now take what i offer, straight up the nose, down the throat
it's a bearable bruise on your conscious
“An unbiased opinion from anyone in a land that I rule? Hardly.” He asks and answers, returning the question onto her with a slight squinting of his eyes – as if it would mean that it was entirely biased. Not only was he the leader that typically most people would want to remain on his good side, but he is also a demigod. For Old Gods that people nowadays preferred to be in the good side of as well. But she tilts her head, returns his words back to him and he snorts, wearing that mask easily as he quickly moves to explain that choice, too. “Oh, come on now. Isn’t the back and forth at least a little bit fun?” He asks, as if put out by the thought he couldn’t just play around, even if it didn’t come to anything.
She moves, though, and he watches her as she wanders around the room, letting her fingers trail over the wood of the barrels that have imbued his old home’s living room with scents of oak, the Flood turns to lean back against the second barrel she’d just left, continuing to watch her in his peripherals if she wanders out of his main line of sight. “I chose the Refuge to make the whiskey because it felt far homier to make it without the influence of magic.” He leans back slightly to stretch with a huff of a sigh. “All I expect from you, Dahlia dear, is an unbiased opinion on whether I should or shouldn’t market the whiskey. As you said, we’ve only met once, I doubt I can sway your opinions if this –” he pauses to let his lightning scarred hand tap the top of the whiskey barrel beside him “– should be better left in the barrel than out in the world.”
His tone drifts a hint more serious, internally trying to swallow down a steady rising panic. And suddenly, he realizes perhaps she’d been correct with the gotcha, in terms of prodding him.
She moves, though, and he watches her as she wanders around the room, letting her fingers trail over the wood of the barrels that have imbued his old home’s living room with scents of oak, the Flood turns to lean back against the second barrel she’d just left, continuing to watch her in his peripherals if she wanders out of his main line of sight. “I chose the Refuge to make the whiskey because it felt far homier to make it without the influence of magic.” He leans back slightly to stretch with a huff of a sigh. “All I expect from you, Dahlia dear, is an unbiased opinion on whether I should or shouldn’t market the whiskey. As you said, we’ve only met once, I doubt I can sway your opinions if this –” he pauses to let his lightning scarred hand tap the top of the whiskey barrel beside him “– should be better left in the barrel than out in the world.”
His tone drifts a hint more serious, internally trying to swallow down a steady rising panic. And suddenly, he realizes perhaps she’d been correct with the gotcha, in terms of prodding him.
but don't it feel good? don't you feel calmer?
i am the way and the life in the best looking truth
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
