10-29-2019, 02:57 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Pinyon+Script|Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .ryatah_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/YS7QJVgs/ryatah-bg.png'); width: 600px; min-height: 600px; border: solid 1px #92a09b; box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px #000; } .ryatah_container p { margin: 0; } .ryatah_image { position: relative; z-index: 5; width: 600px; } .ryatah_text { position: relative; z-index: 8; width: 530px; margin-top: 35px; margin-bottom: -300px; border: solid 1px #000; border-bottom: none; background: url('https://i.postimg.cc/gkTKxNhM/lace-bg3.png'); } .ryatah_message { z-index: 8; position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #21200d; padding: 30px; } .ryatah_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; font: 80px 'Pinyon Script', sans-serif; color: #6f8a8a; bottom: 10px; right: 40px; opacity: 0.6; } .ryatah_quote { position: absolute; z-index: 10; text-align: center; font: 10px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #000; letter-spacing: 1px; opacity: 0.7; bottom: 27px; right: 45px; } </style> <center> <div class="ryatah_container"> <div class="ryatah_text"> <p class="ryatah_message">If she noticed that Agetta seemed agitated, it doesn’t show on her face. She has lived and died too many times to care about old quarrels – not her own, and certainly not anyone else’s. It was not exactly a secret that Ryatah didn’t always align with what was seen as <i>right</i> or <i>good</i> – she has always been a little chaotic in her morals, even though she would never personally inflict harm. She didn’t mind when the wicked did their wicked things; what else was to be expected? And so, she cast the white mare a sideways glance, and when she meets her smoldering gaze there is nothing but the barest of placid smiles that flickers across her pale lips.
With a slight turn of her head she meets Atrox’s yellow eyes, and for a moment it seems like it would be easy to get caught up in their usual banter. <i> “This is shocking, but, I think I’ve managed to find the strength to resist your....charm,”</i> she says with a coquettish tip of her head, and she almost appears as though she is going to step towards him.
But for the first time in a long time, it is Dhumin at the forefront of her mind, and she stops. Even before the ghost-mare speaks she is reminded of why she is here, and there is something like regret that takes a hold of her heart. When her attention is drawn back to Rhy, that is when apprehension begins to settle in. The reality that she was going to see him again had finally hit her, and the chances of him even wanting her back were slim to none. The scent of another man had been enough to irritate him and cause him to pull away in the past. Now, she has bore countless children that are not his, she has tangled herself in romances that should not even exist, she has another’s brand burned into her skin – she was used and worn in every sense of the word, and she knew that this was a fool’s errand.
She has always been <i>such</i> a fool, though.
There is anxiety twisting like a knot inside of her chest, but she knows that she will go, even though the ghost mare warns them. She has been dead before – three times, actually, though the last time was so brief she doesn’t remember ever making it to the afterlife – but never quite like this. Rhy tells them that they can step through the veil, and so she does, hardly hearing if anything was said after that.
It was different to step into the land of the dead as a living thing, and not because the life had been knocked out of you. She steps through and is assaulted by a cold, lifeless air – air so still that it seemed to trap any sound that might try to carry through it. Her heart is beating too loudly in her chest, and she wills it to be quiet, to stop pounding so loudly in her ears. She has been afraid before, but not quite like this. This is not the exhilarating fear that she thrived on, the kind that she got some sort of sick high off of. This was the kind that turned her blood to ice, the kind that made shivers race the length of her spine.
The kind that makes her want to turn back, but she can’t.
She walks, following a deserted shoreline, not daring to glance out at the almost black waves that roll along the sand. The coast eventually gives way into something more like a jungle, and for a moment it almost feels like it could be Tephra. But the jungle here is dark and muted, with no vibrant flowers blooming amongst the verdant green, and no volcano glowing in the distance. It is haunted in every sense of the word, but the familiarity of it is nearly overwhelming. When she thinks of Dhumin she usually thinks of the Valley, but this ghostly land is more like where they had lived before they ever came to Beqanna. That jungle where she had fully became his, where he had sank his claws into her and taught her that his approval was the only thing that mattered.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wonders why, of all the times she has died, she has not ended up here.
