11-28-2020, 12:29 AM
<style type="text/css"> .obelisk_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #000; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .obelisk_container p { margin: 0; } .obelisk_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .obelisk_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; margin-top: -200px; margin-bottom: 10px; } .obelisk_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #7f8386; padding: 30px; } .obelisk_quote { font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center; color: #4b5053; padding-bottom: 30px; line-height: 1.8em; letter-spacing: 2px; } </style> <center> <div class="obelisk_container"> <img class="obelisk_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/G2R9rvP3/obelisk.png"> <div class="obelisk_text"> <p class="obelisk_message"> He wakes slowly, as he is wont to do—blinking away the watery sun that barely crests the redwood trees and the sleep that gathers in his eyes before realizing the land surrounding him is not the land where he fell asleep.
Pulling himself up, there is a moment where his breath catches between his teeth, but the moment passes quickly, and he unsurprisingly takes the change in scenery in stride—swiveling his massive head from side-to-side as he takes stock of the land around him, unknowingly studying the Taigan forest.
It’s far more green than Pangea, he thinks, and he decides that the does not like the way that the fog rolls in across and through the trees; he does not like the way that the grey of it seems brimming with life while the grey of Pangea seems intentionally void of it.
Deep down, he is grateful that it is at least quiet; he had worried upon first sight that it would be much louder.
(The tree’s bark, after all.)
Still, it is not entirely silent, and when he peers further into the fog, he can see the way that the things stir, albeit blanketed by the spring drizzle and the comforting pitter patter of morning rain.
A flash of movement as a deer bounds across a fallen log.
Rumbles as a bear softly roams further into the belly of the forest.
Crackling of redwood needles as rabbits bound across them.
For a moment, his attention is snagged by one of them.
Grey as the fog around it, about four times as large as the average winklepicker (although it could be less, depending on the wearer, of course), the rabbit jumps like smoke, leaping through the dense air like a dolphin might leap through the ocean.
Obelisk inhales as the rabbit leaps forward and then swirls into the mist again as soon as it nears the ground, disappearing from sight as thought it had never existed at all.
But he exhales again when he catches sight of it just a little further away, materializing from the fog as the body reforms and the rabbit leaps forward again—as whole and real as any of the rabbits running in the woods.
What should he name it, he wonders, not stopping to wonder at the audacity of thinking that he would ever be in charge of naming anything like that.
Murmuring to himself, he steps forward, trailing the rabbit that leaps through the fog of its creation, and he stumbles slightly as he moves through large ferns.
Even with his limited mental capacity, he is captivated, but the only thing that he can think to name it is embarrassingly simple (even for him): fog jumper.
Now, if given a moment, he might have thought of something mildly more clever, like a fogalope, or more accurate, like a Taigan fog hare, but a mouse scurries in front of him, and he forgets about the magical rabbit leaping deeper and deeper into the forest entirely.
Just like that, his attention is snared yet again and he moves forward into a meadow clearing, chasing the tiny, completely ordinary mouse as though he had never seen the rabbit at all.
</p> <p class="obelisk_quote">turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along </p> </div> </div> </center>
Pulling himself up, there is a moment where his breath catches between his teeth, but the moment passes quickly, and he unsurprisingly takes the change in scenery in stride—swiveling his massive head from side-to-side as he takes stock of the land around him, unknowingly studying the Taigan forest.
It’s far more green than Pangea, he thinks, and he decides that the does not like the way that the fog rolls in across and through the trees; he does not like the way that the grey of it seems brimming with life while the grey of Pangea seems intentionally void of it.
Deep down, he is grateful that it is at least quiet; he had worried upon first sight that it would be much louder.
(The tree’s bark, after all.)
Still, it is not entirely silent, and when he peers further into the fog, he can see the way that the things stir, albeit blanketed by the spring drizzle and the comforting pitter patter of morning rain.
A flash of movement as a deer bounds across a fallen log.
Rumbles as a bear softly roams further into the belly of the forest.
Crackling of redwood needles as rabbits bound across them.
For a moment, his attention is snagged by one of them.
Grey as the fog around it, about four times as large as the average winklepicker (although it could be less, depending on the wearer, of course), the rabbit jumps like smoke, leaping through the dense air like a dolphin might leap through the ocean.
Obelisk inhales as the rabbit leaps forward and then swirls into the mist again as soon as it nears the ground, disappearing from sight as thought it had never existed at all.
But he exhales again when he catches sight of it just a little further away, materializing from the fog as the body reforms and the rabbit leaps forward again—as whole and real as any of the rabbits running in the woods.
What should he name it, he wonders, not stopping to wonder at the audacity of thinking that he would ever be in charge of naming anything like that.
Murmuring to himself, he steps forward, trailing the rabbit that leaps through the fog of its creation, and he stumbles slightly as he moves through large ferns.
Even with his limited mental capacity, he is captivated, but the only thing that he can think to name it is embarrassingly simple (even for him): fog jumper.
Now, if given a moment, he might have thought of something mildly more clever, like a fogalope, or more accurate, like a Taigan fog hare, but a mouse scurries in front of him, and he forgets about the magical rabbit leaping deeper and deeper into the forest entirely.
Just like that, his attention is snared yet again and he moves forward into a meadow clearing, chasing the tiny, completely ordinary mouse as though he had never seen the rabbit at all.
</p> <p class="obelisk_quote">turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along </p> </div> </div> </center>