01-14-2020, 11:36 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Nothing+You+Could+Do" rel="stylesheet"><style> #titanbackground{position:relative;z-index:1;width:550px; padding:20px;padding-top:40px;padding-bottom:0px; background:#171514 url('https://s22.postimg.cc/j9sn3wp01/ramiel_cliff.jpg')no-repeat;background-size:100%; box-shadow:0px 0px 15px #000;border:2px solid white;border-bottom:0px;} #titancontainer{position:relative;z-index:3;width:500px;margin-top:300px;padding:2px;background:#b1baaa;box-shadow:0px 0px 0px #000;opacity:0.6;border:2px solid white;border-top:0px;border-bottom:0px;}#container p{margin:0;} #titanmessage{position:relative; z-index:10;text-align:justify; padding:30px 20px 10px 20px; font:12px 'Times new roman', serif; line-height:1.25; color:#020a20;}#titanname{position:relative;bottom:30px;font:42px;font-family: 'Nothing You Could Do', cursive; text-shadow:4px 4px 4px rgba(0,0,0,0.3); color:#000;letter-spacing:16px;text-align:center;}#titanquote1{z-index:35;position:absolute;top:280px;left:42px;color:#fff;font:30px 'Georgia', cursive;opacity:0.7;}#titanquote2{z-index:35;position:relative;margin-top:-10px;color:#020a20;font:16px 'Georgia', cursive;opacity:0.8}</style><center><div id="titanbackground"><p id="titanquote1"></i></i>COR</p><div id="titanimg"></p></div><div id="titancontainer"><div id="titangradient"></div><p id="titanmessage">The haunting dark plucks at the taut strings of his composure.
He’s used to being in total control. He’s used to taking the skins of other animals, draping them across his melded bones and using them to whatever end he desires. He’s used to hunting and chasing and killing. He’s used to putting his feet where his mind tells them to go, used to deciding where he will be and when.
Being thrust into the unknown, completely at its mercy, is unchartered territory.
Cor takes a steadying breath against the night-gloom. Between the pillars, the darkness seems to concentrate in the center, as if the shadows are coalescing in conspiracy against him. Instead, as the shadows surge forward, the young stallion realizes it is not a shadow-monster. It is not a monster at all, in fact.
It is his father.
<b>“Dad?”</b> Cor tilts a head made heavier under the weight of its new additions. He’s about to rush forward to meet his sire head on, when he is stopped by a strange light above him. His eyes peer up, blinking against the alien light. The crimson circle is nearly blinding as it appears out of nowhere over the otherwise black pitch. It illuminates Walter but at the same time gives him hellish features that send a jolt of unease through his son. Even his snowy, angelic swan wings seem dipped and dripping with blood.
Perhaps that is why Cor makes a move towards his father again, that same twisting nightmare-fear that had woken him from his terrors as a boy threatens him now. How can any of this be real, anyway? He is still young, after all. Young enough that his dreams – and nightmares – are still a blank canvas unsoiled by the harshest colors of life.
But the color of Walter’s wings paint a different picture.
They promise pain and hurt, and maybe even death.
The loss of control leaves Cor vulnerable and naïve, though. He doesn’t sense the trap, doesn’t see it coming. He is closer now, and as he moves to embrace his father, Walter lunges for him with a bloodcurdling yell. He doesn’t understand, not at first. He thinks the embrace is about to be reciprocated. A wave of serenity washes over him, even, just before the older stallion buries his teeth in his neck. Cor’s head snaps back in pain and surprise as he feels the deep bruise forming over his withers. It is only this motion and his newly crowned head of horns that pushes his attacker back for a moment.
Fortunately, a moment is all Cor needs to reassess. He jumps sideways to his right, using the surge of adrenaline to power himself away from the pillars and the traitorous man they harbor beneath them. Clearly, the nightmare is still working hard to spin new terrors for him. He will only have to work harder. He will have to ignore the wrinkles around his sire’s eyes, the same ones that multiplied tenfold when he watched his colt’s wild antics growing up. He must ignore the canary splash of his coat, the yellow of a foolish man who tried to fly too close to the sun, as his mother would tell him, always with a wink of her eye.
Walter flies at him now, having lifted off the hollowed earth with lifetimes of practice. Cor sees the way he angles towards him even as he himself is turning right, continuing his own trajectory away from the pillars. Eventually, they move parallel with each other, father above son, dangling dangerously over the other. The red and orange stallion feels the barrage of hoof strikes as he attempts to flee: one over his rump, one on his spine, one misses him but he can feel the <i>whoosh</i> of the air gliding past his ribs. They are glancing blows, but blows nonetheless, enough that he winces and grits his teeth at each contact. He takes them, enough of them until he is sure it will work.
Cor stops hard and throws his head back. The blackbuck horns he wears are long and angled slightly back. His attacker banks hard, trying to avoid being pierced, but not before he avoids damage completely. The young stallion feels his horns cut easily through one downy-soft wing. He hears the scrape and separation of bone as Walter’s left wing crumples. He feels no pity for destroying the wings that once held him in their safe embrace.
It brings him down to the ground, hard, but he rallies instantly. Cor senses the fight left to come and charges to meet his father headlong. There is no recognition in Walter’s eyes, no spark that says, “stop, I’m in here, it’s me,” or, “stop, I love you, you little monster.” He doesn’t barter or beg for the father he once knew. There is only his survival. So he bunches his hindquarters and springs himself toward his opponent, aiming all of his weight to drive into the other’s chest. Walter phases through him harmlessly while he falls to the ground, carried by his momentum. His knees scream in pain, but he forces himself up. Before he can rise, however, Walter is there, rearing above him and crashing his front hooves down against his right side.
