11-02-2020, 01:22 PM
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<style type="text/css"> .buttermilkbiscuit { transform:rotate(-8deg);letter-spacing:46px;font:100px EB Garamond;color:#c1acde;opacity:0.15;transition:0.5s;margin-bottom:-25px; } .buttermilkbiscuit:hover { opacity:1;text-shadow:0px 0px 15px,0px 0px 15px #c1acde; transition:0.5s; } .withgravy { color:#000;transform:rotate(-8deg);padding:0px 0px 370px 300px;margin:0;line-height:11px;text-align:center; }</style><div style="margin:auto;padding:80px 0px 0px 0px;background:linear-gradient(to bottom,rgba(0,0,0,0) 500px, rgba(0,0,0,1)625px),url('https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3e/9b/bb/3e9bbb82dc0787faee21b6433d502573.jpg') top center no-repeat;width:563px;"><div class="buttermilkbiscuit">GRETA</div><div class="withgravy">I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.</div><div style="text-align:center;color:#8359bd;margin-bottom:-20px;letter-spacing:5px;">" Do you remember? "</div><div style="font:15px times new roman;color:#787878;padding:30px 10px 10px 10px;text-align:justify;border:3px double #8359bd;border-bottom:0px;border-top:0px;border-radius:35%/35px 35px 0px 0px; margin:10px;color:#c1acde;">
She had not been around then - when the doors of death opened its great and greedy maw. She had not been around for much of anything, truthfully. Perhaps that is why she is so perceptive to the change in the night; the way the air called just slightly more, how the breeze smelled a bit sharper. So she followed, for what else did she have to do when a command wasn’t thrown at her? There was little other meaning in her life outside of the bidding of others (and isn’t that all her father wanted of her anyway?).
She follows the night, it’s beck and call, the way the wind danced over her skin and tasted her fears. How foolish to follow something based on a whim - but she is nothing if not naive and new to this world of Beqanna. She does not know the death and decay that it can bring, nor the delights and desires it can grant. She simply follows, occasionally lifting her nose to the night sky to stay the course.
The course that brings her to yawning gates and a creature before them. Creature, for she has no better word for it. Its voice cracks sharply throughout the night - a mix of a manic scream and a childish delight. Greta starts, her head shimmying back and her body taut. This was not what she was expecting - it asks her a question. Not a command, something to direct her inner obedience and tell her what to do. But a question asked of her - something to allow her to make her own decisions for once.
<b> “ Well.. I um. I suppose a trick?”</b> Her father knew lots of tricks, and it seemed her new friend Straia did too. They had shown her lots of tricks in her little time here - and perhaps there were still other mysterious tricks that she had yet to have seen. <B> “Yes. A trick then - I have seen quite a lot of those from Father, and I would like to see what yours are like.”</b>
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<style type="text/css"> .buttermilkbiscuit { transform:rotate(-8deg);letter-spacing:46px;font:100px EB Garamond;color:#c1acde;opacity:0.15;transition:0.5s;margin-bottom:-25px; } .buttermilkbiscuit:hover { opacity:1;text-shadow:0px 0px 15px,0px 0px 15px #c1acde; transition:0.5s; } .withgravy { color:#000;transform:rotate(-8deg);padding:0px 0px 370px 300px;margin:0;line-height:11px;text-align:center; }</style><div style="margin:auto;padding:80px 0px 0px 0px;background:linear-gradient(to bottom,rgba(0,0,0,0) 500px, rgba(0,0,0,1)625px),url('https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3e/9b/bb/3e9bbb82dc0787faee21b6433d502573.jpg') top center no-repeat;width:563px;"><div class="buttermilkbiscuit">GRETA</div><div class="withgravy">I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.</div><div style="text-align:center;color:#8359bd;margin-bottom:-20px;letter-spacing:5px;">" Do you remember? "</div><div style="font:15px times new roman;color:#787878;padding:30px 10px 10px 10px;text-align:justify;border:3px double #8359bd;border-bottom:0px;border-top:0px;border-radius:35%/35px 35px 0px 0px; margin:10px;color:#c1acde;">
She had not been around then - when the doors of death opened its great and greedy maw. She had not been around for much of anything, truthfully. Perhaps that is why she is so perceptive to the change in the night; the way the air called just slightly more, how the breeze smelled a bit sharper. So she followed, for what else did she have to do when a command wasn’t thrown at her? There was little other meaning in her life outside of the bidding of others (and isn’t that all her father wanted of her anyway?).
She follows the night, it’s beck and call, the way the wind danced over her skin and tasted her fears. How foolish to follow something based on a whim - but she is nothing if not naive and new to this world of Beqanna. She does not know the death and decay that it can bring, nor the delights and desires it can grant. She simply follows, occasionally lifting her nose to the night sky to stay the course.
The course that brings her to yawning gates and a creature before them. Creature, for she has no better word for it. Its voice cracks sharply throughout the night - a mix of a manic scream and a childish delight. Greta starts, her head shimmying back and her body taut. This was not what she was expecting - it asks her a question. Not a command, something to direct her inner obedience and tell her what to do. But a question asked of her - something to allow her to make her own decisions for once.
<b> “ Well.. I um. I suppose a trick?”</b> Her father knew lots of tricks, and it seemed her new friend Straia did too. They had shown her lots of tricks in her little time here - and perhaps there were still other mysterious tricks that she had yet to have seen. <B> “Yes. A trick then - I have seen quite a lot of those from Father, and I would like to see what yours are like.”</b>
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