04-06-2019, 10:47 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Dosis' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .litotes_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 600px; border: solid 1px #000; background-color: #383b91; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .litotes_grad-bg { z-index: 2; position: absolute; top: 201px; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 200px; background: -moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(56, 59, 145, 0) 0%, rgba(56, 59, 145, 0.75) 48%, rgba(56, 59, 145, 1) 100%); background: -webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(56, 59, 145, 0) 0%, rgba(56, 59, 145, 0.75) 48%, rgba(56, 59, 145, 1) 100%); background: linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(56, 59, 145, 0) 0%, rgba(56, 59, 145, 0.75) 48%, rgba(56, 59, 145, 1) 100%); filter: progid
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient(startColorstr='#00383b91', endColorstr='#383b91', GradientType=0); } .litotes_image { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 600px; } .litotes_text { position: relative; z-index: 3; width: 580px; background-color: #202140; border-top: solid 15px #12141f; border-left: solid 1px #12141f; border-right: solid 1px #12141f; margin-bottom: 10px; } .litotes_container p { margin: 0; } .litotes_message { text-align: justify; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 40px; color: #ccc8ea; } .litotes_quote { text-align: center; font: 12px 'Dosis', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; padding: 10px; margin-bottom: 20px; letter-spacing: 2px; line-height: 1.4em; color: #ccc8ea; background-color: #12141f; } .litotes_name { position: absolute; z-index: 8; font: 80px 'Dosis', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #bab6fb4f; letter-spacing: 5px; margin-top: 310px; margin-left: 300px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 30px #000; } </style> <center> <div class="litotes_container"> <div class="litotes_name">litotes</div> <img class="litotes_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/yNQ7TC6K/litotes.jpg"> <div class="litotes_grad-bg"></div> <div class="litotes_text"> <p class="litotes_message">The luck of the draw comes to him in waves.
In the beginning, it is gentle, like the wash of a calm sea upon its familiar shore. Litotes’ eyes flutter, then finally open, a sleepy glaze filtering his vision. He swallows while blinking away the exhaustion, the grass beneath his tucked legs shifting beneath his sluggish movements. The sound of his smacking lips is what eventually awakes him: a pop, pop, pop too loud for sleepy ears.
Before his now clear eyes is a thin line of smoke. The legs beneath the cremello are unsteady in their sudden rush to arise, forcing a two-step stumble into the almost viscous gray mist. Lie rears back with an upset nicker. The smell that invades his nostrils is revolting, dragging long-repressed memories of his parents burning flesh to the forefront his mind. Panic begins to set in, just before the initial rush of the fairies’ call floods his mind.
Though not entirely relaxed, the chilling sensation that passes over his spine begins to calm him. Litotes cocks his head and swivels his ears around, glimmering topaz eyes drifting to see where the saturated smoke ends. He finds that the gray does not end; in fact, it appears as if a path is being formed. Just as he realizes this, the chills he felt before return in an even stronger wave, this one accompanied by an ominous and indistinct whispering. Spit builds in the back of Lie’s mouth for the smell is growing stronger, more disgusting. He senses that it will only become more invasive if he does not heed its command.
The dew of the night squelches beneath his hooves as he takes his first hesitant steps forward. Wind blows back and forth across the rocky hills, and yet the gently swaying mist never wavers. Litotes gulps as he follows, yet another fairy wave chilling his spine. This one numbs his mind and speeds his pace, beckons him to come closer - step into the mist . . . he thinks . . . I’ll just . . . drink . . . it in . . .
All goes quiet.
All goes dark.
The Mountain is before Litotes when he comes to. There is a soreness in his legs that indicates he overexerted himself, but whatever magic came over his mind will not allow him to remember. Slowly, he shakes the confusion from his mind and brings his eyes upward to study his surroundings. The fog that surrounds him seems to suction in just as he notices its thick absoluteness. Out of the white come the resources proven to be invaluable to Beqanna: icicles, pebbles, flowers, and seashells. They spread apart and form a circle around the cremello, then suddenly fall diagonally into the shape of a neat “2” upon his back.
Shale crumbles just ahead: murk clearing to reveal the glimmer of a clean ivory rabbit. The unsettling red of its eyes instill the same distinct call of the mist, though this time there is no blackness to overtake his mind. With a small attempt to glance at the items that rest supernaturally still upon his hide, Litotes steps forward. The rabbit mirrors him: one hop forward, and so on, the two pacing through the thin path the mist allows.
Suddenly, the shimmery creature stops dead still, then bursts into a flurry of terrified chittering. Litotes cries, “No, no, no, no, no -” All the pain and fear of the creature sending dagger after jagged dagger into his chest. From the blinding gloom leaps a pale lion, somehow furious and morose all at once. It looks familiar . . . like a reflection . . . and the stallion’s creeping suspicion is confirmed when it smiles a hollow mimicry of Lie’s disenchanted grin.
“You’re out of time, Litotes.”
