08-07-2020, 12:28 AM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Playfair+Display' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .dacian_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/Hx1B3VBk/dacianbg.png'); width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #101010; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .dacian_container p { margin: 0; } .dacian_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .dacian_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; margin-top: -300px; background: #707070e6; border: solid 1px #3a3a3a; border-bottom: none; } .dacian_quote { font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center; color: #101010; padding: 20px; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 1.5em; border-bottom: solid 1px #3a3a3a; width: 80%; } .dacian_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #101010; padding: 30px; } .dacian_quotetwo { font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center; color: #101010; padding: 40px 20px 20px; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 1.5em; border-top: solid 1px #3a3a3a; width: 80%; } .dacian_name { font: 70px 'Playfair Display', serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #484848; line-height: 0.2em; padding-top: 20px; padding-left: 20px; letter-spacing: 25px; opacity: 0.5; -webkit-text-stroke: 2px #3a3a3a; } </style> <center> <div class="dacian_container"> <img class="dacian_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/FsTCmFsT/dacian.png"> <div class="dacian_text"> <p class="dacian_quote">you have forsaken all the love you've taken <br>sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall</p> <p class="dacian_message">He came, though it did not feel like it was by choice.
The voice that invaded his mind was impossible to ignore even though he doesn't recognize it – he still has a fairly good idea of who it belongs to. He had been alive long enough the first time, and Carnage was perhaps the only thing that seemed to remain consistent about this place.
It's why he has half a mind to ignore it.
He is sure that whatever reason the dark god has for disrupting his thoughts, it was unlikely to be anything good. He had not been alive (again) for the plague, but maybe he would have tried harder to resist the temptation if he had been. He would have known that Carnage had played a hand in unleashing the deadly disease that overtook Beqanna; he would have had a fresh memory of the kind of destruction he created.
Maybe he would not be following the command like some mind-washed fool, and yet, here he is.
He leaves behind Aurorae against his better judgment, but it is with the internal promise to himself that he won't be gone long.
He goes to the beach, as instructed, and instantly he is assaulted by the smell of salt and decay. He is reminded of cracked ribs and crushed skulls, and when the sound of bones breaking echoes across his memory, he isn't sure if they are his own or if the sound belongs to those that he killed.
But it coils his gut into a taut spring, and when the tension reaches the hard outline of his muscles, he cannot discern if it's from a fear of losing control or a desire to.
He watches Carnage in silence as he speaks, his face made of granite. He spares a brief glance to the others that are there, but since he does not recognize any of them, he does not afford them much else.
When he mentions dying, that is the first time emotion flashed across his face. Anger flickers like a flame, hot as it brightens the dark of his eyes and his ears flatten to his skull. He was here, <i>alive</i> because the afterlife had been opened. He wasn't interested in returning to it, not yet.
It turns out he has little say in the matter.
The fire starts in his veins, raging like a river as it courses the entire length of him. It snakes around his bones like a rope, burning the muscle and rising to smolder just beneath his skin. There, the fire settles, slowing its pace just enough to let the stallion register that he is burning alive from the inside out. His flesh begins to bubble and peel, sloughing off in places to the sands below, and the hellish screams that rip from his throat ignite just like the fire that consumes him.
He burns and burns until there is nothing left but ash and bones, a ribcage and a skull and tendrils of smoke reaching up to a gray sky.
And then he is there, in the afterlife, again.
And he is again left with a hollow rage, with an anger that cannot find the heartbeat that it needs to fuel it. Everything here is a muted version of what it should be, and he wonders if the thought of Aurorae will be enough to inspire him to get back out.</p> <p class="dacian_name">Dacian</p> <p class="dacian_quotetwo">your body's aching, every bone is breaking <br>nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on</p> </div> </div> </center>
The voice that invaded his mind was impossible to ignore even though he doesn't recognize it – he still has a fairly good idea of who it belongs to. He had been alive long enough the first time, and Carnage was perhaps the only thing that seemed to remain consistent about this place.
It's why he has half a mind to ignore it.
He is sure that whatever reason the dark god has for disrupting his thoughts, it was unlikely to be anything good. He had not been alive (again) for the plague, but maybe he would have tried harder to resist the temptation if he had been. He would have known that Carnage had played a hand in unleashing the deadly disease that overtook Beqanna; he would have had a fresh memory of the kind of destruction he created.
Maybe he would not be following the command like some mind-washed fool, and yet, here he is.
He leaves behind Aurorae against his better judgment, but it is with the internal promise to himself that he won't be gone long.
He goes to the beach, as instructed, and instantly he is assaulted by the smell of salt and decay. He is reminded of cracked ribs and crushed skulls, and when the sound of bones breaking echoes across his memory, he isn't sure if they are his own or if the sound belongs to those that he killed.
But it coils his gut into a taut spring, and when the tension reaches the hard outline of his muscles, he cannot discern if it's from a fear of losing control or a desire to.
He watches Carnage in silence as he speaks, his face made of granite. He spares a brief glance to the others that are there, but since he does not recognize any of them, he does not afford them much else.
When he mentions dying, that is the first time emotion flashed across his face. Anger flickers like a flame, hot as it brightens the dark of his eyes and his ears flatten to his skull. He was here, <i>alive</i> because the afterlife had been opened. He wasn't interested in returning to it, not yet.
It turns out he has little say in the matter.
The fire starts in his veins, raging like a river as it courses the entire length of him. It snakes around his bones like a rope, burning the muscle and rising to smolder just beneath his skin. There, the fire settles, slowing its pace just enough to let the stallion register that he is burning alive from the inside out. His flesh begins to bubble and peel, sloughing off in places to the sands below, and the hellish screams that rip from his throat ignite just like the fire that consumes him.
He burns and burns until there is nothing left but ash and bones, a ribcage and a skull and tendrils of smoke reaching up to a gray sky.
And then he is there, in the afterlife, again.
And he is again left with a hollow rage, with an anger that cannot find the heartbeat that it needs to fuel it. Everything here is a muted version of what it should be, and he wonders if the thought of Aurorae will be enough to inspire him to get back out.</p> <p class="dacian_name">Dacian</p> <p class="dacian_quotetwo">your body's aching, every bone is breaking <br>nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on</p> </div> </div> </center>