08-14-2020, 04:23 PM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Average" rel="stylesheet"><style>#ashhalnekkie{width:542px;border:25px #000000 solid;border-radius:400px 400px 0px 0px;overflow:hidden;}#ashhalnekkiepic{position:relative;z-index:0;margin-top:0;}#ashhalnekkiecontainer{background:-webkit-linear-gradient(top, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);background:-o-linear-gradient(bottom, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);background:-moz-linear-gradient(top, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);background:-linear-gradient(to bottom, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);background:-ms-linear-gradient(top, rgba(113,113,113,0), rgba(113,113,113,1)150px);width:542px;position:relative;z-index:1;margin-top:-160px;padding-top:100px;}#ashhalnekkietext{font-family: 'Average', serif;font-size:14px;color:#bfbfbf;width:450px;margin-bottom:0px;}#ashhalnekkiequote{font-family: 'Average', serif;font-size:15px;text-transform:uppercase;line-height:14px;color:#ffffff;}</style><center><div id="ashhalnekkie"><div id="ashhalnekkiepic"><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/3N0LWsPr/Ashhal3.jpg"/></div><div id="ashhalnekkiecontainer"><p id="ashhalnekkiequote">I tried to sell my soul last night<br/>Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite</p><p id="ashhalnekkietext" align="justify">His voice is an unwelcome intrusion, causing Ashhal to pin his ears and ruffle his wings irritability. Though, really, what the fuck is he actually going to do? He has never been idiotic enough believe he’s a match for Carnage, even before he’d been ripped apart like it was nothing more than another Tuesday morning.
<b>“Fuck off,”</b> he growls under his breath. Well, who really thought that knowledge would actually be enough to make Ashhal hold his tongue? Still, unappreciated humor aside, he does take some heed of what Carnage says. Though he never said it explicitly, he hadn’t needed to; Ashhal already damned well knew there were things worse than death.
As it turns out though, some things are unavoidable.
Forging ahead into the fog, he moves with a nearly forgotten limber ease, gaze wary and watchful rather than angry and bored for once. Hell, he’d forgotten how good it could feel to have a purpose. Not that that was nearly enough to erase fucking centuries of apathy, but it was start. Enough so that even the faint, irritating buzz resonating in his ears couldn’t quite set his teeth on edge like it might have this morning.
Until, between one footfall and the next, he stumbles from the fog into a quiet, sun-dappled meadow.
Immediately, the scowl is back on his lips.
God-fucking-dammit. Of all creatures, he thought fucking <i>Carnage</i> would at least be able to make him stay dead.
Shifting, his gaze catches on a nearby figure. One he recognizes immediately. Ryatah. For a moment, she distracts him from another realization: the fact that he’s still a grown-ass adult. <b>“FUCK!”</b>
Her laughter startles him. He recoils faintly, brows knitting as his scowl deepens. Undeterred, she closes the distance separating them, her voice soft and amused as she replies, <i>“Eloquent as always.”</i> Then, as though she’d done so a hundred times before, she presses close, lips brushing the hollow below his cheek with an alarming sweetness.
For a moment, he freezes, a veritable deer in the headlights, before skittering abruptly sideways. <b><i>“What the hell?”</i></b> This couldn’t be fucking real. Could not.
But the concern, tinged by hurt, looks real enough as it flashes across her lovely features.<i>“Ashhal, are you alright?”</i>
Damn it, that couldn’t matter right now. Especially when she couldn’t possibly be real. <b>“Who are you?”</b> he growls. <b>“<i>What</i> the hell are you?”</b>
The pained devastation written across every line of her body is nearly enough to make him wish he could bite back the words. Enough so that when she takes a tentative step closer, he doesn’t retreat. <i>“What do you mean?”</i> she whispers almost brokenly. <i>“It’s me, Ryatah.”</i> When he shakes his head, she continues on a shaky breath, blinking back tears as she does, <i>“We’ve loved each other for years. Don’t you… remember?”</i>
<b>“That’s impossible,”</b> he blurts, unable to help himself even as his blood rushes erratically and muscles burn with the need to move (to run). Except that he cannot see to force his <i>fucking body to obey</i>. He misses the way understanding seems to dawn before Ryatah presses closer once more. <i>“Oh Ashhal,”</i> she replies, her voice warmer now. Reassuring almost. <i>“Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Please, let me help.”</i>
And gods fucking help him, he does let her help.
------
There’s no doubt he’d been a fucking idiot to believe it was real that day. But it wasn’t something he’d learn until years later (or moments, depending on how one looks at it). After all, life is never that kind, is it?
It isn’t until he finds her dead (days, years, decades later - it hardly matters) that he remembers why he had resisted caring for so long. First is the disbelief. She couldn’t truly be gone. And, like some sick fucking joke, he waits. He waits until her body is bloated and unrecognizable. Until even he couldn’t stomach the thought of watching her wither until he forgot what her true face looked like.
And then, he dies. Over and over and over again. So many times he loses count. But, always, the end is the same. He wakes up a child, only to start another shitty, miserable life all over again. Eventually, he searches. An answer, an end, for her. Or something. Until there is nothing left. Until his mind has grown so old and senile, he sometimes forgets the reality of his own miserable existence. Until one day, he stumbles into a quiet hollow and does nothing except simply exist. His body withers to a husk until death comes, a brief respite. Then it all begins again. An empty shell, the soul so torn and ragged and ancient there is almost nothing left.
Not even memories.
------
He stumbles and the fog surrounds him again, the buzzing of some godforsaken insect rattling is eardrums. A cold shiver races down his spine as his memories slowly filter back into place. Thick dread fills his chest as he jerks to a halt, jaw clenching, a vein pulsing in his cheek.
Fuck.
Shit.