Her heart begins to beat harder, faster, as she winds through the tightly packed trees and ducks beneath lengths of vine. There is that unexplainable feeling that she is getting closer to her destination, whatever that may be, and while she wants to move faster, she is still terrified of what she’s going to find. The piece of seaglass seems to throb on her tongue, guiding her with the same magnetic pull as earlier, and she follows it even though she is afraid of where this is leading.
She doesn’t expect to round a corner and come face to face with those rose-red eyes, and that unreadable face that she never learned to decipher anything from. When she nearly collides with him she gasps, the red seaglass falling from her mouth and tumbling to the ground. Here in the middle of this dimly lit jungle, with silver wisps of moonlight straining through the canopy of trees and cascading across the white of his skin he looks every bit the ghost that he was.
And for a long time all she does is stare, with her heart beating a wild pulse in her throat. She wonders what everyone else’s reunions were like. She wonders if she is the only one that came here seeking an unrequited love, if she is the only one wilting beneath the unforgiving gaze of someone she has tried and tried to appease for so long. They say that the dead can see what the living have been doing, and the heated shame that crawls up her neck and wraps around her throat like a noose nearly chokes her.<I> “I’m sorry,”</i> she whispers, her eyes cast to the ground even though this is when she should be memorizing his face. She doesn’t have to say what for. She is sorry so many have touched her, she is sorry that they have left fingerprints all across her porcelain white skin like a crime scene, she is sorry she is so worn and used and useless now. She is sorry that she had once been pristine and <I>his</i> and now she is not.
<I> “I’ve been so lost without you and I’ve been trying to find my way, and no matter what I do I make things worse,”</i> she says with a tremor in her voice, but for some reason the tears never come. This is the closest she has ever come to falling apart in front of him, and the longer he stares at her without speaking the closer she comes to collapsing into dust, but she still cannot bring herself to be fully transparent. She has done so many things he would be repulsed by, but she refuses to let dissolving into tears be one of them.
<I> “I just wanted to see you,”</i> she confesses softly, finally daring to meet his eyes, searching for a faint spark of <I>anything</i>, like she always has. Just like before, though, there is nothing. Just a stony silence, just a handsome face chiseled from marble that stares at her as though he is waiting for her to stop wasting his time. <I> “I think this might have been my only chance, and I never got to say goodbye.”</i> The moonlight again glints off the face of the seaglass that lies forgotten on the ground in between them, and the jungle is silent save for her impossibly quiet plea,<I> “Please, please say something…”</i></div> <div class="ryatah_name">Ryatah</div> <div class="ryatah_quote">even angels have their wicked schemes</div> <img class="ryatah_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/9FSpNJJ6/ryatah.png"> </div> </center>
With a slight turn of her head she meets Atrox’s yellow eyes, and for a moment it seems like it would be easy to get caught up in their usual banter. <i> “This is shocking, but, I think I’ve managed to find the strength to resist your....charm,”</i> she says with a coquettish tip of her head, and she almost appears as though she is going to step towards him.
But for the first time in a long time, it is Dhumin at the forefront of her mind, and she stops. Even before the ghost-mare speaks she is reminded of why she is here, and there is something like regret that takes a hold of her heart. When her attention is drawn back to Rhy, that is when apprehension begins to settle in. The reality that she was going to see him again had finally hit her, and the chances of him even wanting her back were slim to none. The scent of another man had been enough to irritate him and cause him to pull away in the past. Now, she has bore countless children that are not his, she has tangled herself in romances that should not even exist, she has another’s brand burned into her skin – she was used and worn in every sense of the word, and she knew that this was a fool’s errand.
She has always been <i>such</i> a fool, though.
There is anxiety twisting like a knot inside of her chest, but she knows that she will go, even though the ghost mare warns them. She has been dead before – three times, actually, though the last time was so brief she doesn’t remember ever making it to the afterlife – but never quite like this. Rhy tells them that they can step through the veil, and so she does, hardly hearing if anything was said after that.