The guttural growl sounds exactly like the stallion, except it is garbled as if spoken underwater. Blood begins to trickle from both of the white lion’s nostrils, just as the exact lines of blood begin to trail the same path down Lie’s. The rabbit’s crying continues as the symptoms of the plague worsen; yet the frightened creature sits quiveringly still, as if rooted to the earth by the statuesque stances of the reflections facing off.
Against his will, Litotes shifts into his lion form. A roar of rage screams with all the might of his lungs, a rebuttal to the extreme creak and pain of bones that do not want to change. The opposing lion changes also - changes into an exact replica of the cremello’s natural form. Fury icy like the searing winds of the Arctic cuts across his chest.
What mockery is this?
With no warning at all, the equine begins to choke on cough after cough. Litotes’ throat follows suit, and he thinks he may die here. He staggers forward a single step in his struggle to gasp, and so does the cremello opposite. A breathy squeak catches his ear, and through his heaves he sees the semi-crushed body of the white rabbit beneath the other’s hoof: bones protruding from tears in its skin like some sick puzzle desperate to be put back together. Bile builds in the back of his throat.
Something is very wrong.
When the lion finally catches his breathe and looks forward, the stallion is rushing him with a sickly grin plastered across his face. Too late, Litotes launches into a pounce, all desperate claws and confused canines. The equine that mimics his appearance so well is already rearing back, front legs flying with so much unearthly force that two kicks to the ribs send the lion’s pounce several feet backwards. He lands spine-first into a boulder he did not know was there.
There is no sound when the other appears above Litotes’ bleeding skull. It simply is, unchanged grin and hollow eyes begging the lion to fall into a similar madness. It leans into his ear and whispers, “You have to kill me.” The shifter looks up at his replica with pained eyes, but stays silent. It places the pressure of a single hoof upon his throat in response. “You have to kill me,” it repeats, this time stronger and flatter - empty.
Suddenly, the equine backs away and screams, “Kill me! Kill me! Now!” It rages until Litotes lurches upward, crimson blood dripping from a long gash beside his right eye. The silence that follows his rise is overwhelming, quickly followed by the startling arrival of a crow landing with a shuffle upon the replica’s back.
The foreboding that the avian brings forces the lion to stagger forward. A tear drips from his eye as he barely manages a leap into the equines throat, predator canines tearing at a jugular that it should be protecting. All the while, the crow watches with abyss-black eyes, seemingly seething over the blood as it spills and spills.
Finally, the reflection collapses with a gurgle and the crow cries angrily into the sky. The bird flies further up the Mountain, disappearing into the fog. Litotes follows with a sickly limp, refusing to look back at the mess. He cries silently as he reaches the top of the summit, too frightened of what the fog and magic mean to stop the tears as they come. He belly crawls across the top plateau’s grass, the items on his back now spinning in a circle just above his head.
<p class="litotes_quote">i don't want your pity, i just want somebody near me <br>guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel all right </p> </div> </div> </center>
XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient(startColorstr='#00383b91', endColorstr='#383b91', GradientType=0); } .litotes_image { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 600px; } .litotes_text { position: relative; z-index: 3; width: 580px; background-color: #202140; border-top: solid 15px #12141f; border-left: solid 1px #12141f; border-right: solid 1px #12141f; margin-bottom: 10px; } .litotes_container p { margin: 0; } .litotes_message { text-align: justify; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 40px; color: #ccc8ea; } .litotes_quote { text-align: center; font: 12px 'Dosis', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; padding: 10px; margin-bottom: 20px; letter-spacing: 2px; line-height: 1.4em; color: #ccc8ea; background-color: #12141f; } .litotes_name { position: absolute; z-index: 8; font: 80px 'Dosis', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #bab6fb4f; letter-spacing: 5px; margin-top: 310px; margin-left: 300px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 30px #000; } </style> <center> <div class="litotes_container"> <div class="litotes_name">litotes</div> <img class="litotes_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/yNQ7TC6K/litotes.jpg"> <div class="litotes_grad-bg"></div> <div class="litotes_text"> <p class="litotes_message">The luck of the draw comes to him in waves.In the beginning, it is gentle, like the wash of a calm sea upon its familiar shore. Litotes’ eyes flutter, then finally open, a sleepy glaze filtering his vision. He swallows while blinking away the exhaustion, the grass beneath his tucked legs shifting beneath his sluggish movements. The sound of his smacking lips is what eventually awakes him: a pop, pop, pop too loud for sleepy ears.
Before his now clear eyes is a thin line of smoke. The legs beneath the cremello are unsteady in their sudden rush to arise, forcing a two-step stumble into the almost viscous gray mist. Lie rears back with an upset nicker. The smell that invades his nostrils is revolting, dragging long-repressed memories of his parents burning flesh to the forefront his mind. Panic begins to set in, just before the initial rush of the fairies’ call floods his mind.
