who had started it all (or so Wishbone thinks) begins to speak.
Everyone will have to choose.
And quieter now, so he doesn’t hear her, <b>“Fuck, this isn’t good.”</b> It seems Warrick has already decided for her, his nose pressed into the curve of her shoulder. The nerves flare with pain there, but the comfort of her father’s touch makes it easier to bear. <i>“Daughter, you should be the one to go.”</i> She knew he would say that, just as she knew that ocean-water tasted like salt and lava was hot and the smell of her father would be sun and wind. Even now, in this strange place between the line of Life and Death, he smelled like the updraft of wind currents and the warmth of the summer sun.
<b>“Are you sure?”</b>
Wishbone can’t deny the fact that she wants to go back. Her daughters are in the land of the Living. Her spirit aches with the desire for <i>Life</i> and no one in her vicinity can deny that. Even through the shadows of pain in her amber eyes, there is fire. The soft touch of a kiss greets the bend of her withers, Warrick’s silent acceptance of his daughter’s revival and his subsequent Death (or what this reality saw it as). <b>“I love you,”</b> she whispers in that honey-whiskey voice. She needed to say it just one last time.
With a shaky breath and a limping gait, Wishbone steps forward. <b>“I will return to Life.”</b></div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center>