04-09-2019, 04:07 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Abel|Lora" rel="stylesheet"><style> #tenstars{ width:564px; border:1px solid #a7afc4; box-shadow:0px 0px 10px #a7afc4; background:url('https://i.postimg.cc/pLK6wVwj/TenBG.jpg'); padding-top:23px;} #tenstarstext{ width:480px; position:relative; z-index:1; background:#000000; color:#ffffff; font-size:13px; font-family: 'Lora', serif; border:1px dotted #ffffff; box-shadow:0px 0px 5px #ffffff; opacity:0.5; padding:15px; margin-bottom:200px;} #tenstarsimg{ position:relative; z-index:0;} #tenstarsname{ color:#ffffff; position:relative; z-index:2; opacity:0.3; font-size:60px; font-family: 'Abel', sans-serif; margin-bottom:-780px; letter-spacing:30px; margin-left:40px;}</style><center><div id="tenstars"><div id="tenstarstext" align="justify">It’s terribly easy to dismiss time when time is so little an object. For the boy of pale gold and silver, time has never held the same meaning it might to others his age. Not when Mother blindly stumbles through it, so easily forgetting little things such as when and where they are. He isn’t entirely sure what she had sought, only knowing that night and day seemed to have no rhyme nor reason and childhood could not be counted.
So it is in this strange manner he ends up here, today. On this day of all days.
Of course, he has no clue of the day. No clue that in the reality of time he should be no more than a weanling. But mother paid no mind to such things, had traveled to and fro with him enough times now that on this, the most auspicious of days, he is a lean yearling just beginning to grow out of the gangly awkwardness of youth.
Why is it such an auspicious day, one might ask? Well, for starters, it is the day his mother left him behind. Quite by accident, as she would later insist, but nevertheless it is true. Unfortunately it is not the first time she has so inadvertently misplaced her children, nor would it be the last. And, as though that were not sufficient, it is the day he finds himself called to the mountain.
At first it is simply a strange tug. A whisper in his ear that tempts him close, tantalizing a boy beset by endless curiosity. A mystery, as it were. Stories of plague and bravery and healing.
You see, poor Ten here has been rather sheltered, for all that he has lived an odd life. This is his first encounter with the reality of the plague that has so ravaged these lands. And rather than know fear, he instead is beset by a wicked curiosity, for to him, plague is little more than an abstract word.
Too quickly however, he finds the truth of these dangerous whispers, but by the time he understands, it is far far too late for the young boy. But fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how one might look at it), he is as stubbornly determined as he is foolishly brave, and with a such a quest between his teeth, he is not about to give up, even if he does not quite fully understand it yet.
--
Counterintuitive though it may be, finding the odd little bits and pieces he needs to ferry up the mountain is actually the simple part. Icicles and pebbles and flowers and shells complete his odd little posey, and with a satisfied little snort, he steps rather jauntily towards the winding, treacherous path leading upwards. Now, any sensible equine might find a trail with such a dark and foreboding presence hovering over it alarming. But no one has ever accused Ten of such sensibility. Perhaps it is the fallacy of youth, or perhaps it is simply Ten’s nature. Either way, it sends him forward with far more bravery than he likely should have.
So it happens that as he begins the ascent and dark fingers of plague reach out to ravage the boy, he realizes that perhaps he has bitten off more than he can chew. Still, returning down the mountain is not an option, even when his breath begins to rasp in his lungs and chills grip his skin. The farther he climbs, the more thickly his breath comes, and soon he begins to cough. A rattling cough that sounds as terrible as it feels.
Regrettably for the poor, naive Ten, this is not even the worst of it.
At first he barely even notices the whispers. Indeed, one could almost mistake them for the gentle call that had drawn him to the mountain to begin with. Almost.