Cor hears a snap as a few ribs break. He tries to dive to his left but breathing is like inhaling fire. Still, in desperation, he bucks as hard as he can against the advance of his father just behind him. He feels a resounding crack as his hoof connects. There is a sudden rush of weight against him as his father falls into him. Exhausted, they both fall together, Walter still reaching forward to bite at every bit of Cor he can reach. In a red haze, literally and figuratively, Cor snaps his head back again. One horn pierces the top of his sire’s outstretched neck and drives down, down, down. He feels the gurgle of blood staining his shoulder.<br><br></p><p id="titanname"></p><p id="titanquote2"></p></p><br></div></div></center>
He’s used to being in total control. He’s used to taking the skins of other animals, draping them across his melded bones and using them to whatever end he desires. He’s used to hunting and chasing and killing. He’s used to putting his feet where his mind tells them to go, used to deciding where he will be and when.
Being thrust into the unknown, completely at its mercy, is unchartered territory.
Cor takes a steadying breath against the night-gloom. Between the pillars, the darkness seems to concentrate in the center, as if the shadows are coalescing in conspiracy against him. Instead, as the shadows surge forward, the young stallion realizes it is not a shadow-monster. It is not a monster at all, in fact.
It is his father.
<b>“Dad?”</b> Cor tilts a head made heavier under the weight of its new additions. He’s about to rush forward to meet his sire head on, when he is stopped by a strange light above him. His eyes peer up, blinking against the alien light. The crimson circle is nearly blinding as it appears out of nowhere over the otherwise black pitch. It illuminates Walter but at the same time gives him hellish features that send a jolt of unease through his son. Even his snowy, angelic swan wings seem dipped and dripping with blood.
Perhaps that is why Cor makes a move towards his father again, that same twisting nightmare-fear that had woken him from his terrors as a boy threatens him now. How can any of this be real, anyway? He is still young, after all. Young enough that his dreams – and nightmares – are still a blank canvas unsoiled by the harshest colors of life.
But the color of Walter’s wings paint a different picture.
They promise pain and hurt, and maybe even death.
The loss of control leaves Cor vulnerable and naïve, though. He doesn’t sense the trap, doesn’t see it coming. He is closer now, and as he moves to embrace his father, Walter lunges for him with a bloodcurdling yell. He doesn’t understand, not at first. He thinks the embrace is about to be reciprocated. A wave of serenity washes over him, even, just before the older stallion buries his teeth in his neck. Cor’s head snaps back in pain and surprise as he feels the deep bruise forming over his withers. It is only this motion and his newly crowned head of horns that pushes his attacker back for a moment.
Fortunately, a moment is all Cor needs to reassess. He jumps sideways to his right, using the surge of adrenaline to power himself away from the pillars and the traitorous man they harbor beneath them. Clearly, the nightmare is still working hard to spin new terrors for him. He will only have to work harder. He will have to ignore the wrinkles around his sire’s eyes, the same ones that multiplied tenfold when he watched his colt’s wild antics growing up. He must ignore the canary splash of his coat, the yellow of a foolish man who tried to fly too close to the sun, as his mother would tell him, always with a wink of her eye.
Walter flies at him now, having lifted off the hollowed earth with lifetimes of practice. Cor sees the way he angles towards him even as he himself is turning right, continuing his own trajectory away from the pillars. Eventually, they move parallel with each other, father above son, dangling dangerously over the other. The red and orange stallion feels the barrage of hoof strikes as he attempts to flee: one over his rump, one on his spine, one misses him but he can feel the <i>whoosh</i> of the air gliding past his ribs. They are glancing blows, but blows nonetheless, enough that he winces and grits his teeth at each contact. He takes them, enough of them until he is sure it will work.
Cor stops hard and throws his head back. The blackbuck horns he wears are long and angled slightly back. His attacker banks hard, trying to avoid being pierced, but not before he avoids damage completely. The young stallion feels his horns cut easily through one downy-soft wing. He hears the scrape and separation of bone as Walter’s left wing crumples. He feels no pity for destroying the wings that once held him in their safe embrace.
It brings him down to the ground, hard, but he rallies instantly. Cor senses the fight left to come and charges to meet his father headlong. There is no recognition in Walter’s eyes, no spark that says, “stop, I’m in here, it’s me,” or, “stop, I love you, you little monster.” He doesn’t barter or beg for the father he once knew. There is only his survival. So he bunches his hindquarters and springs himself toward his opponent, aiming all of his weight to drive into the other’s chest. Walter phases through him harmlessly while he falls to the ground, carried by his momentum. His knees scream in pain, but he forces himself up. Before he can rise, however, Walter is there, rearing above him and crashing his front hooves down against his right side.
Cor hears a snap as a few ribs break. He tries to dive to his left but breathing is like inhaling fire. Still, in desperation, he bucks as hard as he can against the advance of his father just behind him. He feels a resounding crack as his hoof connects. There is a sudden rush of weight against him as his father falls into him. Exhausted, they both fall together, Walter still reaching forward to bite at every bit of Cor he can reach. In a red haze, literally and figuratively, Cor snaps his head back again. One horn pierces the top of his sire’s outstretched neck and drives down, down, down. He feels the gurgle of blood staining his shoulder.<br><br></p><p id="titanname"></p><p id="titanquote2"></p></p><br></div></div></center>