11-11-2020, 08:37 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cormorant+Garamond&display=swap" rel="stylesheet"><style type="text/css">.chasmata_container{position:relative;z-index:1;width:560px;background: #08aa9a;border:1px solid;border-image-source: url("https://i.postimg.cc/5yvnMgTg/oie-l2trl-Ag2q6kq.gif");border-image-slice: 60 30;box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px rgb(8, 170, 154,.4);}.chasmata_container p{margin:0;}.chasmata_image{position:relative;z-index:4;margin-top:0px;border-radius: 0 0 0 0;}.chasmata_message{position:relative;z-index:10;width:500px;text-align:justify;font:12px 'Times New Roman', serif;padding:10px;padding-bottom:70px;color:#015b6f;border-top: solid 1px #b69d74;border-bottom:0;border-left: solid 1px #6c5537 ;border-right: solid 1px #6c5537;border-image-source: url("https://i.postimg.cc/5yvnMgTg/oie-l2trl-Ag2q6kq.gif");border-image-slice: 60 30;margin-top:-10px;margin-bottom:40px;background: linear-gradient(to top, rgba(255,255,255,0) 20%, rgba(85,209,194,1)), url("https://i.postimg.cc/sftX2mGz/chasmabg4.png");
webkit-background-clip: text;-webkit-text-fill-color: transparent;box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px rgb(2, 61, 70,.4);}.chasmata_name{position:relative;z-index:15;text-align:center;text-shadow:0 0 10px black;letter-spacing:43px;font-family: 'Cormorant Garamond', serif;background-image:url("https://i.postimg.cc/5yvnMgTg/oie-l2trl-Ag2q6kq.gif");-webkit-background-clip:text;-webkit-text-fill-color:transparent;color:#34586d;font-size:65px;margin-bottom:-90px;padding:5px;}.chasmata_title{position:relative;z-index:20;text-align:center;letter-spacing:2px;font-style:bold;font-family: 'Cormorant Garamond', serif;font-size:14px;color:#87eedb;text-shadow:0 0 10px #011119;margin-top:-80px;margin-bottom:10px;}.chasmata_hr{border-top:1px solid;border-image-source: url("https://i.postimg.cc/5yvnMgTg/oie-l2trl-Ag2q6kq.gif");border-image-slice: 60 30;width:400px;margin-top:20px;margin-bottom:-40px;}</style><center><div class="chasmata_container"><div class="chasmata_name">chasmata</div><img class="chasmata_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/G22Q9qDd/chasmata1.png"><div class="chasmata_message"><div style="background: linear-gradient(#023d46, #023d46);-webkit-background-clip: text;-webkit-text-fill-color: transparent;">
There is a moment of uncertain silence and then the shadow thing lifts its hand and there is a flash of absolutely nothing and then she is standing back in the Cove. She feels a pang of disappointment, a glimmer of youthful petulance, as she lifts her head and surveys her surroundings. Everything is as it should be. Or so it seems at first glance.
She blinks, the eyes still glowing pale in the darkness, and realizes that there is something wrong. The world stretching out around her more closely resembles the things she sees in the daytime. Shapeless, colorless, everything seems just a shade off exactly right. She blinks again, a little harder this time, as if the problem is with her eyes.
She calls out into the darkness as if to summon her mother but nothing stirs. Even the sea sounds far away, crashing against some distant beach despite the fact that she is standing near enough that she should be able to feel the spray of the waves. She swallows thickly as a thin tendril of fear snakes through her gut and tightens like a vise around her throat.
It feels like a nightmare. It has all of the makings of a bad dream -- the draining of color from her surroundings, the sideways beat of her heart, the crushing aloneness. Her breath quickens and she wonders if this is death. The antithesis of her home.
Finally, a flash of movement catches her eye and she whips her head around in the direction of the sea. She stands stock still, her heart in her throat, her nostrils flared and her glowing eyes wide, as a figure drags itself from the waves. It staggers onto the beach. Its breath is loud and wet and it turns her stomach.
“<b>Hello?</b>” she calls out, her voice small, but the figure -- only vaguely equine at this stage -- does not appear to hear her. Or, if it does, it feels no urge to respond. It approaches slowly, coughing water up out of its lungs as it goes. She is frozen in place as she clouds above part and a shaft of moonlight falls over the figure. Its flesh sloughs from its sides as if it itself is liquid. Its jaw is twisted into some grotesque expression and it occurs to her that she must be dead.
