01-03-2020, 05:28 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Allan|Playfair+Display|Rosario" rel="stylesheet"><link href="fonturl" rel="stylesheet"><style>#brazen{width:600px;border:1px solid #d8d4d3;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #898584;background:url('https://i.postimg.cc/rF53fRcX/BrazenBG.jpg');background-size:600px;position:relative;}#brazenname{margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:0px;z-index:2;position:relative;font-family: 'Playfair Display', serif;font-size:70px;text-transform:uppercase;color:#394956;}#brazenwrapper{position:relative;z-index:0;width:500px;background:#d8d4d3;border:1px solid #312c32;box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #312c32 inset;margin-top:-100px;margin-bottom:0px;padding-bottom:1px;padding-top:90px;opacity:0.8;}#brazentext{width:450px;color:#45403a;font-size:14px;font-family: 'Rosario', sans-serif;}#brazenpic{position:relative;z-index:1;margin-top:0px;}#brazenquote{color:#394956;font-size:18px;font-family: 'Allan', cursive;line-height:16px;}hr.brazenname{width:100px;background:#394956;height:2px;border:0;}</style><center><div id="brazen"><div id="brazenpic"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/x1CGcB6x/Brazen.png" width="600px"/></div><div id="brazenwrapper"><p id="brazenquote">cold in the violence after the war<br/>hope is a fire to keep us warm</p><p id="brazentext" align="justify">She is used to pain. It has become an old and constant companion, so closely tied into the fibers of her existence that it barely registers anymore. Bone rupturing skin, the warm trickle and tangy scent of blood, all as much a part of her as the blue of her eyes and the white and rust hue of her skin.
Does Brazen even truly exist without those things?
As it turns out, she does. But that is not where this tale begins. No, that would be on the distant cliffs of Nerine, masked features quiet as she stares absently out into the waves. She had spent hours pacing the decaying edges as she tried in vain to catch her mother’s attention. But she had disappeared. And Brazen, so vastly different from the woman who had birthed her, hadn’t the means or knowhow to determine what had happened.
She knows only that she must do <i>something</i>. What that something is though, she hadn’t figured out yet.
When the summons comes, a subtle ache upon the wind, she barely notices at first. As a woman so accustomed to pain, the faint discomfort is barely more than a tickle. If this is truly a nightmare, then she must already live her life in hell.
When it comes again, a phantom slice of pain across bloodied skin, she does notice. Frowning, she glances behind her, faintly confused until, between one blink and the next, she finds herself standing upon the dessicated and bloodstained soil of the Plains. Her confusion swells as she straightens abruptly, eyes sharpening as she warily surveys the land around her. Her pulse hums in renewed vigor as every instinct she has prickles, the old scents of blood and battle warning her of waiting dangers.
It is almost habit now, for her skin to stiffen in response to the imposing sense of threat. Except that… it does not. In fact, as she rolls her shoulders to loosen the crawling of her spine, she becomes acutely aware of the distinct <i>lack</i> of pain her body is experiencing. For the first time in a very long time, bone is not puncturing her skin or causing blood to trickle freely. Her entire body feels light, almost weightless. Each tentative step is taken with a sense of buoyancy she hadn’t known she could feel.
Despite the wonder that accompanies such a freeing sensation, she cannot ignore the itch along her spine that tells her this is not something to revel in. The niggling thread of doubt and common sense that almost screams at her that the forces that had brought her here had not taken her in kindness.
After all, one does not come to a land demolished by war expecting peace.
Peering ahead, she eyes the two monoliths (the only structures on this desolate battlefield) with a healthy distrust. But the longer she stares, the more clear it becomes. There is a choice to be made here.
Slowly, she closes the distance, eyes shifting between the two stones, curiosity warring with her better sense. As she draws nearer however, details begin to emerge. Fine lines that coalesce into carvings. Shapes she recognizes. Arches that form the many different shapes of wings, loops and swirls that arrange themselves into a seemingly endless variety of horns.
Almost hesitantly, she reaches out, lightly touching the black monolith. The one decorated in so many styles of horn. Though she had always found wings beautiful, she had never been a creature of air. No, she had been born a thing of war, her body meant to protect and shield. And those carvings spoke to her in a way the ones of wings could not. Bones and horns are not so very different, after all.
