01-14-2020, 01:42 AM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Roboto+Condensed:400,700' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .atrox_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #fefefe; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #000; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .atrox_container p { margin: 0; } .atrox_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .atrox_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; margin-top: 0px; } .atrox_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #000; padding: 35px; } .atrox_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; color: #fff; font: 10px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; line-height: 0.8; bottom: 330px; right: 115px; letter-spacing: 1px; } .atrox_quote { font: 10px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: center; color: #000; padding-top: 40px; letter-spacing: 1px; }</style> <center> <div class="atrox_container"> <div class="atrox_text"> <p class="atrox_quote">hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive</p> <p class="atrox_message"> Atrox knows who it will be before he ever sees him.
In that way, he supposes he does have a strange kind of paternal bond. Atrox has never been the kind to be particularly fatherly to his children—there are too many, after all, for him to care about them all—but he has certainly kept tabs on the ones he had with Twinge. The ones that felt like part of a family. The ones that dwindled slowly and then all at once, until there was only one: the golden child of the Amazons.
Magnus had always been his largest source of pride and his biggest frustration. The son who looked so much like his mother, who had all of his father’s grit—who rose up the ranks of the Chamber to prominence and then abandoned it to lead the army of the Gates. The one with the kind of ambition and bloodthirst to turn the tides of war who hobbled himself so that he could be more appealing.
And yet—and yet. Despite that bitter disappointment, Atrox had always found himself proud of the boy and the man he had become. Stubbornly clinging to his ideals and clawing his way back from death.
Proud enough that he had hung around Tephra to keep an eye out for him.
Proud enough to fight on what seemed like the losing side of a war for him.
Proud enough for Beqanna to know that losing Magnus’ memory of him was the last for him to lose.
So, yes, he knows exactly who it will be before his eyes focus and he sees the golden stallion striding forward, the dome closing decisively behind him. There is no recognition in the other’s eyes and Atrox swallows the sudden rush of pain because of it—ignoring the keen edge of it. There is only a blind kind of agony and when Magnus rushes forward, glowing and valiant, Atrox can only rush forward to meet him.
They clash and it is brutal more than strategic. Both are brawlers, both have long since come to live for the thrill of battle, and they come together in a rush of dirt and blood and cries. In the world where they come from, they would be evenly matched. In many ways, Atrox would have the upper hand.
(After all, he was a predator and he commanded the souls of the dead whenever he wished it.
Magnus was strong and immortal—but only that.)
But here? Here Atrox was stripped of his gifts of war and left to battle a stallion who came without any reservations, without any ties—as bright and brilliant as the sun. The pair square off and Atrox studies him quickly, his yellow eyes flashing to him, but Magnus is unrelenting. The space in between the attacks is but a breath before he is charging again. Atrox’s opponent, his son, rears and strikes out with his front legs. Atrox rises to meet him until limbs tangle and he feels the hooves scrape down his shoulders.
Atrox has but one advantage, and he knows it.
Knows it every time he swings his abnormally heavy head, feeling the weight of it.
But for all the lives that he has taken without blinking, for all of the wars he has fought with nothing but joy in his heart, he finds that he cannot wield it. He hesitates—fighting on the defensive. Magnus reaches out and snaps his jaws, closing on an ear and pulling hard. Atrox grits his teeth and is thankful when the flesh doesn’t give, grateful that the buckskin releases it quickly and lands heavily in front of him.
For the first time in his life, Atrox feels his mind whirling with possibilities—but none of them are how to defeat Magnus. They are all about how to get out of this, to escape, to leave his son in tact. He misses that Magnus spins around until the last second and it is by instinct alone that he adjusts his weight, balancing over his hindquarters and throwing himself to the side just as Magnus rockets forward and kicks back.
Magnus’ hooves collide with Atrox’s chest and the stallion feels the wind leave him. Feels the bruises form, blood pooling under the flesh, the hide scraped raw. He glances up and sees Magnus come down hard, not bothering to jump away but pivoting instead to come back for another close-quarter brawl.
Something clicks in Atrox then.
It happens in slow motion.
Whatever he feels for Magnus—frustration, pride, love—forms into a stone that settles into his chest and he buries it deep. Atrox settles his weight and swings his neck as if to protect it until Magnus makes the turn, his heavy body coming back for the kind of physical collision they both love—brutal and battering.
Just as Magnus finishes the turn to be nearly parallel with his sire, too close to stop himself, Atrox swings his head back. He doesn’t hesitate now—dropping his head and angling upward into the dappled chest.
He feels the way the horn slides into the flesh.
Feels the way that it skewers his golden son, the ivory tip sliding into the very place where Atrox’s chest was empty. Where its very emptiness now stood as a counterweight for the memories lost.
The impact sends an instant ache spreading down Atrox’s neck from the collision, the kind of pain that leaves you breathless—but not nearly as breathless as the knowledge that he had been successful.
He swallows when the dust settles, when Magnus slowly slumps to the ground, falling away.