This must be the Afterlife. Her greediness must have been a death sentence.
But she cannot stay here. She must get back.
The thing is close enough now to snap its crooked jaws at her. It reeks of death and decay and the sea. She squeezes her eyes shut and, paralyzed by fear, lets it take her. There is the faint shock of pain as she sucks in one last breath.
And then she awakens, standing before the shadow figure with shaking knees.
<center><div class="chasmata_hr"></div></center>
</div></div><div class="chasmata_title"><b>the moonlight, baby, shows you what’s real
but there ain’t language for the things i feel</b></div></div></center>
webkit-background-clip: text;-webkit-text-fill-color: transparent;box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px rgb(2, 61, 70,.4);}.chasmata_name{position:relative;z-index:15;text-align:center;text-shadow:0 0 10px black;letter-spacing:43px;font-family: 'Cormorant Garamond', serif;background-image:url("https://i.postimg.cc/5yvnMgTg/oie-l2trl-Ag2q6kq.gif");-webkit-background-clip:text;-webkit-text-fill-color:transparent;color:#34586d;font-size:65px;margin-bottom:-90px;padding:5px;}.chasmata_title{position:relative;z-index:20;text-align:center;letter-spacing:2px;font-style:bold;font-family: 'Cormorant Garamond', serif;font-size:14px;color:#87eedb;text-shadow:0 0 10px #011119;margin-top:-80px;margin-bottom:10px;}.chasmata_hr{border-top:1px solid;border-image-source: url("https://i.postimg.cc/5yvnMgTg/oie-l2trl-Ag2q6kq.gif");border-image-slice: 60 30;width:400px;margin-top:20px;margin-bottom:-40px;}</style><center><div class="chasmata_container"><div class="chasmata_name">chasmata</div><img class="chasmata_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/G22Q9qDd/chasmata1.png"><div class="chasmata_message"><div style="background: linear-gradient(#023d46, #023d46);-webkit-background-clip: text;-webkit-text-fill-color: transparent;">
There is a moment of uncertain silence and then the shadow thing lifts its hand and there is a flash of absolutely nothing and then she is standing back in the Cove. She feels a pang of disappointment, a glimmer of youthful petulance, as she lifts her head and surveys her surroundings. Everything is as it should be. Or so it seems at first glance.
She blinks, the eyes still glowing pale in the darkness, and realizes that there is something wrong. The world stretching out around her more closely resembles the things she sees in the daytime. Shapeless, colorless, everything seems just a shade off exactly right. She blinks again, a little harder this time, as if the problem is with her eyes.
She calls out into the darkness as if to summon her mother but nothing stirs. Even the sea sounds far away, crashing against some distant beach despite the fact that she is standing near enough that she should be able to feel the spray of the waves. She swallows thickly as a thin tendril of fear snakes through her gut and tightens like a vise around her throat.
It feels like a nightmare. It has all of the makings of a bad dream -- the draining of color from her surroundings, the sideways beat of her heart, the crushing aloneness. Her breath quickens and she wonders if this is death. The antithesis of her home.
Finally, a flash of movement catches her eye and she whips her head around in the direction of the sea. She stands stock still, her heart in her throat, her nostrils flared and her glowing eyes wide, as a figure drags itself from the waves. It staggers onto the beach. Its breath is loud and wet and it turns her stomach.
“<b>Hello?</b>” she calls out, her voice small, but the figure -- only vaguely equine at this stage -- does not appear to hear her. Or, if it does, it feels no urge to respond. It approaches slowly, coughing water up out of its lungs as it goes. She is frozen in place as she clouds above part and a shaft of moonlight falls over the figure. Its flesh sloughs from its sides as if it itself is liquid. Its jaw is twisted into some grotesque expression and it occurs to her that she must be dead.
This must be the Afterlife. Her greediness must have been a death sentence.
But she cannot stay here. She must get back.
The thing is close enough now to snap its crooked jaws at her. It reeks of death and decay and the sea. She squeezes her eyes shut and, paralyzed by fear, lets it take her. There is the faint shock of pain as she sucks in one last breath.
And then she awakens, standing before the shadow figure with shaking knees.
<center><div class="chasmata_hr"></div></center>
</div></div><div class="chasmata_title"><b>the moonlight, baby, shows you what’s real
but there ain’t language for the things i feel</b></div></div></center>