01-13-2019, 03:59 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Quicksand:300' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .naia_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #1c1d16; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .naia_container p { margin: 0; } .naia_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; color: #717969; width: 100%; bottom: 40px; left: 10px; text-align: left; font: 100px 'Quicksand', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; text-shadow: 0px 0px 10px #000; } .naia_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .naia_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; border: solid 1px #717969; background-color: #00000050; margin-top: 20px; margin-bottom: -150px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .naia_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #717969; padding: 30px; line-height: 1.3em; } .naia_quote { text-align: center; color: #717969; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 800; line-height: 1.5em; padding-top: 30px; } </style> <center> <div class="naia_container"> <div class="naia_text"> <p class="naia_quote">it's a guarantee that he won't forget me. <br>my body little, my soul heavy.</p> <p class="naia_message">Naia’s head is down, ears locked into the nooks of her mane, lips pulled back so taut her gums are going white. Out of Nerine she goes - again and again, and perhaps again? She stops at Taiga’s border, sick of the neverending tree trunks and the endless fog, but suffocated by the sea’s crashing and eroding cliffs.
Sick of being myself.
“It’s not their fault,” she whispers to herself, casting one last haunted glance over her shoulder and into the gray of Nerine. She knows of Leilan’s family: Breckin, the little ones, Chryseis; yet Chryseis is the only one she has met, and even she by chance.
Naia feels so small.
So miniscule.
Selfish and berated and effortlessly cruel.
Her lips fall lethargically back across her teeth, lips haphazardly folded over each other. She misses Thalassa; she wishes her mother would show up again, at least for a second: even a moment of a familiar embrace may ease her loneliness. Time passes, though, racing past her suffering and stiff body. The breeze ruffles her thick gold mane, whisking hair into a gaze so glazed her blocked vision is of no consequence.
“. . . I am the Ice Queen . . .”
The golden locks blocking Naia’s eyes flip over her ears when she rears her head. The voice, kindly and imploring, is cold as it passes slowly across her mind. The appaloosa’s lids drift shut: her voice sounds like Thalassa’s in a buried memory, a day that she begged her daughter to please get off the ice, honey.
Quite funny, how the universe works - how it cannot give you exactly what you want, but proves it may not be exactly what you need.
Naia does not chew on the request; she simply canters in the direction of the Mountain. If she is to be completely honest with herself, the eagerness is rooted in a deep need to be distracted. Perhaps this quest will be life-threatening; perhaps she will not return. She thinks that would not be too terrible, death or disappearance or torture or kidnapping. She wishes she could stop thinking, even for just a second -
Please, could I stop running in the same ugly, abusive circle -
Suddenly she is amongst a few others: one brilliant white, one canine atop a boulder, and just the scent and imprint of another. The silence spans between them, Naia gulping and staring. She cannot mask her confusion or misplaced fear, but she can surely refuse to speak.</p> </div> <img class="naia_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/rwRFPhQb/naia.png"> <div class="naia_name">Naia</div> </div> </center>
srry she's like this this is how she always wants to be!
Sick of being myself.
“It’s not their fault,” she whispers to herself, casting one last haunted glance over her shoulder and into the gray of Nerine. She knows of Leilan’s family: Breckin, the little ones, Chryseis; yet Chryseis is the only one she has met, and even she by chance.
Naia feels so small.
So miniscule.
Selfish and berated and effortlessly cruel.
Her lips fall lethargically back across her teeth, lips haphazardly folded over each other. She misses Thalassa; she wishes her mother would show up again, at least for a second: even a moment of a familiar embrace may ease her loneliness. Time passes, though, racing past her suffering and stiff body. The breeze ruffles her thick gold mane, whisking hair into a gaze so glazed her blocked vision is of no consequence.
“. . . I am the Ice Queen . . .”
The golden locks blocking Naia’s eyes flip over her ears when she rears her head. The voice, kindly and imploring, is cold as it passes slowly across her mind. The appaloosa’s lids drift shut: her voice sounds like Thalassa’s in a buried memory, a day that she begged her daughter to please get off the ice, honey.
Quite funny, how the universe works - how it cannot give you exactly what you want, but proves it may not be exactly what you need.
Naia does not chew on the request; she simply canters in the direction of the Mountain. If she is to be completely honest with herself, the eagerness is rooted in a deep need to be distracted. Perhaps this quest will be life-threatening; perhaps she will not return. She thinks that would not be too terrible, death or disappearance or torture or kidnapping. She wishes she could stop thinking, even for just a second -
Please, could I stop running in the same ugly, abusive circle -
Suddenly she is amongst a few others: one brilliant white, one canine atop a boulder, and just the scent and imprint of another. The silence spans between them, Naia gulping and staring. She cannot mask her confusion or misplaced fear, but she can surely refuse to speak.</p> </div> <img class="naia_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/rwRFPhQb/naia.png"> <div class="naia_name">Naia</div> </div> </center>
srry she's like this this is how she always wants to be!