But it soon becomes apparent this is something much more sinister and much less benevolent. Darkness stains every haunted whisper, sparking fevered imaginations the drag him to a trembling halt. How long he stands there within the smog of plague and gripping fingers of nightmare that tug him under, it is impossible to say. The battle he fights is not a visible one. It does not scuff the earth or draw blood from flesh.
No, it is far more subtle than that. And far more dangerous.
--
<i>Such a worthless boy,</i> it whispers, digging invisible, gangrenous fingers deep.
<i>Your mother could not wait to leave you.</i>
<i>You are nothing but a stupid, whimpering burden.</i>
<i>Do you hear that rattle in your chest? That is all you are to this world. Phlegm to spit onto the ground.</i>
<i>“No,”</i> he whispers back, though no sound leaves his throat. <i>“You lie!”</i>
Did it though? Did it lie? With such terrible insidiousness, it saps every bit of confidence he has and replaces it with self doubt. A plague of the mind as much as it is of the body.
<i>You will never make it. You are weak. No one wants you. This world does not want you. Lay down on this mountainside. Death suits you so much better anyway.</i>
He tries to shake his head, but his body refuses to move. Sweat gathers on his neck, darkening his flank and causing his skin to itch fiercely. Invisible, taunting spiders crawl along his nerve endings, his breath rattling with each inhale as the prospect of death lingers so heavily before him.
It is that (only that awful prospect of dying) which stirs a fierce protest within his soul. One that even such a ghastly beast could not defeat.
<b>“No!”</b> he shouts, the words bursting from his lips. He has barely lived. Has not seen enough of the wonders he knows this world holds. He has too much he wants to do still. He could not, <i>would not</i>, die. Not yet. Not today.
As though that single word is the key to his shackles, the hold on him shatters, freeing him from plague’s deadly grip. He shoots forward, as though his body is a rubber band held taught and suddenly released, letting his instinctive need to flee claim him. He can feel the poisonous fingers stretching, reaching, trying to reclaim it’s prize. But for all his foolish bravery, Ten is a clever boy who learns quickly enough to know he must not stop lest he admit defeat.
He climbs upwards, eager hooves scrabbling against hard stone and loose gravel. He stumbles time and again, until his legs are weary and his knees and cannons scraped and bloody. But still he persists. His lungs scream inside his chest, his breath little more than hacking gasps, but still he refuses to give in. When he finally reaches the top, blood stains his lips and sweat foams on his skin, but he is triumphant.
His lungs might rattle dangerously inside his chest and his limbs might tremble with weakness, but he had not let that foul fog win. Not today. Not ever</div><div id="tenstarsname">TEN</div><div id="tenstarsimg"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/BQrz7PVs/Ten.png" width="564px"/></div></div></center>
So it is in this strange manner he ends up here, today. On this day of all days.
Of course, he has no clue of the day. No clue that in the reality of time he should be no more than a weanling. But mother paid no mind to such things, had traveled to and fro with him enough times now that on this, the most auspicious of days, he is a lean yearling just beginning to grow out of the gangly awkwardness of youth.
Why is it such an auspicious day, one might ask? Well, for starters, it is the day his mother left him behind. Quite by accident, as she would later insist, but nevertheless it is true. Unfortunately it is not the first time she has so inadvertently misplaced her children, nor would it be the last. And, as though that were not sufficient, it is the day he finds himself called to the mountain.
At first it is simply a strange tug. A whisper in his ear that tempts him close, tantalizing a boy beset by endless curiosity. A mystery, as it were. Stories of plague and bravery and healing.
You see, poor Ten here has been rather sheltered, for all that he has lived an odd life. This is his first encounter with the reality of the plague that has so ravaged these lands. And rather than know fear, he instead is beset by a wicked curiosity, for to him, plague is little more than an abstract word.
Too quickly however, he finds the truth of these dangerous whispers, but by the time he understands, it is far far too late for the young boy. But fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how one might look at it), he is as stubbornly determined as he is foolishly brave, and with a such a quest between his teeth, he is not about to give up, even if he does not quite fully understand it yet.
