but i come to life, come to life
some princes don't become kings
He doesn’t expect company, in fact he expects to just sit there and stare off into space until he can’t feel anything anymore. But he doesn’t, not when the door opens and Melita comes hobbling in, in slings and on sore legs, sore feet. She’s stable enough to get into the chair on her own, staring into the curved edges of the ceiling. He inhales deeply from the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke, about to reply to her when Oliver emerges. The blonde man doesn’t say anything, instead he just makes his way over to a seat – looking just about as good as he does.
He mixes up an easy drink, sliding it over to Oliver with a knowing nod before settling forward on the bar, arms outstretched, bruises and scratches along his face and arms that have healed, but still remained. He hadn’t found it in himself to bathe fully just yet – not able to stand submerging himself when he’d recalled such terrible thoughts of his childhood, of being trapped and drowning and spinning down and down gulping for air where there weren’t none to be found.
“Sorry we weren’t able to get it away from the Festival.” He rumbles to Melita, running a hand through his hair – horns appearing along his skull, tilting back toward the back half of the crown of his head. He flicks the ash from his cigarette, before staring at the glass quietly. The hidden words beneath his statement floating in the air. ’I’m sorry I hurt you’, before he takes a sip of his drink and his horned head shifts toward Oliver. “Any word on anything else from yesterday?” Aside from the obvious.
He mixes up an easy drink, sliding it over to Oliver with a knowing nod before settling forward on the bar, arms outstretched, bruises and scratches along his face and arms that have healed, but still remained. He hadn’t found it in himself to bathe fully just yet – not able to stand submerging himself when he’d recalled such terrible thoughts of his childhood, of being trapped and drowning and spinning down and down gulping for air where there weren’t none to be found.
“Sorry we weren’t able to get it away from the Festival.” He rumbles to Melita, running a hand through his hair – horns appearing along his skull, tilting back toward the back half of the crown of his head. He flicks the ash from his cigarette, before staring at the glass quietly. The hidden words beneath his statement floating in the air. ’I’m sorry I hurt you’, before he takes a sip of his drink and his horned head shifts toward Oliver. “Any word on anything else from yesterday?” Aside from the obvious.
even at the best of times,
i'm out of my mind
SUNJATA
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.
