09-27-2018, 02:22 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Italianno|Sawarabi+Mincho" rel="stylesheet"><style>#rapturewater{width:650px;}#rapturewaterimg{border:#d6cfc9 1px solid;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #d6cfc9;margin-bottom:-498px;margin-left:0px;background:url('https://s5.postimg.cc/w07jpwb3b/Rapture6.jpg') top left no-repeat;background-size:189px;height:500px;width:188px;margin-right:410px;position:relative;z-index:0;}#rapturewatercontainer{border:#d6cfc9 1px solid;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #d6cfc9;margin-top:-502px;margin-right:0px;background:url('https://s5.postimg.cc/x2hq8fm6v/Rapture_BG2.jpg') top right no-repeat;height:500px;width:395px;margin-left:203px;position:relative;z-index:0;}#rapturewatertext{background:#ddd6d3;opacity:0.45;height:470px;width:365px;overflow:auto;padding:15px;position:relative;z-index:4;}#rapturewatertext::-webkit-scrollbar{width:8px;}#rapturewatertext::-webkit-scrollbar-track{-webkit-box-shadow: inset 0 0 8px rgba(0,0,0,0);}#rapturewatertext::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb{background:url('https://s5.postimg.cc/nj81egqtj/Rapture_Scroll.jpg') top center;border-radius:8px;border:1px rgba(255,255,255,0.5) solid;}#rapturewatername{width:150px;height:40px;overflow:visible;background:-webkit-linear-gradient(left, rgba(189,184,180,0), rgba(189,184,180,1)60px);background:-o-linear-gradient(right, rgba(189,184,180,0), rgba(189,184,180,1)60px);background:-moz-linear-gradient(left, rgba(189,184,180,0), rgba(189,184,180,1)60px);background:-linear-gradient(to right, rgba(189,184,180,0), rgba(189,184,180,1)60px);background:-ms-linear-gradient(left, rgba(189,184,180,0), rgba(189,184,180,1)60px);opacity:0.7;margin-right:372px;margin-top:-90px;position:relative;z-index:1;}#rapturewaternametext{color:#564b5c;font-size:50px;font-family: 'Italianno', cursive;margin-bottom:-15px;margin-right:5px;float:right;position:relative;z-index:2;margin-top:-17px;}hr.rapturewater{border:0;height:1px;background:#564b5c;background-image:linear-gradient(to right, #60585e, #564b5c);width:150px;position:relative;z-index:3;float:right;margin-top:0;}#rapturewaterquote{color:#1a171c;font-family: 'Italianno', cursive;font-size:22px;}</style><center><div id="rapturewater"><div id="rapturewaterquote" align="left">somewhere between the sand and the stardust</div><div id="rapturewaterimg"></div><div id="rapturewatercontainer"><div id="rapturewatertext" align="justify">For a time, there is only the hush of the deep and the pulsing, sickly glow of the heart. Her eyes glimmer unearthly green in the faint light, but they are blank. She stares unseeing into the eye of Pangea, her mind unable to come to terms with the pain of her grief. Even the throb of her injured skin cannot tear her back to the present.
There are others now, each drawn here by the same sickening tug that had brought her to this dead kingdom. She pays them no heed however, her mind too lost in denial and stilled by the shock that renders her mute and pliant. She might have stood like that forever, lost eternally to the sea, had it not been for the pain that slowly begins to build in her hip.
His voice means little to her as he speaks, the words a mumble in her skull, all too easy to ignore. Pangea is little more than a myth to her, and it’s rise and fall had never guided the path she had taken. Truth be told, none of the kingdoms had. She had never felt anything in her heart for the pieces of land so many fought and bled and died for. Not her place of birth, nor even the place she currently resides (no, it was her ache for another that had drawn her there, not any true preference for it’s humid confines).
But now, it seems, she would bleed for a land. For the first time in her life, she would give a piece of herself, giving life to death. Even if it was only a small piece kept here in it’s heart, she would belong to this land. Always.
Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps she was merely an accidental target. Whatever the case, her destiny has been sealed.
The philosophy of the thing is lost on her however. Soon, all she knows is pain. <i>Give those pieces to Pangea,</i> he says. And so she does. Wretchedly.
Pain is not pretty. It is not a thing to be admired or sought. It is horrid and ugly and frightening. Her once lovely face creases as the bits of rock and dirt that had burrowed beneath her skin now try to claw their way free. They are not sickened by the dying heart. Instead they are drawn to it, iron to a lodestone. But she does not fare so well.
