09-04-2020, 10:04 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Playfair+Display' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .dacian_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/Hx1B3VBk/dacianbg.png'); width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #101010; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .dacian_container p { margin: 0; } .dacian_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .dacian_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; margin-top: -300px; background: #707070e6; border: solid 1px #3a3a3a; border-bottom: none; } .dacian_quote { font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center; color: #101010; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 1.5em; border-bottom: solid 1px #3a3a3a; width: 80%; } .dacian_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #101010; padding: 30px; } .dacian_quotetwo { font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center; color: #101010; padding: 40px 20px 20px; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 1.5em; border-top: solid 1px #3a3a3a; width: 80%; } .dacian_name { font: 70px 'Playfair Display', serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #484848; line-height: 0.2em; padding-top: 20px; padding-left: 20px; letter-spacing: 25px; opacity: 0.5; -webkit-text-stroke: 2px #3a3a3a; } </style> <center> <div class="dacian_container"> <img class="dacian_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/FsTCmFsT/dacian.png"> <div class="dacian_text"> <p class="dacian_quote">you have forsaken all the love you've taken <br>sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall</p> <p class="dacian_message">There is a sound, a trilling call that he would compare to that of a bird if he had to, but he knows it is not a bird. There is nothing about this twisted world that leads him to believe something as ordinary as a bird would be here. Not in a place where the sky is the wrong color, with both a moon and a sun suspended in tandem. The shape of the trees is nonsensical, and even the color of light and shadows are all wrong.
Here, where he was swallowed by a void and vomited onto a different ground – innocent things like birds didn’t exist <i>here</i>.
He grits his teeth, his eyes closing briefly before he dares to turn his head to see what kind of demon this twisted hell is about to spit at him.
One at first begins to emerge from the shadows, and when all he can see is a silhouette, he thinks it is a large wolf. It is not until it fully peels itself from the dark, and he sees its face – oddly shaped and plant-like, similar to a tightly closed rosebud – that he realizes they are nothing like wolves at all.
There are a few at first, and then more than a dozen. The creatures close in on the stallion with his flatly pinned ears and a snarl on his lips, trading in their bird-like calls for completely foreign sounding chittering. They go back and forth amongst each other, seemingly debating something in their own language. Their flesh is dark, but he cannot tell if it is scaled, or only impossibly thick, like armor.
He does not have time to wonder about it any longer when the first creature’s petal-like mouth blossoms open, revealing too many sharp teeth to count and a black-void center.
Taking their cue from the first, the rest of the pack follows suit, lunging at him with petal-mouths flared open. Dacian opens his mouth, too, trying one last time to exhale the fire he had grown so accustomed to having — he reaches for it, and there is nothing. Not even smoke.
The first one goes for his throat, wasting no time. Then there is another ripping into his hind legs, and another at his chest. They consume him so quickly he can hardly register the pain, and yet somehow his throat still goes raw from the strength at which he tries to cry out — all his rage tearing him apart from the inside out and no voice to carry it.
He had not thought it possible to die twice, but he thinks this indeed must be hell. Levels and levels of hell, where you die over and over, always moving on, yet never getting anywhere. He wonders if once he is picked clean if he will emerge whole and new and ready to be destroyed, again, and in the fleeting yet stretching moments of dying (is it called that, when you are already dead?), he could almost laugh.
Of <i>course</i> Carnage would bring them to the afterlife, only to send them through endless oblivions of torture. He almost misses the infinite doldrums of what it had been like to be dead the first time; anything besides being someone’s entertainment, watching them all burn like ants beneath the magnifying glass.
That is his last thread of thought when he is suddenly slammed back into his own body on the beach, and he sucks in the decay and the salt air like it is the sweetest he has ever tasted. His heart beats hard and sure in his chest, and the jolt of adrenaline brings him to his feet. He is weak, though, weaker than he had been after leaving the afterlife the first time; his legs threaten to tremble, and all of his bones feel like lead. He does not dare to move, knowing that if he tried, he would likely collapse again.
His dark gaze follows the gray magician, and he would thank him, maybe, if he only he had the voice to do so.</p> <p class="dacian_name">Dacian</p> <p class="dacian_quotetwo">your body's aching, every bone is breaking <br>nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on</p> </div> </div> </center>
I miss Stranger Things
![[Image: tenor.gif]](https://media.tenor.com/images/2f01214e28f8858ac944a62911ff29aa/tenor.gif)
Here, where he was swallowed by a void and vomited onto a different ground – innocent things like birds didn’t exist <i>here</i>.
He grits his teeth, his eyes closing briefly before he dares to turn his head to see what kind of demon this twisted hell is about to spit at him.
One at first begins to emerge from the shadows, and when all he can see is a silhouette, he thinks it is a large wolf. It is not until it fully peels itself from the dark, and he sees its face – oddly shaped and plant-like, similar to a tightly closed rosebud – that he realizes they are nothing like wolves at all.
There are a few at first, and then more than a dozen. The creatures close in on the stallion with his flatly pinned ears and a snarl on his lips, trading in their bird-like calls for completely foreign sounding chittering. They go back and forth amongst each other, seemingly debating something in their own language. Their flesh is dark, but he cannot tell if it is scaled, or only impossibly thick, like armor.
He does not have time to wonder about it any longer when the first creature’s petal-like mouth blossoms open, revealing too many sharp teeth to count and a black-void center.
Taking their cue from the first, the rest of the pack follows suit, lunging at him with petal-mouths flared open. Dacian opens his mouth, too, trying one last time to exhale the fire he had grown so accustomed to having — he reaches for it, and there is nothing. Not even smoke.
The first one goes for his throat, wasting no time. Then there is another ripping into his hind legs, and another at his chest. They consume him so quickly he can hardly register the pain, and yet somehow his throat still goes raw from the strength at which he tries to cry out — all his rage tearing him apart from the inside out and no voice to carry it.
He had not thought it possible to die twice, but he thinks this indeed must be hell. Levels and levels of hell, where you die over and over, always moving on, yet never getting anywhere. He wonders if once he is picked clean if he will emerge whole and new and ready to be destroyed, again, and in the fleeting yet stretching moments of dying (is it called that, when you are already dead?), he could almost laugh.
Of <i>course</i> Carnage would bring them to the afterlife, only to send them through endless oblivions of torture. He almost misses the infinite doldrums of what it had been like to be dead the first time; anything besides being someone’s entertainment, watching them all burn like ants beneath the magnifying glass.
That is his last thread of thought when he is suddenly slammed back into his own body on the beach, and he sucks in the decay and the salt air like it is the sweetest he has ever tasted. His heart beats hard and sure in his chest, and the jolt of adrenaline brings him to his feet. He is weak, though, weaker than he had been after leaving the afterlife the first time; his legs threaten to tremble, and all of his bones feel like lead. He does not dare to move, knowing that if he tried, he would likely collapse again.
His dark gaze follows the gray magician, and he would thank him, maybe, if he only he had the voice to do so.</p> <p class="dacian_name">Dacian</p> <p class="dacian_quotetwo">your body's aching, every bone is breaking <br>nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on</p> </div> </div> </center>
I miss Stranger Things