02-07-2020, 02:18 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Bilbo+Swash+Caps|Cambay&display=swap" rel="stylesheet"><style>#Waverly{width:700px;}#picWaverly{position:relative;z-index:0;width:700px;height:700px;border-radius:350px 350px 350px 350px;overflow:hidden;border:3px #d3bb05 groove;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #def3f4;}#wrapperWaverly{position:relative;z-index:1;width:580px;margin-top:25px;background:#28595e;padding-top:60px;padding-bottom:50px;padding-left:60px;padding-right:60px;border-radius: 350px 350px 350px 350px;border:3px groove #d3bb05;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #def3f4;}#textWaverly{color:#def3f4;font-family: 'Cambay', sans-serif;font-size:14px;margin-bottom:0px;margin-top:70px;}#nameWaverly{font-family: 'Bilbo Swash Caps', cursive;color:#739797;font-size:90px;margin-top:30px;margin-bottom:0px;}#quoteWaverly{font-family: 'Bilbo Swash Caps', cursive;color:#739797;font-size:22px;line-height:14px;margin-top:20px;margin-bottom:0px;}</style><center><div id="Waverly"><div id="picWaverly"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/3x1HcnzP/Waverly-HTML.jpg"/></div><div id="wrapperWaverly"><p id="quoteWaverly" align="center">your heart, it's like a drum<br>the chase has just begun</p><p id="textWaverly" align="justify">The rumble and crack of the earth beneath her feet sends an electric rush along her spine, and as the earth opens, a furious shriek escapes her elongated jaw. The offense of the situation is overwhelming, but there is little she can do about it from the bowels of this cave. Ears flattened against her damp neck, head lowered and eyes narrowed to slits, she creeps forward even as illuminating fungi begin to sprout along the dank walls.
Teeth chittering in agitation, she snaps irritably at the living stone. Her dislike of the way these tunnels writhe and grow things is immediate, raising every fiber and hair of her body into alert. This entire thing feels wrong and terrible, and she wishes now she had never heeded that deceptively brilliant star as it fell from the sky.
She has hunted enough prey to know when she is no longer the hunter.
Then, as though through flickering illusion, there is another before her. Recoiling, Waverly hisses, jagged teeth bared as she eyes the other with open distrust. After a moment however, she recognizes the lovely figure standing before her. The only creature it might ever be said she holds any fondness for. Her mother.
Except, she is all wrong. Surrounding her writhes an oily, dark mass. Nothing like the jade green that so often followed her mother in memories from her youth. Ears pressed flat, she eyes her mother warily, uncertain in her course and affronted by that uncertainty. Her mother is as lovely as she has ever been, but her eyes glow eerily in her delicate features and her sea-green locks tangle and writhe about her unnaturally. And when she opens her mouth to speak, her voice carries the weight of a broken echo.
Curling her lips, Waverly snaps at the figure, though her teeth land on nothing but air. She had not truly intended to find flesh though. Whether this mother feels strange and alien is irrelevant. She is still her mother, and that stays her teeth.
But when the lovely figure turns and slips down the alien, confusing passage, Waverly hesitates. She does not like this. Not one little bit. And that intense disquiet holds her limbs for several crucial moments. Even when she does finally follow, her steps are slow and hesitant, the clarity of her distrust evident in every stilted movement.
A distrust proven correct by the inconsistent ways in which the musty tunnels behave. The tunnels she passes more than once, the way movements catch the corner of her eye. Except, when she turns her gaze, it is nothing. A fever dream that is no dream. There would be no waking here, and that stirs a roiling anger deep in her belly.
When she meets this culprit who led her on such a horrendous chase, she would rip them limb from limb.
Her dangerously lustful thoughts are interrupted however when the smell of acrid smoke reaches her nostrils. A heartbeat later, the first lick of orange flame erupts beside her. With a snort, she flinches sideways, gaze cutting warily to the sudden burst of fire. Spinning, she turns to flee, but flame had already found it's way behind her, effectively blockading her path to freedom.
The sound that escapes her throat then is foreign and piercing, a high-pitched keening of raw and visceral terror. Water is her salvation and fire is her death. The flames would crack and dry her skin, sucking every ounce of the things that gave her life. Her reaction is of the basest kind, instinctual rather than thinking, as sheer panic overcomes her. Her body scrapes against rough stone as sharp nails scrabble at the damp walls, as though she might claw her way through by sheer force of will alone.</p><p id="nameWaverly" align="center">Waverly</p></div></div></center>
Teeth chittering in agitation, she snaps irritably at the living stone. Her dislike of the way these tunnels writhe and grow things is immediate, raising every fiber and hair of her body into alert. This entire thing feels wrong and terrible, and she wishes now she had never heeded that deceptively brilliant star as it fell from the sky.
She has hunted enough prey to know when she is no longer the hunter.
Then, as though through flickering illusion, there is another before her. Recoiling, Waverly hisses, jagged teeth bared as she eyes the other with open distrust. After a moment however, she recognizes the lovely figure standing before her. The only creature it might ever be said she holds any fondness for. Her mother.
Except, she is all wrong. Surrounding her writhes an oily, dark mass. Nothing like the jade green that so often followed her mother in memories from her youth. Ears pressed flat, she eyes her mother warily, uncertain in her course and affronted by that uncertainty. Her mother is as lovely as she has ever been, but her eyes glow eerily in her delicate features and her sea-green locks tangle and writhe about her unnaturally. And when she opens her mouth to speak, her voice carries the weight of a broken echo.
Curling her lips, Waverly snaps at the figure, though her teeth land on nothing but air. She had not truly intended to find flesh though. Whether this mother feels strange and alien is irrelevant. She is still her mother, and that stays her teeth.
But when the lovely figure turns and slips down the alien, confusing passage, Waverly hesitates. She does not like this. Not one little bit. And that intense disquiet holds her limbs for several crucial moments. Even when she does finally follow, her steps are slow and hesitant, the clarity of her distrust evident in every stilted movement.
A distrust proven correct by the inconsistent ways in which the musty tunnels behave. The tunnels she passes more than once, the way movements catch the corner of her eye. Except, when she turns her gaze, it is nothing. A fever dream that is no dream. There would be no waking here, and that stirs a roiling anger deep in her belly.
When she meets this culprit who led her on such a horrendous chase, she would rip them limb from limb.
Her dangerously lustful thoughts are interrupted however when the smell of acrid smoke reaches her nostrils. A heartbeat later, the first lick of orange flame erupts beside her. With a snort, she flinches sideways, gaze cutting warily to the sudden burst of fire. Spinning, she turns to flee, but flame had already found it's way behind her, effectively blockading her path to freedom.
The sound that escapes her throat then is foreign and piercing, a high-pitched keening of raw and visceral terror. Water is her salvation and fire is her death. The flames would crack and dry her skin, sucking every ounce of the things that gave her life. Her reaction is of the basest kind, instinctual rather than thinking, as sheer panic overcomes her. Her body scrapes against rough stone as sharp nails scrabble at the damp walls, as though she might claw her way through by sheer force of will alone.</p><p id="nameWaverly" align="center">Waverly</p></div></div></center>