As it turns out, she is not the soldier, but the sacrifice.
Her pain means nothing in the face of birth. It cares not whether her screams of agony are lost to the heavy waters, her tears swallowed by the briny depths. But she accepts her fate, not even attempting to resist. The pain of her body now matches that of her heart. It is qismet, if such a thing really exists.
Her blood billows into the dark blue of the water, garnet in the sallow light. But the heart is greedy, unwilling to let her sacrifice go in vain. It swallows her blood hungrily, drawing her lifesource from the sea (from her body) in greedy gulps. It isn’t until her screams have died and her eyes grow heavy, her vision dancing with black spots, that it finally seems to have clawed everything it needs from her. The flesh of her hip gapes gruesomely, tissue torn away from muscle and sinew. She doesn’t have the strength to wonder if she will ever have use of her leg again. She doesn't even have the strength to wonder if she will live.
Blessedly, as darkness begins to consume her, her pain gives way to the bliss of unconsciousness. It is the first joy she has felt since the start of this hellish journey.
-----
Time is meaningless in the the depths of such unwilling slumber. It is impossible for her to know how much time has passed when she finally awakens, blue and white frame pressing heavily against coarse grains of sand. Death lingers here, but somehow she has found life.
Somehow, she has survived.</div></div><div id="rapturewatername"><hr class="rapturewater"><div id="rapturewaternametext">Rapture</div><hr class="rapturewater"></div><div id="rapturewaterquote" style="margin-top:53px;" align="right">there is a pulse that echoes of you and I</div></div></center>
There are others now, each drawn here by the same sickening tug that had brought her to this dead kingdom. She pays them no heed however, her mind too lost in denial and stilled by the shock that renders her mute and pliant. She might have stood like that forever, lost eternally to the sea, had it not been for the pain that slowly begins to build in her hip.
His voice means little to her as he speaks, the words a mumble in her skull, all too easy to ignore. Pangea is little more than a myth to her, and it’s rise and fall had never guided the path she had taken. Truth be told, none of the kingdoms had. She had never felt anything in her heart for the pieces of land so many fought and bled and died for. Not her place of birth, nor even the place she currently resides (no, it was her ache for another that had drawn her there, not any true preference for it’s humid confines).
But now, it seems, she would bleed for a land. For the first time in her life, she would give a piece of herself, giving life to death. Even if it was only a small piece kept here in it’s heart, she would belong to this land. Always.
Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps she was merely an accidental target. Whatever the case, her destiny has been sealed.
The philosophy of the thing is lost on her however. Soon, all she knows is pain. <i>Give those pieces to Pangea,</i> he says. And so she does. Wretchedly.
Pain is not pretty. It is not a thing to be admired or sought. It is horrid and ugly and frightening. Her once lovely face creases as the bits of rock and dirt that had burrowed beneath her skin now try to claw their way free. They are not sickened by the dying heart. Instead they are drawn to it, iron to a lodestone. But she does not fare so well.
As it turns out, she is not the soldier, but the sacrifice.
Her pain means nothing in the face of birth. It cares not whether her screams of agony are lost to the heavy waters, her tears swallowed by the briny depths. But she accepts her fate, not even attempting to resist. The pain of her body now matches that of her heart. It is qismet, if such a thing really exists.
Her blood billows into the dark blue of the water, garnet in the sallow light. But the heart is greedy, unwilling to let her sacrifice go in vain. It swallows her blood hungrily, drawing her lifesource from the sea (from her body) in greedy gulps. It isn’t until her screams have died and her eyes grow heavy, her vision dancing with black spots, that it finally seems to have clawed everything it needs from her. The flesh of her hip gapes gruesomely, tissue torn away from muscle and sinew. She doesn’t have the strength to wonder if she will ever have use of her leg again. She doesn't even have the strength to wonder if she will live.
Blessedly, as darkness begins to consume her, her pain gives way to the bliss of unconsciousness. It is the first joy she has felt since the start of this hellish journey.
-----
Time is meaningless in the the depths of such unwilling slumber. It is impossible for her to know how much time has passed when she finally awakens, blue and white frame pressing heavily against coarse grains of sand. Death lingers here, but somehow she has found life.
Somehow, she has survived.</div></div><div id="rapturewatername"><hr class="rapturewater"><div id="rapturewaternametext">Rapture</div><hr class="rapturewater"></div><div id="rapturewaterquote" style="margin-top:53px;" align="right">there is a pulse that echoes of you and I</div></div></center>
