04-10-2019, 12:39 AM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Mrs+Saint+Delafield|Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .sochi3_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #1f2021; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; min-height: 500px; border: solid 3px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .sochi3_container p { margin: 0; } .sochi3_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .sochi3_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; width: 100%; text-align: center; top: 450px; right: 10px; font: 130px 'Mrs Saint Delafield', cursive; color: #d3ceca; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #000; } .sochi3_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; background: #000000bf; border-top: solid 1px #d3ceca; margin-top: -350px; margin-bottom: 10px; } .sochi3_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #d3ceca; padding: 0px 30px; line-height: 1.45em; } .sochi3_quote { width: 100%; text-align: center; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; color: #3f5663; letter-spacing: 1px; padding: 30px 0px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 10px #000; } </style> <center> <div class="sochi3_container"> <div class="sochi3_name">Sochi</div> <img class="sochi3_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/7ZwrPdKc/sochi.png"> <div class="sochi3_text"> <p class="sochi3_quote">darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied <br>maybe you need me or maybe you don't</p> <p class="sochi3_message"> It makes sense, in a way, that she would be the one to hear the call.
She had heard it in the beginning, had felt that pull in her belly that had driven her to Pangea and to the throat of a stallion whose name she still does not know. She had not fought it, had not even tried to pretend that she would. She had simply turned her attention to the southern kingdom and let it pull her toward it, let it capture her attention like a thread snagging on a thorn. She had felt it wash over her, let it pull her under, and when she had emerged from it, she had been made anew in the blood and disease.
Now she is something different entirely.
She is not the sweet, mild-mannered girl of her childhood.
She is not the confused, conflicted girl of early adulthood.
And she is not the callous, blood-thirsty tiger who had emerged from Carnage’s quest.
She is a mother and a soldier and she no longer cares about the labels she has spent so long wearing. She just wants to be free in the space of her own mind and perhaps that is why she answers this call. Perhaps that is why she unfolds her legs and lifts herself to her feet, shifting into her equine form and turning her silvery eyes to the horizon. The trip from Loess to the mountain does not take long, and she has been conditioned for such things for so long now. She barely recognizes how the time has passed.
When she arrives, others have come and gone already, but the items remain.
Icicles still magically preserved. Pebbles so innocuous. Wildflowers blooming. Seashells scattered.
She knows, in her heart, that these are the items she needs to take up the mountain, that these are the items that must be transferred and so she nods, watching as they rise and attach themselves to her orbit as if in some kind of gravitational pull. She doesn’t question it. After all, she has seen stranger things.
Instead she just tucks her chin in closer and makes her way into the fog, letting it split apart around her and then drawing her further into the belly of what is to come. Soon, the grey that blankets around her becomes thicker, the edges of it swirling around her legs and up her sides. The faint light of day goes spotty and then snuffs out completely. Feeling the faint edge of instinct, Sochi’s lips peel back against her teeth into a snarl and before she can draw her next breath, she becomes a tiger.
And when the air does come, she feels it rattling in her lungs.
She no longer remains invincible to the plague she helped bring to Beqanna. It is reminiscent of when it had first slipped into her veins, when it had been an echo of what was to come, but so much worse. She coughs and blood splatters onto the ground. She coughs and some of the hair on her hip sloughs off.
She coughs and the air rattles in her lungs and then transforms—
and she laughs.
Blood stains her ivory feline teeth and although fatigue shadows her eyes, she still drags herself forward, surrounded by the halo of items from the base of the mountain. She is not surprised when she begins to see the sickly faint glow emerging through the darkness. It is only right that the clock be turned back in this way. Out of the shadows, she sees two horses emerge. The first, just a mare. The second, the same monstrous undead creature she had fought at the bottom of the ocean. Both have her silver eyes.
Sochi does not hesitate. Even though the illness shakes within her, crippling her, squeezing the very air from her throat, she doesn’t stop. She simply launches forward on shaky legs with her mouth open. She reaches the mare first and feels her throat crush in her mouth even as she feels the other sink teeth into her back. She screams—in rage, in pain, in understanding—and bites down harder.
Her skin splits open and blood pours down the ivory and orange of her legs. She swipes with her claws and both of them—the mare in between her teeth and the undead monster beneath her claws—turn to dust. They turn to dust and she is left with nothing but ash on her tongue and blood pooling by her feet.