Suddenly he’s not quite sure why the hell he should continue. He’s dead. He could stay dead.
But as the incessant buzzing jarrs his senses, he suddenly wonders if even death would be safe. Goddammit all to hell. For the first time in so long, he is drained of the anger that had defined his existence for decades. So drained that he can see almost clearly. And naturally, the first fucking time he actually succeeded in dying, he couldn’t even enjoy it without some cosmic cocksucker coming in to threaten it.
Why couldn’t they just leave the fucking gates closed?
And just like that, the anger is back, giving him just the vitriol he needs to press forward. Ears flattened against the violent buzzing, he moves through the fog until his hooves are nearly at the cliff’s edge. Until his very bones vibrate with the force of the sound coming from beyond.</p><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/s1FTWnrY/Ashhal_Name2.png"/></div></div></center>
<b>“Fuck off,”</b> he growls under his breath. Well, who really thought that knowledge would actually be enough to make Ashhal hold his tongue? Still, unappreciated humor aside, he does take some heed of what Carnage says. Though he never said it explicitly, he hadn’t needed to; Ashhal already damned well knew there were things worse than death.
As it turns out though, some things are unavoidable.
Forging ahead into the fog, he moves with a nearly forgotten limber ease, gaze wary and watchful rather than angry and bored for once. Hell, he’d forgotten how good it could feel to have a purpose. Not that that was nearly enough to erase fucking centuries of apathy, but it was start. Enough so that even the faint, irritating buzz resonating in his ears couldn’t quite set his teeth on edge like it might have this morning.
Until, between one footfall and the next, he stumbles from the fog into a quiet, sun-dappled meadow.
Immediately, the scowl is back on his lips.
God-fucking-dammit. Of all creatures, he thought fucking <i>Carnage</i> would at least be able to make him stay dead.
Shifting, his gaze catches on a nearby figure. One he recognizes immediately. Ryatah. For a moment, she distracts him from another realization: the fact that he’s still a grown-ass adult. <b>“FUCK!”</b>
Her laughter startles him. He recoils faintly, brows knitting as his scowl deepens. Undeterred, she closes the distance separating them, her voice soft and amused as she replies, <i>“Eloquent as always.”</i> Then, as though she’d done so a hundred times before, she presses close, lips brushing the hollow below his cheek with an alarming sweetness.
For a moment, he freezes, a veritable deer in the headlights, before skittering abruptly sideways. <b><i>“What the hell?”</i></b> This couldn’t be fucking real. Could not.
But the concern, tinged by hurt, looks real enough as it flashes across her lovely features.<i>“Ashhal, are you alright?”</i>
Damn it, that couldn’t matter right now. Especially when she couldn’t possibly be real. <b>“Who are you?”</b> he growls. <b>“<i>What</i> the hell are you?”</b>
The pained devastation written across every line of her body is nearly enough to make him wish he could bite back the words. Enough so that when she takes a tentative step closer, he doesn’t retreat. <i>“What do you mean?”</i> she whispers almost brokenly. <i>“It’s me, Ryatah.”</i> When he shakes his head, she continues on a shaky breath, blinking back tears as she does, <i>“We’ve loved each other for years. Don’t you… remember?”</i>
<b>“That’s impossible,”</b> he blurts, unable to help himself even as his blood rushes erratically and muscles burn with the need to move (to run). Except that he cannot see to force his <i>fucking body to obey</i>. He misses the way understanding seems to dawn before Ryatah presses closer once more. <i>“Oh Ashhal,”</i> she replies, her voice warmer now. Reassuring almost. <i>“Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Please, let me help.”</i>
And gods fucking help him, he does let her help.
------
There’s no doubt he’d been a fucking idiot to believe it was real that day. But it wasn’t something he’d learn until years later (or moments, depending on how one looks at it). After all, life is never that kind, is it?
It isn’t until he finds her dead (days, years, decades later - it hardly matters) that he remembers why he had resisted caring for so long. First is the disbelief. She couldn’t truly be gone. And, like some sick fucking joke, he waits. He waits until her body is bloated and unrecognizable. Until even he couldn’t stomach the thought of watching her wither until he forgot what her true face looked like.
And then, he dies. Over and over and over again. So many times he loses count. But, always, the end is the same. He wakes up a child, only to start another shitty, miserable life all over again. Eventually, he searches. An answer, an end, for her. Or something. Until there is nothing left. Until his mind has grown so old and senile, he sometimes forgets the reality of his own miserable existence. Until one day, he stumbles into a quiet hollow and does nothing except simply exist. His body withers to a husk until death comes, a brief respite. Then it all begins again. An empty shell, the soul so torn and ragged and ancient there is almost nothing left.
Not even memories.
------
He stumbles and the fog surrounds him again, the buzzing of some godforsaken insect rattling is eardrums. A cold shiver races down his spine as his memories slowly filter back into place. Thick dread fills his chest as he jerks to a halt, jaw clenching, a vein pulsing in his cheek.
Fuck.
Shit.
Suddenly he’s not quite sure why the hell he should continue. He’s dead. He could stay dead.
But as the incessant buzzing jarrs his senses, he suddenly wonders if even death would be safe. Goddammit all to hell. For the first time in so long, he is drained of the anger that had defined his existence for decades. So drained that he can see almost clearly. And naturally, the first fucking time he actually succeeded in dying, he couldn’t even enjoy it without some cosmic cocksucker coming in to threaten it.
Why couldn’t they just leave the fucking gates closed?
And just like that, the anger is back, giving him just the vitriol he needs to press forward. Ears flattened against the violent buzzing, he moves through the fog until his hooves are nearly at the cliff’s edge. Until his very bones vibrate with the force of the sound coming from beyond.</p><img src="https://i.postimg.cc/s1FTWnrY/Ashhal_Name2.png"/></div></div></center>