09-04-2020, 02:26 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Average" rel="stylesheet"><style>#ashhalnekkie{width:542px;border:25px #000000 solid;border-radius:400px 400px 0px 0px;overflow:hidden;}#ashhalnekkiepic{position:relative;z-index:0;margin-top:0;}#ashhalnekkiecontainer{background:-webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);background:-o-linear-gradient(bottom, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);background:-moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);background:-linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);background:-ms-linear-gradient(top, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);width:542px;position:relative;z-index:1;margin-top:-160px;padding-top:100px;}#ashhalnekkietext{font-family: 'Average', serif;font-size:14px;color:#bfbfbf;width:450px;margin-bottom:0px;}#ashhalnekkiequote{font-family: 'Average', serif;font-size:15px;text-transform:uppercase;line-height:14px;color:#ffffff;}</style><center><div id="ashhalnekkie"><div id="ashhalnekkiepic"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/3N0LWsPr/Ashhal3.jpg"/></div><div id="ashhalnekkiecontainer"><p id="ashhalnekkiequote">I tried to sell my soul last night<br/>Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite</p><p id="ashhalnekkietext" align="justify">There is no satisfaction in learning his instincts were correct. Though he couldn’t remember, a deep seated instinct had warned him. A well-developed instinct.
But he has no time to wonder how he gained such an instinct.
As luck would have it though, the moment he turns to respond to that increasingly loud voice telling him to leave, the buzzing ceases abruptly. His skin crawls violently along his spine, but it’s easy to see the way he had come would provide no exit anyway. By the time the distorted chirping starts, every sense he possesses is on the highest alert even as (almost ironically) his mind quiets.
He quickly finds that there is a familiarity in defense. In waiting for something (<i>anything</i>) to happen. A familiarity he finds oddly soothing, even as the prospect of death looms (it begs the question, could one die twice? He may not remember his recent death, but the fact still remains).
In this place (so twisted and wrong in ways he cannot quite fathom), that familiarity is everything. So much so that it nearly transcends the visceral disgust and horror he feels when the creatures first separate from their surroundings. There are pieces of them he recognizes, but they are cobbled together in all the wrong places, twisting in a manner that is disturbingly unnatural.
He has forgotten there is someone out there who had sent him here, and so his fight is one of genuine self-preservation. One in which he reserves no hope of (an admittedly distant) compassion. He discovers in himself an innate lust for violence, a satisfaction in the exertion and striking of flesh. He also finds pain to be something like an old friend. As though he has experienced more than his share of bloodshed.
Not that it does him a great deal of good here - a place that is every kind of <i>wrong</i>. In the end, he is at their mercy. He cannot seem to predict how they will move. Their shifting, unnatural motion defies every expectation he has. He cannot even seem to focus his gaze on them for more than a moment without his vision trying to cross, the battered neurons of his brain firing so chaotically there is no way to make sense of it.
Ultimately, he succumbs. His blood flows freely even as his own bones bend and snap, easily piercing the too-thin cage of his flesh.
By the time Carnage reaches in to yank him from this unnatural hell, he isn’t entirely certain whether he is alive or not. He is shoved back onto the beach into a body made mostly whole. There is weakness. A bone-deep illness that he can’t quite put a name to. But it hardly matters when the mind that now resides in it is only a fraction of what it once was.
He doesn’t try to rise from the beach where he lay crumpled. Doesn't even have the energy to pick at the anger that seems to bubble deep in his chest as he blinks blearily at whoever the hell had pulled them from that pit.
The irony of the situation might have been humorous if the man who had returned to Ashhal’s body were not so deeply pitiful. His worst nightmare had been realized, and he hasn’t even the wits to know it.</p><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/s1FTWnrY/Ashhal_Name2.png"/></div></div></center>
But he has no time to wonder how he gained such an instinct.
As luck would have it though, the moment he turns to respond to that increasingly loud voice telling him to leave, the buzzing ceases abruptly. His skin crawls violently along his spine, but it’s easy to see the way he had come would provide no exit anyway. By the time the distorted chirping starts, every sense he possesses is on the highest alert even as (almost ironically) his mind quiets.
He quickly finds that there is a familiarity in defense. In waiting for something (<i>anything</i>) to happen. A familiarity he finds oddly soothing, even as the prospect of death looms (it begs the question, could one die twice? He may not remember his recent death, but the fact still remains).
In this place (so twisted and wrong in ways he cannot quite fathom), that familiarity is everything. So much so that it nearly transcends the visceral disgust and horror he feels when the creatures first separate from their surroundings. There are pieces of them he recognizes, but they are cobbled together in all the wrong places, twisting in a manner that is disturbingly unnatural.
He has forgotten there is someone out there who had sent him here, and so his fight is one of genuine self-preservation. One in which he reserves no hope of (an admittedly distant) compassion. He discovers in himself an innate lust for violence, a satisfaction in the exertion and striking of flesh. He also finds pain to be something like an old friend. As though he has experienced more than his share of bloodshed.
Not that it does him a great deal of good here - a place that is every kind of <i>wrong</i>. In the end, he is at their mercy. He cannot seem to predict how they will move. Their shifting, unnatural motion defies every expectation he has. He cannot even seem to focus his gaze on them for more than a moment without his vision trying to cross, the battered neurons of his brain firing so chaotically there is no way to make sense of it.
Ultimately, he succumbs. His blood flows freely even as his own bones bend and snap, easily piercing the too-thin cage of his flesh.
By the time Carnage reaches in to yank him from this unnatural hell, he isn’t entirely certain whether he is alive or not. He is shoved back onto the beach into a body made mostly whole. There is weakness. A bone-deep illness that he can’t quite put a name to. But it hardly matters when the mind that now resides in it is only a fraction of what it once was.
He doesn’t try to rise from the beach where he lay crumpled. Doesn't even have the energy to pick at the anger that seems to bubble deep in his chest as he blinks blearily at whoever the hell had pulled them from that pit.
The irony of the situation might have been humorous if the man who had returned to Ashhal’s body were not so deeply pitiful. His worst nightmare had been realized, and he hasn’t even the wits to know it.</p><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/s1FTWnrY/Ashhal_Name2.png"/></div></div></center>