12-05-2019, 02:12 PM
<center><link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Fredericka+the+Great|Marcellus+SC|Special+Elite|Tangerine" rel="stylesheet"><style> .castcont {position:relative;z-index:1;width:560px;border:2px solid black;padding-top:20px;background:#061212;box-shadow: 0px 0px 20px black;border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;} .castquote {position:relative;z-index:2;text-align:right; font: 9px 'time new roman'; color: #f07e73;padding-bottom:20px;left:-10px;} .castmessage {position:relative; z-index:2;border-left:1px solid #f07e73;padding-right:50px;padding-left:10px;left:20px;text-align:justify;font:12px 'times new roman'; color:#AEB0AF;} .castgradient {position:relative;z-index:3;width:560;height:50px;top:20px;background: -ms-linear-gradient(top, rgba(6,18,18,1) 0%, rgba(125,185,232,0) 100%);background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(6,18,18,1) 0%,rgba(125,185,232,0) 100%);background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(6,18,18,1) 0%,rgba(125,185,232,0) 100%)} .castimage {position:relative;z-index:2;width:560px;margin:-30px;} .castname {position:relative;z-index:3;color:#f07e73;font:30px 'tangerine';top:-351px;left:190px;letter-spacing:15px;text-shadow: 13px 0px 4px #AEB0AF;}</style><div class=castcont> <div class="castquote">and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left<br>a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was</div><div class="castmessage">
A scorpion crawls past, paying no attention to Castile as he stands vigilant in front of the oasis. Every trace of his draconic heritage submerges beneath the depths, for now. The fire in his gut continues to roil eagerly, but he swallows down the threat of billowing smoke and destruction. A weary sideways glance confirms the passing of the sandstorm. Strong gusts still whip against him, but it’s not suffocating or lethal. With a heavy cough, Castile slips beyond the invisible barrier into the oasis. Palm leaves trace along him like the fingers of lovers, but his attention steadily holds the water until he finally immerses himself into its embrace. Sand and grime melt away as he sinks into its depths to cleanse himself before eventually gulping away his thirst.
It comes as a swirling cloud of chaos, a turbulent storm that yanks him from the oasis and into a world, a place, he still does not know. Jerked into restlessness, Castile turns confusedly until motion snaps up from the dust and fog.
The lighting is dim, but he still sees her inching toward a cliff’s edge while shouting a name. His heart leaps from his chest, but before a breath can even sink into his lungs, there is a manic whirl replaced by the desert once more. This time, there is a palomino fighting to defend her own life against a stallion. Hatred and unrestrained rage electrify the air. It’s nearly so powerful to pull him into it as well. There’s something – a <i>gravitation</i> - that sinks claws into him as he observes the murder. He sees the woman’s distress and her desperation to survive, the strength waning from her muscles. Another hit, another cry.
And then she is down.
A crushing sound – Castile knows the sound of bones snapping – and gurgled breaths.
She is dying, her heart one beat closer to stopping entirely.
But then the stallion is destroying himself. Determination spreads like poison as he contorts and shifts to attain his goal, and that’s when Castile sees.
Orange. Orange eyes.
Like his.
A breath catches in his throat with assumption and revelation. Orange eyes. Murder. Kin.
His blood is poisoned - <i>tainted</i> - by the cruel deeds of his ancestors.
… Or empowered…
Before he can react, the world blinks away again and repeats the looming deaths. It would be easy to take flight and to catch the first as she tumbles down the cliff in a futile search for <i>someone,”</i> but his mind still desperately gropes for those orange eyes. <i>”I’m sorry,”</i> he whispers more to himself than the obsidian woman in the distance. Fog snakes along her body, fading the image of her until Castile is hurled back into the fighting sequence.
This time, he acts quickly.
Lurching forward, Castile’s body ripples and quickly alters. The black tobiano markings disappear until he is painted as a palomino. He mimics the woman beautifully, drinking in the bleached locks so that he mirrors her perfectly by the time his body slams into the obsidian stallion to offset his balance during the preparation for that rib-crunching hit. A labored breath shoves from his chest the instant their bodies collide. Even if there’s a flicker of confusion – are there two of her? – it’s enough. Castile engages in a fight while trying to keep between them, a wall shielding the fallen woman.
But the eyes keep forcing hesitation. He swallows, but hits again, only to regret it and wonder if this is right, if he is brutally bombarding one of his own ancestors in a place he knows not.
It does not come without suffering, however; bruises bloom across his body and lacerations criss cross his skin until he can take no more. Blood – he has lost track as to whom it belongs – stains the sand around them. The nameless palomino is quietly aside, panting with her own battle wounds. The cloaked male, persistent and determined, presses near but Castile’s body shifts in that instant. Talons, scales, and wings all sprout and expand his body into its dragon form. Fire blasts into the air, but not at the cloaked murderer.
His head lowers and his lips curl into a snarl. <i>”I’m saving you from killing your own mother,”</i> he had watched them once in entirety before returning to the memory to intervene. The scream hasn’t happened yet, not in this second replay, but the words burn in Castile’s memory as he whips around to see the crumpled woman. His head inclines observantly, slowly turning until she sees the orange eye that so perfectly mirrors her attacker. A low rumble vibrates through his core before snatching her in his claws and taking flight, buffeting the stallion with air and sand. Castile does not hear the shouting or see the orange eyes rip from the stallion’s head.