He shakes himself free of the corpse and glances up, stone-faced, blood-streaked, and still.</p> </div> <div class="atrox_name">ATROX | <b>THE PANTHER KING</b></div> <img class="atrox_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/VNR4hxCt/atrox.png"> </div> </center>
In that way, he supposes he does have a strange kind of paternal bond. Atrox has never been the kind to be particularly fatherly to his children—there are too many, after all, for him to care about them all—but he has certainly kept tabs on the ones he had with Twinge. The ones that felt like part of a family. The ones that dwindled slowly and then all at once, until there was only one: the golden child of the Amazons.
Magnus had always been his largest source of pride and his biggest frustration. The son who looked so much like his mother, who had all of his father’s grit—who rose up the ranks of the Chamber to prominence and then abandoned it to lead the army of the Gates. The one with the kind of ambition and bloodthirst to turn the tides of war who hobbled himself so that he could be more appealing.
And yet—and yet. Despite that bitter disappointment, Atrox had always found himself proud of the boy and the man he had become. Stubbornly clinging to his ideals and clawing his way back from death.
Proud enough that he had hung around Tephra to keep an eye out for him.
Proud enough to fight on what seemed like the losing side of a war for him.
Proud enough for Beqanna to know that losing Magnus’ memory of him was the last for him to lose.
So, yes, he knows exactly who it will be before his eyes focus and he sees the golden stallion striding forward, the dome closing decisively behind him. There is no recognition in the other’s eyes and Atrox swallows the sudden rush of pain because of it—ignoring the keen edge of it. There is only a blind kind of agony and when Magnus rushes forward, glowing and valiant, Atrox can only rush forward to meet him.
They clash and it is brutal more than strategic. Both are brawlers, both have long since come to live for the thrill of battle, and they come together in a rush of dirt and blood and cries. In the world where they come from, they would be evenly matched. In many ways, Atrox would have the upper hand.
(After all, he was a predator and he commanded the souls of the dead whenever he wished it.
Magnus was strong and immortal—but only that.)
But here? Here Atrox was stripped of his gifts of war and left to battle a stallion who came without any reservations, without any ties—as bright and brilliant as the sun. The pair square off and Atrox studies him quickly, his yellow eyes flashing to him, but Magnus is unrelenting. The space in between the attacks is but a breath before he is charging again. Atrox’s opponent, his son, rears and strikes out with his front legs. Atrox rises to meet him until limbs tangle and he feels the hooves scrape down his shoulders.
Atrox has but one advantage, and he knows it.
Knows it every time he swings his abnormally heavy head, feeling the weight of it.
But for all the lives that he has taken without blinking, for all of the wars he has fought with nothing but joy in his heart, he finds that he cannot wield it. He hesitates—fighting on the defensive. Magnus reaches out and snaps his jaws, closing on an ear and pulling hard. Atrox grits his teeth and is thankful when the flesh doesn’t give, grateful that the buckskin releases it quickly and lands heavily in front of him.
For the first time in his life, Atrox feels his mind whirling with possibilities—but none of them are how to defeat Magnus. They are all about how to get out of this, to escape, to leave his son in tact. He misses that Magnus spins around until the last second and it is by instinct alone that he adjusts his weight, balancing over his hindquarters and throwing himself to the side just as Magnus rockets forward and kicks back.
Magnus’ hooves collide with Atrox’s chest and the stallion feels the wind leave him. Feels the bruises form, blood pooling under the flesh, the hide scraped raw. He glances up and sees Magnus come down hard, not bothering to jump away but pivoting instead to come back for another close-quarter brawl.
Something clicks in Atrox then.
It happens in slow motion.
Whatever he feels for Magnus—frustration, pride, love—forms into a stone that settles into his chest and he buries it deep. Atrox settles his weight and swings his neck as if to protect it until Magnus makes the turn, his heavy body coming back for the kind of physical collision they both love—brutal and battering.
Just as Magnus finishes the turn to be nearly parallel with his sire, too close to stop himself, Atrox swings his head back. He doesn’t hesitate now—dropping his head and angling upward into the dappled chest.
He feels the way the horn slides into the flesh.
Feels the way that it skewers his golden son, the ivory tip sliding into the very place where Atrox’s chest was empty. Where its very emptiness now stood as a counterweight for the memories lost.
The impact sends an instant ache spreading down Atrox’s neck from the collision, the kind of pain that leaves you breathless—but not nearly as breathless as the knowledge that he had been successful.
He swallows when the dust settles, when Magnus slowly slumps to the ground, falling away.
He shakes himself free of the corpse and glances up, stone-faced, blood-streaked, and still.</p> </div> <div class="atrox_name">ATROX | <b>THE PANTHER KING</b></div> <img class="atrox_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/VNR4hxCt/atrox.png"> </div> </center>
![[Image: atrox.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/XBppy9VY/atrox.png)
now be defiant, the lion, give them the fight that will open their eyes