01-24-2020, 02:23 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"> He does not fight the darkness when it comes.
Does not fight when it slips into his veins and pull his eyes shut because he has felt it so many times before, in one way or another. He lets go of his hold onto the fabric of this reality, lets it slip between his fingers, and sinks into the abyss—swallowing it down until he can feel his body begin to knit back together, the bruises fading, and the scrapes growing steadily more shallow. He waits until he feels that tug in his belly again and he is not surprised to open his eyes and see the same ring—the same dirt.
He flicks his eyes up and watches as his own image slinks forward between the pillars.
This time, he feels nothing but grim determination—nothing but a steely readiness.
It happens quickly; quicker than even the fight with Magnus.
Before he can guess at what his shadow-self will do, he watches himself transform into that familiar black streak of feline muscle, the white of his other self’s teeth flashing. Atrox pulls his own lips back but his incisors are dulled, blunted, and there is a frustration at feeling so divorced from the gifts that have made him who he is for centuries. The frustration does not slow him though. Does not blind him with rage.
More instinctual than trained—more gutsy than calculated—Atrox pulls into a half-rear, horned head lifting away, and strikes out, the ragged edge of his hooves punching forward and then slamming down on the ground. His shadow self pulls up short before the jabs, coiling and hissing. When Atrox lands again, the cat launches himself forward, swipes, and Atrox feels the claws rip his chest, the flesh splitting easily.
He snarls in pain as blood splatters the hungry earth and whirls to keep the cat in his immediate sight as it streaks forward but he cannot move as quickly as the cat can circle him. His ears swivel on top of his head and he feels the sensation of something coming close to him. He bunches and kicks out, bucking forward as his tails snaps behind him. His hoof connects with the cat and there’s a sick satisfaction until he feels something like a mirrored pain in him, the impact nearly knocking the breath out of him.
Atrox gasps, taking a stuttered step forward, and yelps in surprise when he feels something heavy land on his back. His shadow-self digs his claws into his shoulders, blood ribboning down his sides, and Atrox crow hops forward several times as he feels the cat reach forward again. The claws dig into new flesh and teeth joining the mix, sinking into the skin and finding purchase. Thinking as quickly as possible, Atrox does the only thing that he can imagine: he jumps forward before lifting into a near vertical rear, extending higher and higher until he feels the balance beginning to tip into another direction.
There is no thought to his own self-preservation.
No thought to strategy or anything other than the same instinctual brawl he’s always known.
When he falls backward and lands, he hears a sickening crunch and feels the claws rip away from him with no little pain. His own back screams in agony but the bones themselves remain intact as he rolls over, dazed as he gets to his feet. He turns slowly, watching himself curl up on the ground—the panther body broke, battered, and bruised. He grits his teeth, feeling the same phantom pain shoot through him to wind around the very real version of it, lifting himself again and coming down hard on the cat’s skull.
And not for the first time, and not for the last, Atrox watches himself die.
He smiles when he feels the familiar shadow of it snake through his mind, and—
he does not fight the darkness when it comes. </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>
Does not fight when it slips into his veins and pull his eyes shut because he has felt it so many times before, in one way or another. He lets go of his hold onto the fabric of this reality, lets it slip between his fingers, and sinks into the abyss—swallowing it down until he can feel his body begin to knit back together, the bruises fading, and the scrapes growing steadily more shallow. He waits until he feels that tug in his belly again and he is not surprised to open his eyes and see the same ring—the same dirt.
He flicks his eyes up and watches as his own image slinks forward between the pillars.
This time, he feels nothing but grim determination—nothing but a steely readiness.
It happens quickly; quicker than even the fight with Magnus.
Before he can guess at what his shadow-self will do, he watches himself transform into that familiar black streak of feline muscle, the white of his other self’s teeth flashing. Atrox pulls his own lips back but his incisors are dulled, blunted, and there is a frustration at feeling so divorced from the gifts that have made him who he is for centuries. The frustration does not slow him though. Does not blind him with rage.
More instinctual than trained—more gutsy than calculated—Atrox pulls into a half-rear, horned head lifting away, and strikes out, the ragged edge of his hooves punching forward and then slamming down on the ground. His shadow self pulls up short before the jabs, coiling and hissing. When Atrox lands again, the cat launches himself forward, swipes, and Atrox feels the claws rip his chest, the flesh splitting easily.
He snarls in pain as blood splatters the hungry earth and whirls to keep the cat in his immediate sight as it streaks forward but he cannot move as quickly as the cat can circle him. His ears swivel on top of his head and he feels the sensation of something coming close to him. He bunches and kicks out, bucking forward as his tails snaps behind him. His hoof connects with the cat and there’s a sick satisfaction until he feels something like a mirrored pain in him, the impact nearly knocking the breath out of him.
Atrox gasps, taking a stuttered step forward, and yelps in surprise when he feels something heavy land on his back. His shadow-self digs his claws into his shoulders, blood ribboning down his sides, and Atrox crow hops forward several times as he feels the cat reach forward again. The claws dig into new flesh and teeth joining the mix, sinking into the skin and finding purchase. Thinking as quickly as possible, Atrox does the only thing that he can imagine: he jumps forward before lifting into a near vertical rear, extending higher and higher until he feels the balance beginning to tip into another direction.
There is no thought to his own self-preservation.
No thought to strategy or anything other than the same instinctual brawl he’s always known.
When he falls backward and lands, he hears a sickening crunch and feels the claws rip away from him with no little pain. His own back screams in agony but the bones themselves remain intact as he rolls over, dazed as he gets to his feet. He turns slowly, watching himself curl up on the ground—the panther body broke, battered, and bruised. He grits his teeth, feeling the same phantom pain shoot through him to wind around the very real version of it, lifting himself again and coming down hard on the cat’s skull.
And not for the first time, and not for the last, Atrox watches himself die.
He smiles when he feels the familiar shadow of it snake through his mind, and—
he does not fight the darkness when it comes. </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