The flight is subjectively short as he soars quickly enough (and high enough) to locate a smaller oasis. Only once they’ve descended, and once Castile’s body has reverted back to a tobiano horse, does he turn on her. <i>”What did you do to him?!”</i> His voice is sharp, his stare eerily intense – and his left eye shifts to orange, like a jack-o-lantern, like the son she just fought – as he closes the small space between them, not realizing what she could just as easily do to him. <i>”Tell me I was right to save you from death. Why should I have not let him crush you before stopping him from…”</i> he does not need to say it. The bloody image flashes across the back of his eyelids when he blinks, and he reels back a step, both afraid and thirsty for answers.
</div> <div class="castgradient"></div> <img class="castimage" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3a/f6/0c/3af60ca3191f811e43ba97ce40851796.jpg"> <div class="castname">castile</div> </div></div></center>
A scorpion crawls past, paying no attention to Castile as he stands vigilant in front of the oasis. Every trace of his draconic heritage submerges beneath the depths, for now. The fire in his gut continues to roil eagerly, but he swallows down the threat of billowing smoke and destruction. A weary sideways glance confirms the passing of the sandstorm. Strong gusts still whip against him, but it’s not suffocating or lethal. With a heavy cough, Castile slips beyond the invisible barrier into the oasis. Palm leaves trace along him like the fingers of lovers, but his attention steadily holds the water until he finally immerses himself into its embrace. Sand and grime melt away as he sinks into its depths to cleanse himself before eventually gulping away his thirst.
It comes as a swirling cloud of chaos, a turbulent storm that yanks him from the oasis and into a world, a place, he still does not know. Jerked into restlessness, Castile turns confusedly until motion snaps up from the dust and fog.
The lighting is dim, but he still sees her inching toward a cliff’s edge while shouting a name. His heart leaps from his chest, but before a breath can even sink into his lungs, there is a manic whirl replaced by the desert once more. This time, there is a palomino fighting to defend her own life against a stallion. Hatred and unrestrained rage electrify the air. It’s nearly so powerful to pull him into it as well. There’s something – a <i>gravitation</i> - that sinks claws into him as he observes the murder. He sees the woman’s distress and her desperation to survive, the strength waning from her muscles. Another hit, another cry.
And then she is down.
A crushing sound – Castile knows the sound of bones snapping – and gurgled breaths.
She is dying, her heart one beat closer to stopping entirely.
But then the stallion is destroying himself. Determination spreads like poison as he contorts and shifts to attain his goal, and that’s when Castile sees.
Orange. Orange eyes.
Like his.
A breath catches in his throat with assumption and revelation. Orange eyes. Murder. Kin.
His blood is poisoned - <i>tainted</i> - by the cruel deeds of his ancestors.
… Or empowered…
Before he can react, the world blinks away again and repeats the looming deaths. It would be easy to take flight and to catch the first as she tumbles down the cliff in a futile search for <i>someone,”</i> but his mind still desperately gropes for those orange eyes. <i>”I’m sorry,”</i> he whispers more to himself than the obsidian woman in the distance. Fog snakes along her body, fading the image of her until Castile is hurled back into the fighting sequence.
This time, he acts quickly.
Lurching forward, Castile’s body ripples and quickly alters. The black tobiano markings disappear until he is painted as a palomino. He mimics the woman beautifully, drinking in the bleached locks so that he mirrors her perfectly by the time his body slams into the obsidian stallion to offset his balance during the preparation for that rib-crunching hit. A labored breath shoves from his chest the instant their bodies collide. Even if there’s a flicker of confusion – are there two of her? – it’s enough. Castile engages in a fight while trying to keep between them, a wall shielding the fallen woman.
But the eyes keep forcing hesitation. He swallows, but hits again, only to regret it and wonder if this is right, if he is brutally bombarding one of his own ancestors in a place he knows not.
It does not come without suffering, however; bruises bloom across his body and lacerations criss cross his skin until he can take no more. Blood – he has lost track as to whom it belongs – stains the sand around them. The nameless palomino is quietly aside, panting with her own battle wounds. The cloaked male, persistent and determined, presses near but Castile’s body shifts in that instant. Talons, scales, and wings all sprout and expand his body into its dragon form. Fire blasts into the air, but not at the cloaked murderer.
His head lowers and his lips curl into a snarl. <i>”I’m saving you from killing your own mother,”</i> he had watched them once in entirety before returning to the memory to intervene. The scream hasn’t happened yet, not in this second replay, but the words burn in Castile’s memory as he whips around to see the crumpled woman. His head inclines observantly, slowly turning until she sees the orange eye that so perfectly mirrors her attacker. A low rumble vibrates through his core before snatching her in his claws and taking flight, buffeting the stallion with air and sand. Castile does not hear the shouting or see the orange eyes rip from the stallion’s head.
The flight is subjectively short as he soars quickly enough (and high enough) to locate a smaller oasis. Only once they’ve descended, and once Castile’s body has reverted back to a tobiano horse, does he turn on her. <i>”What did you do to him?!”</i> His voice is sharp, his stare eerily intense – and his left eye shifts to orange, like a jack-o-lantern, like the son she just fought – as he closes the small space between them, not realizing what she could just as easily do to him. <i>”Tell me I was right to save you from death. Why should I have not let him crush you before stopping him from…”</i> he does not need to say it. The bloody image flashes across the back of his eyelids when he blinks, and he reels back a step, both afraid and thirsty for answers.
</div> <div class="castgradient"></div> <img class="castimage" src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3a/f6/0c/3af60ca3191f811e43ba97ce40851796.jpg"> <div class="castname">castile</div> </div></div></center>