--
Counterintuitive though it may be, finding the odd little bits and pieces he needs to ferry up the mountain is actually the simple part. Icicles and pebbles and flowers and shells complete his odd little posey, and with a satisfied little snort, he steps rather jauntily towards the winding, treacherous path leading upwards. Now, any sensible equine might find a trail with such a dark and foreboding presence hovering over it alarming. But no one has ever accused Ten of such sensibility. Perhaps it is the fallacy of youth, or perhaps it is simply Ten’s nature. Either way, it sends him forward with far more bravery than he likely should have.
So it happens that as he begins the ascent and dark fingers of plague reach out to ravage the boy, he realizes that perhaps he has bitten off more than he can chew. Still, returning down the mountain is not an option, even when his breath begins to rasp in his lungs and chills grip his skin. The farther he climbs, the more thickly his breath comes, and soon he begins to cough. A rattling cough that sounds as terrible as it feels.
Regrettably for the poor, naive Ten, this is not even the worst of it.
At first he barely even notices the whispers. Indeed, one could almost mistake them for the gentle call that had drawn him to the mountain to begin with. Almost.
But it soon becomes apparent this is something much more sinister and much less benevolent. Darkness stains every haunted whisper, sparking fevered imaginations the drag him to a trembling halt. How long he stands there within the smog of plague and gripping fingers of nightmare that tug him under, it is impossible to say. The battle he fights is not a visible one. It does not scuff the earth or draw blood from flesh.
No, it is far more subtle than that. And far more dangerous.
--
<i>Such a worthless boy,</i> it whispers, digging invisible, gangrenous fingers deep.
<i>Your mother could not wait to leave you.</i>
<i>You are nothing but a stupid, whimpering burden.</i>
<i>Do you hear that rattle in your chest? That is all you are to this world. Phlegm to spit onto the ground.</i>
<i>“No,”</i> he whispers back, though no sound leaves his throat. <i>“You lie!”</i>
Did it though? Did it lie? With such terrible insidiousness, it saps every bit of confidence he has and replaces it with self doubt. A plague of the mind as much as it is of the body.
<i>You will never make it. You are weak. No one wants you. This world does not want you. Lay down on this mountainside. Death suits you so much better anyway.</i>
He tries to shake his head, but his body refuses to move. Sweat gathers on his neck, darkening his flank and causing his skin to itch fiercely. Invisible, taunting spiders crawl along his nerve endings, his breath rattling with each inhale as the prospect of death lingers so heavily before him.
It is that (only that awful prospect of dying) which stirs a fierce protest within his soul. One that even such a ghastly beast could not defeat.
<b>“No!”</b> he shouts, the words bursting from his lips. He has barely lived. Has not seen enough of the wonders he knows this world holds. He has too much he wants to do still. He could not, <i>would not</i>, die. Not yet. Not today.
As though that single word is the key to his shackles, the hold on him shatters, freeing him from plague’s deadly grip. He shoots forward, as though his body is a rubber band held taught and suddenly released, letting his instinctive need to flee claim him. He can feel the poisonous fingers stretching, reaching, trying to reclaim it’s prize. But for all his foolish bravery, Ten is a clever boy who learns quickly enough to know he must not stop lest he admit defeat.
He climbs upwards, eager hooves scrabbling against hard stone and loose gravel. He stumbles time and again, until his legs are weary and his knees and cannons scraped and bloody. But still he persists. His lungs scream inside his chest, his breath little more than hacking gasps, but still he refuses to give in. When he finally reaches the top, blood stains his lips and sweat foams on his skin, but he is triumphant.
His lungs might rattle dangerously inside his chest and his limbs might tremble with weakness, but he had not let that foul fog win. Not today. Not ever</div><div id="tenstarsname">TEN</div><div id="tenstarsimg"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/BQrz7PVs/Ten.png" width="564px"/></div></div></center>