11-09-2019, 05:42 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Oswald' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .warlight_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 500px; border: solid 4px #6a1a0f; background-color: #fff; border-radius: 300px 300px 0 0; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .warlight_image { position: relative; z-index: 1; width: 500px; border-radius: 300px 300px 0 0; } .warlight_text { position: relative; z-index: 3; width: 480px; margin-top: -200px; margin-bottom: 20px; border: solid 1px #000; border-top: none; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; background-color: #000000; } .warlight_container p { margin: 0; } .warlight_message { text-align: justify; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 30px; line-height: 1.3em; color: #fff; } .warlight_quote { text-align: center; padding-bottom: 20px; font: 18px 'Oswald', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 4px; color: #6a1a0f; } .warlight_name { position: absolute; z-index: 5; width: 100%; font: 60px 'Oswald', serif; text-transform: uppercase; color: #6a1a0f; margin-top: 420px; padding-left: 10px; letter-spacing: 10px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 20px #000; } </style> <center> <div class="warlight_container"> <div class="warlight_name">Warlight</div> <img class="warlight_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/YSN7qN6D/warlight.png"> <div class="warlight_text"> <p class="warlight_message">
She had expected to leave the world of the living in a blaze of light, to the sound of horns clashing and skulls breaking. But life rarely goes the way it should.
The plague had caught her before her third birthday, and she never had the chance to become the warrior she had sworn she would. Warlight had greeted womanhood fractured and wheezing, and each day of what should have been her prime was worse than the last.
She had thought death would come for her as she gave birth alone, mottled and malnourished, sprawled across the black sand of the silver shores. It was a cruel joke that she lived on for two more months, slowly degrading as the plague ate her alive with her son at her side.
In the end, it had taken a beast to finish her off. But she refused to make an easy meal; she had prayed to the dark god and sunk her antlers into his neck.
When death found her, slowly creeping and sweetly numbing, it felt a lot like sleep. But The Dreamweaver's daughter was too familiar with the world of dreams to doubt the reality of her situation. With her lips pressed tight in hard battle lines, she had stepped into Valhalla, and she had trained.
She had fought that battle every day.
She had ripped him open in one hundred different ways.
Only in her weakest moments would she find herself nestled together with her mate and son - when her consciousness slips into stillness and she inadvertently releases control. One year after her death, in this solitary world, she is weak. She lies with them, nestled in the mountain peaks of Hyaline, and the snow covers their resting forms. Somehow, they are cozy and warm despite the howling winter wind. Her heart glows with golden light, and starlight glimmers across their blanket of snow.
But it's isn't right.
Will begins to realize that she has slipped, these delicate moments that are not her's to take, and her awareness pulls itself from the scene. Even though she knows they are only the diluted memories of the ones she loved, she does not want to wake them. The illusion flickers as she tries to rise, but instead of gently separating herself from her phantom-family she is ripped away, dragged by an unseen force into the mountains like a drop of water in a journey that should have taken a thousand years.
In the darkness, she hears the mountains groaning. Her spirit-body complains as it pulled and dragged against her will, no matter how much she pulls back, and she braces for her next battle.
</p> </div> <p class="warlight_quote">— soul as sweet as blood red jam —</p> </div> </center>
No land affiliation!
She had expected to leave the world of the living in a blaze of light, to the sound of horns clashing and skulls breaking. But life rarely goes the way it should.
The plague had caught her before her third birthday, and she never had the chance to become the warrior she had sworn she would. Warlight had greeted womanhood fractured and wheezing, and each day of what should have been her prime was worse than the last.
She had thought death would come for her as she gave birth alone, mottled and malnourished, sprawled across the black sand of the silver shores. It was a cruel joke that she lived on for two more months, slowly degrading as the plague ate her alive with her son at her side.
In the end, it had taken a beast to finish her off. But she refused to make an easy meal; she had prayed to the dark god and sunk her antlers into his neck.
When death found her, slowly creeping and sweetly numbing, it felt a lot like sleep. But The Dreamweaver's daughter was too familiar with the world of dreams to doubt the reality of her situation. With her lips pressed tight in hard battle lines, she had stepped into Valhalla, and she had trained.
She had fought that battle every day.
She had ripped him open in one hundred different ways.
Only in her weakest moments would she find herself nestled together with her mate and son - when her consciousness slips into stillness and she inadvertently releases control. One year after her death, in this solitary world, she is weak. She lies with them, nestled in the mountain peaks of Hyaline, and the snow covers their resting forms. Somehow, they are cozy and warm despite the howling winter wind. Her heart glows with golden light, and starlight glimmers across their blanket of snow.
But it's isn't right.
Will begins to realize that she has slipped, these delicate moments that are not her's to take, and her awareness pulls itself from the scene. Even though she knows they are only the diluted memories of the ones she loved, she does not want to wake them. The illusion flickers as she tries to rise, but instead of gently separating herself from her phantom-family she is ripped away, dragged by an unseen force into the mountains like a drop of water in a journey that should have taken a thousand years.
In the darkness, she hears the mountains groaning. Her spirit-body complains as it pulled and dragged against her will, no matter how much she pulls back, and she braces for her next battle.
</p> </div> <p class="warlight_quote">— soul as sweet as blood red jam —</p> </div> </center>
No land affiliation!