03-06-2021, 03:33 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Source+Sans+Pro' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .firion_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #0d1417; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 5px #2e404d; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .firion_container p { margin: 0; } .firion_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .firion_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 560px; border-left: 1px solid #243035; margin-top: 20px; margin-bottom: -300px; border: 1px solid #243035; background: #0D1417; } .firion_quote { font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-align: left; color: #2e404d; padding: 10px; border-bottom: 1px solid #2e404d; letter-spacing: 0.5px; } .firion_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #434952; padding: 20px; } .firion_quotetwo { font: 11px 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; text-align: right; color: #2e404d; padding: 10px; border-top: 1px solid #2e404d; letter-spacing: 0.5px; } </style> <center> <div class="firion_container"> <div class="firion_text"> <p class="firion_quote">that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried</p> <p class="firion_message"> Enough of Firion still exists that he feels his mother when she approaches.
Feels her sorrow, her fear, her worry.
It eats at him more than the curse ever could, and he wants to crumple—wants to flee. Instead he groans low and deep in his throat and closes his eyes, filmy and nearly white now that he has spent so long in this half form. Half alive. Half dead. Half conscious. Half a prisoner to his own hunger, his own needs.
He leans into her for a second, gritting his rotting jaw to keep himself from biting her.
He presses his mottled head against her neck and then leans back, swaying weakly on his feet.
His attention, thin as it may be, turns toward the faeries—unseeing eyes washing over them and trying to discern everything that they say. He frowns and feels the news stick in his jaw, unable to be swallowed and truly digested. He doesn’t know everything they’re saying. Cannot apply his usual logic to it and instead he simply stands there, feeling for everything like an outcast—a monster himself amongst them.
These are the things, at least, that he can recognize.
He can recognize the despair these monsters feel.
Can recognize the fears and loneliness.
(Is he one of them? Is he?)
A tear escapes to fall down a thin cheek and when all is said and others have begun to make their choices, he takes a stumbling step forward. “Distraction,” he croaks, his voice catching on the word—more of a rasp than anything else. Anything else that he may say or promise, crumbles and turns to ash on his tongue. He just knows that he would be useless in the rescue. Useless to those who would be more savvy, more quick-witted, more able than him. He is nothing more than a zombie amongst them.
The very least he can do is sacrifice himself to buy whatever time they may need. </p> <p class="firion_quotetwo">so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried</p> </div> <img class="firion_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/SQJBb2f8/firion.png"> </div> </center>
Feels her sorrow, her fear, her worry.
It eats at him more than the curse ever could, and he wants to crumple—wants to flee. Instead he groans low and deep in his throat and closes his eyes, filmy and nearly white now that he has spent so long in this half form. Half alive. Half dead. Half conscious. Half a prisoner to his own hunger, his own needs.
He leans into her for a second, gritting his rotting jaw to keep himself from biting her.
He presses his mottled head against her neck and then leans back, swaying weakly on his feet.
His attention, thin as it may be, turns toward the faeries—unseeing eyes washing over them and trying to discern everything that they say. He frowns and feels the news stick in his jaw, unable to be swallowed and truly digested. He doesn’t know everything they’re saying. Cannot apply his usual logic to it and instead he simply stands there, feeling for everything like an outcast—a monster himself amongst them.
These are the things, at least, that he can recognize.
He can recognize the despair these monsters feel.
Can recognize the fears and loneliness.
(Is he one of them? Is he?)
A tear escapes to fall down a thin cheek and when all is said and others have begun to make their choices, he takes a stumbling step forward. “Distraction,” he croaks, his voice catching on the word—more of a rasp than anything else. Anything else that he may say or promise, crumbles and turns to ash on his tongue. He just knows that he would be useless in the rescue. Useless to those who would be more savvy, more quick-witted, more able than him. He is nothing more than a zombie amongst them.
The very least he can do is sacrifice himself to buy whatever time they may need. </p> <p class="firion_quotetwo">so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried</p> </div> <img class="firion_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/SQJBb2f8/firion.png"> </div> </center>