Though not entirely relaxed, the chilling sensation that passes over his spine begins to calm him. Litotes cocks his head and swivels his ears around, glimmering topaz eyes drifting to see where the saturated smoke ends. He finds that the gray does not end; in fact, it appears as if a path is being formed. Just as he realizes this, the chills he felt before return in an even stronger wave, this one accompanied by an ominous and indistinct whispering. Spit builds in the back of Lie’s mouth for the smell is growing stronger, more disgusting. He senses that it will only become more invasive if he does not heed its command.
The dew of the night squelches beneath his hooves as he takes his first hesitant steps forward. Wind blows back and forth across the rocky hills, and yet the gently swaying mist never wavers. Litotes gulps as he follows, yet another fairy wave chilling his spine. This one numbs his mind and speeds his pace, beckons him to come closer - step into the mist . . . he thinks . . . I’ll just . . . drink . . . it in . . .
All goes quiet.
All goes dark.
The Mountain is before Litotes when he comes to. There is a soreness in his legs that indicates he overexerted himself, but whatever magic came over his mind will not allow him to remember. Slowly, he shakes the confusion from his mind and brings his eyes upward to study his surroundings. The fog that surrounds him seems to suction in just as he notices its thick absoluteness. Out of the white come the resources proven to be invaluable to Beqanna: icicles, pebbles, flowers, and seashells. They spread apart and form a circle around the cremello, then suddenly fall diagonally into the shape of a neat “2” upon his back.
Shale crumbles just ahead: murk clearing to reveal the glimmer of a clean ivory rabbit. The unsettling red of its eyes instill the same distinct call of the mist, though this time there is no blackness to overtake his mind. With a small attempt to glance at the items that rest supernaturally still upon his hide, Litotes steps forward. The rabbit mirrors him: one hop forward, and so on, the two pacing through the thin path the mist allows.
Suddenly, the shimmery creature stops dead still, then bursts into a flurry of terrified chittering. Litotes cries, “No, no, no, no, no -” All the pain and fear of the creature sending dagger after jagged dagger into his chest. From the blinding gloom leaps a pale lion, somehow furious and morose all at once. It looks familiar . . . like a reflection . . . and the stallion’s creeping suspicion is confirmed when it smiles a hollow mimicry of Lie’s disenchanted grin.
“You’re out of time, Litotes.”
The guttural growl sounds exactly like the stallion, except it is garbled as if spoken underwater. Blood begins to trickle from both of the white lion’s nostrils, just as the exact lines of blood begin to trail the same path down Lie’s. The rabbit’s crying continues as the symptoms of the plague worsen; yet the frightened creature sits quiveringly still, as if rooted to the earth by the statuesque stances of the reflections facing off.
Against his will, Litotes shifts into his lion form. A roar of rage screams with all the might of his lungs, a rebuttal to the extreme creak and pain of bones that do not want to change. The opposing lion changes also - changes into an exact replica of the cremello’s natural form. Fury icy like the searing winds of the Arctic cuts across his chest.
What mockery is this?
With no warning at all, the equine begins to choke on cough after cough. Litotes’ throat follows suit, and he thinks he may die here. He staggers forward a single step in his struggle to gasp, and so does the cremello opposite. A breathy squeak catches his ear, and through his heaves he sees the semi-crushed body of the white rabbit beneath the other’s hoof: bones protruding from tears in its skin like some sick puzzle desperate to be put back together. Bile builds in the back of his throat.
Something is very wrong.
When the lion finally catches his breathe and looks forward, the stallion is rushing him with a sickly grin plastered across his face. Too late, Litotes launches into a pounce, all desperate claws and confused canines. The equine that mimics his appearance so well is already rearing back, front legs flying with so much unearthly force that two kicks to the ribs send the lion’s pounce several feet backwards. He lands spine-first into a boulder he did not know was there.
There is no sound when the other appears above Litotes’ bleeding skull. It simply is, unchanged grin and hollow eyes begging the lion to fall into a similar madness. It leans into his ear and whispers, “You have to kill me.” The shifter looks up at his replica with pained eyes, but stays silent. It places the pressure of a single hoof upon his throat in response. “You have to kill me,” it repeats, this time stronger and flatter - empty.
Suddenly, the equine backs away and screams, “Kill me! Kill me! Now!” It rages until Litotes lurches upward, crimson blood dripping from a long gash beside his right eye. The silence that follows his rise is overwhelming, quickly followed by the startling arrival of a crow landing with a shuffle upon the replica’s back.
The foreboding that the avian brings forces the lion to stagger forward. A tear drips from his eye as he barely manages a leap into the equines throat, predator canines tearing at a jugular that it should be protecting. All the while, the crow watches with abyss-black eyes, seemingly seething over the blood as it spills and spills.
Finally, the reflection collapses with a gurgle and the crow cries angrily into the sky. The bird flies further up the Mountain, disappearing into the fog. Litotes follows with a sickly limp, refusing to look back at the mess. He cries silently as he reaches the top of the summit, too frightened of what the fog and magic mean to stop the tears as they come. He belly crawls across the top plateau’s grass, the items on his back now spinning in a circle just above his head.
<p class="litotes_quote">i don't want your pity, i just want somebody near me <br>guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel all right </p> </div> </div> </center>