It was different to step into the land of the dead as a living thing, and not because the life had been knocked out of you. She steps through and is assaulted by a cold, lifeless air – air so still that it seemed to trap any sound that might try to carry through it. Her heart is beating too loudly in her chest, and she wills it to be quiet, to stop pounding so loudly in her ears. She has been afraid before, but not quite like this. This is not the exhilarating fear that she thrived on, the kind that she got some sort of sick high off of. This was the kind that turned her blood to ice, the kind that made shivers race the length of her spine.
The kind that makes her want to turn back, but she can’t.
She walks, following a deserted shoreline, not daring to glance out at the almost black waves that roll along the sand. The coast eventually gives way into something more like a jungle, and for a moment it almost feels like it could be Tephra. But the jungle here is dark and muted, with no vibrant flowers blooming amongst the verdant green, and no volcano glowing in the distance. It is haunted in every sense of the word, but the familiarity of it is nearly overwhelming. When she thinks of Dhumin she usually thinks of the Valley, but this ghostly land is more like where they had lived before they ever came to Beqanna. That jungle where she had fully became his, where he had sank his claws into her and taught her that his approval was the only thing that mattered.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wonders why, of all the times she has died, she has not ended up here.
Her heart begins to beat harder, faster, as she winds through the tightly packed trees and ducks beneath lengths of vine. There is that unexplainable feeling that she is getting closer to her destination, whatever that may be, and while she wants to move faster, she is still terrified of what she’s going to find. The piece of seaglass seems to throb on her tongue, guiding her with the same magnetic pull as earlier, and she follows it even though she is afraid of where this is leading.
She doesn’t expect to round a corner and come face to face with those rose-red eyes, and that unreadable face that she never learned to decipher anything from. When she nearly collides with him she gasps, the red seaglass falling from her mouth and tumbling to the ground. Here in the middle of this dimly lit jungle, with silver wisps of moonlight straining through the canopy of trees and cascading across the white of his skin he looks every bit the ghost that he was.
And for a long time all she does is stare, with her heart beating a wild pulse in her throat. She wonders what everyone else’s reunions were like. She wonders if she is the only one that came here seeking an unrequited love, if she is the only one wilting beneath the unforgiving gaze of someone she has tried and tried to appease for so long. They say that the dead can see what the living have been doing, and the heated shame that crawls up her neck and wraps around her throat like a noose nearly chokes her.<I> “I’m sorry,”</i> she whispers, her eyes cast to the ground even though this is when she should be memorizing his face. She doesn’t have to say what for. She is sorry so many have touched her, she is sorry that they have left fingerprints all across her porcelain white skin like a crime scene, she is sorry she is so worn and used and useless now. She is sorry that she had once been pristine and <I>his</i> and now she is not.
<I> “I’ve been so lost without you and I’ve been trying to find my way, and no matter what I do I make things worse,”</i> she says with a tremor in her voice, but for some reason the tears never come. This is the closest she has ever come to falling apart in front of him, and the longer he stares at her without speaking the closer she comes to collapsing into dust, but she still cannot bring herself to be fully transparent. She has done so many things he would be repulsed by, but she refuses to let dissolving into tears be one of them.
<I> “I just wanted to see you,”</i> she confesses softly, finally daring to meet his eyes, searching for a faint spark of <I>anything</i>, like she always has. Just like before, though, there is nothing. Just a stony silence, just a handsome face chiseled from marble that stares at her as though he is waiting for her to stop wasting his time. <I> “I think this might have been my only chance, and I never got to say goodbye.”</i> The moonlight again glints off the face of the seaglass that lies forgotten on the ground in between them, and the jungle is silent save for her impossibly quiet plea,<I> “Please, please say something…”</i></div> <div class="ryatah_name">Ryatah</div> <div class="ryatah_quote">even angels have their wicked schemes</div> <img class="ryatah_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/9FSpNJJ6/ryatah.png"> </div> </center>