When she rises this time, it takes more effort than she anticipated.
But she still rises.
She rises and drags herself forward, coughing and wheezing and dripping with blood, further up the mountain—and she doesn’t stop until she crests the final peak.
Until she stands, again as a horse, with teeth clenched and silvery eyes fierce,
ready for whatever is to come.
</p> <p class="sochi3_quote">playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons <br>if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf</p> </div> </div> </center>
She had heard it in the beginning, had felt that pull in her belly that had driven her to Pangea and to the throat of a stallion whose name she still does not know. She had not fought it, had not even tried to pretend that she would. She had simply turned her attention to the southern kingdom and let it pull her toward it, let it capture her attention like a thread snagging on a thorn. She had felt it wash over her, let it pull her under, and when she had emerged from it, she had been made anew in the blood and disease.
Now she is something different entirely.
She is not the sweet, mild-mannered girl of her childhood.
She is not the confused, conflicted girl of early adulthood.
And she is not the callous, blood-thirsty tiger who had emerged from Carnage’s quest.
She is a mother and a soldier and she no longer cares about the labels she has spent so long wearing. She just wants to be free in the space of her own mind and perhaps that is why she answers this call. Perhaps that is why she unfolds her legs and lifts herself to her feet, shifting into her equine form and turning her silvery eyes to the horizon. The trip from Loess to the mountain does not take long, and she has been conditioned for such things for so long now. She barely recognizes how the time has passed.
When she arrives, others have come and gone already, but the items remain.
Icicles still magically preserved. Pebbles so innocuous. Wildflowers blooming. Seashells scattered.
She knows, in her heart, that these are the items she needs to take up the mountain, that these are the items that must be transferred and so she nods, watching as they rise and attach themselves to her orbit as if in some kind of gravitational pull. She doesn’t question it. After all, she has seen stranger things.
Instead she just tucks her chin in closer and makes her way into the fog, letting it split apart around her and then drawing her further into the belly of what is to come. Soon, the grey that blankets around her becomes thicker, the edges of it swirling around her legs and up her sides. The faint light of day goes spotty and then snuffs out completely. Feeling the faint edge of instinct, Sochi’s lips peel back against her teeth into a snarl and before she can draw her next breath, she becomes a tiger.
And when the air does come, she feels it rattling in her lungs.
She no longer remains invincible to the plague she helped bring to Beqanna. It is reminiscent of when it had first slipped into her veins, when it had been an echo of what was to come, but so much worse. She coughs and blood splatters onto the ground. She coughs and some of the hair on her hip sloughs off.
She coughs and the air rattles in her lungs and then transforms—
and she laughs.
Blood stains her ivory feline teeth and although fatigue shadows her eyes, she still drags herself forward, surrounded by the halo of items from the base of the mountain. She is not surprised when she begins to see the sickly faint glow emerging through the darkness. It is only right that the clock be turned back in this way. Out of the shadows, she sees two horses emerge. The first, just a mare. The second, the same monstrous undead creature she had fought at the bottom of the ocean. Both have her silver eyes.
Sochi does not hesitate. Even though the illness shakes within her, crippling her, squeezing the very air from her throat, she doesn’t stop. She simply launches forward on shaky legs with her mouth open. She reaches the mare first and feels her throat crush in her mouth even as she feels the other sink teeth into her back. She screams—in rage, in pain, in understanding—and bites down harder.
Her skin splits open and blood pours down the ivory and orange of her legs. She swipes with her claws and both of them—the mare in between her teeth and the undead monster beneath her claws—turn to dust. They turn to dust and she is left with nothing but ash on her tongue and blood pooling by her feet.
When she rises this time, it takes more effort than she anticipated.
But she still rises.
She rises and drags herself forward, coughing and wheezing and dripping with blood, further up the mountain—and she doesn’t stop until she crests the final peak.
Until she stands, again as a horse, with teeth clenched and silvery eyes fierce,
ready for whatever is to come.
</p> <p class="sochi3_quote">playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons <br>if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf</p> </div> </div> </center>
![[Image: sochi.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/rs3xFJR0/sochi.png)
I was less than graceful, I was not kind
be out watching other lovers lose their spine