09-13-2017, 07:40 PM
<center><link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Halant|Kristi" rel="stylesheet"><link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cormorant+SC|IM+Fell+Great+Primer+SC" rel="stylesheet"><div style="width: 550px; background: url('http://i.imgur.com/dA69zKb.png'); padding-top: 10px; background-position: top; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-color: #0b0b0d; border-radius: 300px 300px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #000000;"><center><div style="font-family: 'Cormorant SC', serif; font-size: 40px; color: #2e2d29; line-height:30pt; padding-top: 40px; padding-right: 110px; align:center; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #e0dcce;">feast.</div><div style="font-family: Times; color: #acacac; font-size: 12px; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 2px; line-height: 10pt; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 220px; letter-spacing: .5px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #e0dcce;"><i>death inspires me,</i></div><div style="font-family: Times; color: #acacac; font-size: 12px; padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 10px; line-height: 10pt; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 90px; letter-spacing: .5px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #e0dcce;"><i>like a dog inspires a rabbit.</i></div><div style="width: 500px; margin-top: 280px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; padding: 10px; font-family: Times; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #777776; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 140%; text-align: justify; border-radius: 0px 0px;"><center><div style="width: 500px; border-bottom: 1px solid #0c0c0e; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 10px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px #e0dcce;"></div></center>Pangea has fallen - -
No, he is a horse albeit a strange one - goat-horned, cloven-hooved, dragging a broken wing that has left it’s share of blood and feathers on the trail here as he looks at the entrance to the lair then back down to the bone jutting from the earth. “Who were you?” he wants to ask it, but would the bone answer him - could it? Feast thinks not, it is just a bone and he is just a horse of some kind that has been summoned and driven both, to come here. Here, to hell because he thinks that is an apt enough name for what awaits him though he has no true concept of how fitting that thought shall come to be. He looks back down at the bone and some eldritch light seems to catch against it, making the whiteness of it wink as if in invitation and thus, Feast crosses the threshold into the lair.<center><div style="width: 500px; border-bottom: 1px solid #0c0c0e; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px #e0dcce;"></div></div></div></center>
Fallen long enough ago to be but a memory in the minds of most, except his. He remembers, somewhat of a prince to it though Pollock, the goat-king, had never voiced as much to him or the sick-sad twin of his, Famine. But he knows his place amongst them, or did - no Pangea, no princehood, no place or sense of belonging. That invisible brat-sister of his has managed to exist without these things, why can’t he? Because nothing compels him half so much as that wasteland had or his supposed entitlement to it even though it was a thing fashioned by a dark god.
A dark god that comes, makes and unmakes as gods are wont to do.
A dark god that fashions wolves of lava that slap the ground with their too-large paws, making it tremble in small earthquakes that announce their arrival as much as their vociferous howls do.
Feast turns a head in the directions of the howls and the earth-tremors that rock beneath his cloven feet. His ears are pricked atop his goat-horned head as he looks for the source of it all, be that a dark god or the wolves themselves. Before he can even heed the imminent danger of lava-wolves, a sinister murmur interrupts his thoughts:
Come, and be transformed.
Hm, transformed? He wants to know how and by who. Those are natural thoughts. He is not beyond a state of curiosity to respond to the inherent desire in that call. More like a summons, he thought, dangerous and desirous, and he knew his would not be the only heart that flickered into life at such a heady mix of feelings. Danger and desire, who could resist that combination? It spurred him to motion just as the lava-wolves broke from the nearby treeline but he moved ahead of them, unafraid even if it seemed that they herded him towards a destination only they knew about. Along the way, his broken wing dragged and sometimes, his right back foot pulled more and more feathers out of the bedraggled thing so that he spilled a trail of small blood droplets and feathers behind him.
He noticed with flat black eyes that the way became darker and darker. Feast did not mind the dark, nor the way the air began to grow damp and dank, almost fetid. He paused to suck in a heavy breath of it and couldn’t help the cough that came out despite himself. It was the kind of air that caused sickness in the lungs, he knew that, but he couldn’t resist pulling more of it into them. It smelled of… death and decay. Feast liked those things, as few could or did and he almost wished Famine was here with him, thinking the half-dead twin would enjoy this as much as he did.
The way grows steep and takes a gradual but noticeable turn downward as he notices the earth starting to rise up and cover him in a tunnel that it is not without it’s pitfalls. Sometimes, the going is narrow so much so that his barrel rubs raw against the earthen walls and other times, rocks jut out and bump his head so that he blurts out expletives in between painful objections and he has to wonder just why it is that he is doing this. Danger, his brain tells him. Desire, his heart beckons. He stops just short of the underground cavern;
No, lair. He thinks, that is more appropriate but he has stopped because his foot has knocked against something and as he looks down, he expects to make out a rock of course in the dimness of the underground. But this rock has a gleam to it, an unnatural shine of smooth white that is more like… bone. The smell hits him again, square in the nostrils, riper - fresher, recent death and new decomposition. He can feel his jaws almost slaver but he is not a creature to pine for things like the kill, like the sensation of clamping down with pointed jaws to feel skin and fur rip and blood pool in the mouth.
No, he is a horse albeit a strange one - goat-horned, cloven-hooved, dragging a broken wing that has left it’s share of blood and feathers on the trail here as he looks at the entrance to the lair then back down to the bone jutting from the earth. “Who were you?” he wants to ask it, but would the bone answer him - could it? Feast thinks not, it is just a bone and he is just a horse of some kind that has been summoned and driven both, to come here. Here, to hell because he thinks that is an apt enough name for what awaits him though he has no true concept of how fitting that thought shall come to be. He looks back down at the bone and some eldritch light seems to catch against it, making the whiteness of it wink as if in invitation and thus, Feast crosses the threshold into the lair.<center><div style="width: 500px; border-bottom: 1px solid #0c0c0e; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px #e0dcce;"></div></div></div></center>