As though an understanding has been reached, she suddenly feels a heavy weight dragging her head downwards. With a snort, she steps back abruptly, head ducking as she shakes it. As though that would somehow rid herself of this new accouterment. But she can see the dark curl of new horns arching out and up before tapering to a dangerous point. Clear evidence of a strange new ability.
Somehow her choice had become reality. Flicking her tail, she once more peers warily around her, wondering at what cost these new horns had come.</p><hr class="brazenname" align="left" style="margin-bottom:-50px;margin-top:50px;margin-left:26px"><p id="brazenname">Brazen</p><hr class="brazenname" align="right" style="margin-top:-50px;margin-bottom:50px;margin-right:26px"></div></div></center>
Brazen is tied to Nerine. She chose the black stone and got cape buffalo horns.
Does Brazen even truly exist without those things?
As it turns out, she does. But that is not where this tale begins. No, that would be on the distant cliffs of Nerine, masked features quiet as she stares absently out into the waves. She had spent hours pacing the decaying edges as she tried in vain to catch her mother’s attention. But she had disappeared. And Brazen, so vastly different from the woman who had birthed her, hadn’t the means or knowhow to determine what had happened.
She knows only that she must do <i>something</i>. What that something is though, she hadn’t figured out yet.
When the summons comes, a subtle ache upon the wind, she barely notices at first. As a woman so accustomed to pain, the faint discomfort is barely more than a tickle. If this is truly a nightmare, then she must already live her life in hell.
When it comes again, a phantom slice of pain across bloodied skin, she does notice. Frowning, she glances behind her, faintly confused until, between one blink and the next, she finds herself standing upon the dessicated and bloodstained soil of the Plains. Her confusion swells as she straightens abruptly, eyes sharpening as she warily surveys the land around her. Her pulse hums in renewed vigor as every instinct she has prickles, the old scents of blood and battle warning her of waiting dangers.
It is almost habit now, for her skin to stiffen in response to the imposing sense of threat. Except that… it does not. In fact, as she rolls her shoulders to loosen the crawling of her spine, she becomes acutely aware of the distinct <i>lack</i> of pain her body is experiencing. For the first time in a very long time, bone is not puncturing her skin or causing blood to trickle freely. Her entire body feels light, almost weightless. Each tentative step is taken with a sense of buoyancy she hadn’t known she could feel.
Despite the wonder that accompanies such a freeing sensation, she cannot ignore the itch along her spine that tells her this is not something to revel in. The niggling thread of doubt and common sense that almost screams at her that the forces that had brought her here had not taken her in kindness.
After all, one does not come to a land demolished by war expecting peace.
Peering ahead, she eyes the two monoliths (the only structures on this desolate battlefield) with a healthy distrust. But the longer she stares, the more clear it becomes. There is a choice to be made here.
Slowly, she closes the distance, eyes shifting between the two stones, curiosity warring with her better sense. As she draws nearer however, details begin to emerge. Fine lines that coalesce into carvings. Shapes she recognizes. Arches that form the many different shapes of wings, loops and swirls that arrange themselves into a seemingly endless variety of horns.
Almost hesitantly, she reaches out, lightly touching the black monolith. The one decorated in so many styles of horn. Though she had always found wings beautiful, she had never been a creature of air. No, she had been born a thing of war, her body meant to protect and shield. And those carvings spoke to her in a way the ones of wings could not. Bones and horns are not so very different, after all.
As though an understanding has been reached, she suddenly feels a heavy weight dragging her head downwards. With a snort, she steps back abruptly, head ducking as she shakes it. As though that would somehow rid herself of this new accouterment. But she can see the dark curl of new horns arching out and up before tapering to a dangerous point. Clear evidence of a strange new ability.
Somehow her choice had become reality. Flicking her tail, she once more peers warily around her, wondering at what cost these new horns had come.</p><hr class="brazenname" align="left" style="margin-bottom:-50px;margin-top:50px;margin-left:26px"><p id="brazenname">Brazen</p><hr class="brazenname" align="right" style="margin-top:-50px;margin-bottom:50px;margin-right:26px"></div></div></center>
Brazen is tied to Nerine. She chose the black stone and got cape buffalo horns.