05-24-2018, 06:07 PM
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XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#413123', endColorstr='#413123', GradientType=0 );}.gaerwords{position: relative;z-index: 9;color: #8d4229;background: #413123;text-align: justify;padding: 20px;width: 420px;padding-bottom: 30px;}.gaername{position: relative;z-index: 12;color: #8d4229;font: 90px 'Satisfy', cursive;text-align: center;padding-center: 40px;margin-top: -50px;text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000;}.gaerquote{position: relative;z-index: 17;font: 22px 'Satisfy', cursive;font: 'Pegasus';color: #8d4229;}</style><center><div class="gaerback"><img class="gaerpic" src="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/3c/28/fd/3c28fd1f0e00b2ae3f5011a0fe221cf8--charlie-weasley-aesthetic-richard-madden.jpg"><div class="gaergrad"></div><div class="gaername">Belgaer</div><div class="gaerwords">
Maintaining the distance between them he is breathless as he watches her quietly study her injuries. Theirs had been a hurried affair, a flurry of hooves and teeth and strained muscles. Facing her he watched her quickened breathing flair the edges of her nostrils, the impact of his hooves upon her flank having had knocked the wind from her lungs. This was not his first mock battle and he kept himself primed and prepared for her next move.
Sweat rolled down his brow, his mane and tail clinging to his sticky wet hide. Beneath the layers of his flesh his muscles burned with the delight of their exercise. It had been too long. Having chosen diplomacy as his calling, he found himself spending less and less time outside of the training ring. Even if he had wanted to refine his skill farther than what they already were, time had been in short supply of late. His dance with Traton, however, reminded him that perhaps a few more spars could not be of any harm to him.
Knocking him out of his thoughts, the dark mare charged forward once more, a wild look upon her face. The whites of her eyes revealed a primal terror and he feared that she may have lost sight of the reality of their brawl. Her stride was strong as she feared towards his left, closing in the space between them. With a sudden toss of her shoulder she shifted her weight upon the balls of her feet, aiming her hindlegs at his shoulder. The world around them seemed to slow as he watched her hooves fly towards the fragile joint of his wing upon his back. Panicked, he flapped once, rocketing himself forward – her hooves planting them squarely upon the barrel of his middle. Breathless, he maintained his momentum, continuing forward, his own back legs kicking out in a fitful reprisal.
Landing he glanced over his shoulder, a glare set deep within his gaze. Had her blow landed upon it’s intended target he would have been seriously wounded, crippled even. Belgaer’s jaw set as he noted her ragged breath as it fell past her lips, horror deep within the whites of her eyes. She had not been thinking rationally, he knew, but that did not inspire him to forgive her. Flicking his tail indignantly he left the field without so much of a word, ending their sparring session.
</div><div class="gaerquote">The Prodigal Son</div></div></center>
Word count: 403 (I had to completely rewrite this. I'm sorry for the confusion)
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XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#413123', endColorstr='#413123', GradientType=0 );}.gaerwords{position: relative;z-index: 9;color: #8d4229;background: #413123;text-align: justify;padding: 20px;width: 420px;padding-bottom: 30px;}.gaername{position: relative;z-index: 12;color: #8d4229;font: 90px 'Satisfy', cursive;text-align: center;padding-center: 40px;margin-top: -50px;text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #000;}.gaerquote{position: relative;z-index: 17;font: 22px 'Satisfy', cursive;font: 'Pegasus';color: #8d4229;}</style><center><div class="gaerback"><img class="gaerpic" src="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/3c/28/fd/3c28fd1f0e00b2ae3f5011a0fe221cf8--charlie-weasley-aesthetic-richard-madden.jpg"><div class="gaergrad"></div><div class="gaername">Belgaer</div><div class="gaerwords">Maintaining the distance between them he is breathless as he watches her quietly study her injuries. Theirs had been a hurried affair, a flurry of hooves and teeth and strained muscles. Facing her he watched her quickened breathing flair the edges of her nostrils, the impact of his hooves upon her flank having had knocked the wind from her lungs. This was not his first mock battle and he kept himself primed and prepared for her next move.
Sweat rolled down his brow, his mane and tail clinging to his sticky wet hide. Beneath the layers of his flesh his muscles burned with the delight of their exercise. It had been too long. Having chosen diplomacy as his calling, he found himself spending less and less time outside of the training ring. Even if he had wanted to refine his skill farther than what they already were, time had been in short supply of late. His dance with Traton, however, reminded him that perhaps a few more spars could not be of any harm to him.
Knocking him out of his thoughts, the dark mare charged forward once more, a wild look upon her face. The whites of her eyes revealed a primal terror and he feared that she may have lost sight of the reality of their brawl. Her stride was strong as she feared towards his left, closing in the space between them. With a sudden toss of her shoulder she shifted her weight upon the balls of her feet, aiming her hindlegs at his shoulder. The world around them seemed to slow as he watched her hooves fly towards the fragile joint of his wing upon his back. Panicked, he flapped once, rocketing himself forward – her hooves planting them squarely upon the barrel of his middle. Breathless, he maintained his momentum, continuing forward, his own back legs kicking out in a fitful reprisal.
Landing he glanced over his shoulder, a glare set deep within his gaze. Had her blow landed upon it’s intended target he would have been seriously wounded, crippled even. Belgaer’s jaw set as he noted her ragged breath as it fell past her lips, horror deep within the whites of her eyes. She had not been thinking rationally, he knew, but that did not inspire him to forgive her. Flicking his tail indignantly he left the field without so much of a word, ending their sparring session.
</div><div class="gaerquote">The Prodigal Son</div></div></center>
Word count: 403 (I had to completely rewrite this. I'm sorry for the confusion)