SUNJATA
the flood
Relief swells through Sunjata the more seconds go by that he doesn’t see the figure. It leaves a sticky sheen of sweat along his brow, along his shoulders, a breathy sigh of relief as he watches the wind blow through the fronds. A hand rises and runs through his hair, his gaze flicking back to Jack at the mention of it being more than just Sunjata’s problem. It’s a bit of surprise, but nothing like what Jack says next.
Is there a kinship within the terms? Of horrible fathers and shitty upbringings? He doesn’t know, is too wound up to ask. So instead he just dips his head. “Worst kind I ever knew.” He rumbles, shoulders heavy, shifting his feet in the sand, beginning to move away from the pools, slowly, so that Jack might be able to join him. Though he still peeks occasionally at the palm tree. “His name’s Sahib Senzaok.” He begins, jaw grinding as he clamps them shut. “Eyes like mine, slightly shorter than me, a variety of scars. No tattoos.” It’s a struggle, but he forces himself to remember what his father looked like, the cruel smile, the clean shaven face, the hard steel set to his eyes.
He remembers how pleased his father had been after killing his mother, how disappointment lingered there too that Sunjata hadn’t outed the location of the rebellion with a simple phone call. He remembers getting captured and peering up at his father from blood soaked marble flooring, and the feeling of being at an utter and total loss. Trapped and caged, and so full of rage.
As quickly as it comes, he pushes it away with a visual shake of his head.
Is there a kinship within the terms? Of horrible fathers and shitty upbringings? He doesn’t know, is too wound up to ask. So instead he just dips his head. “Worst kind I ever knew.” He rumbles, shoulders heavy, shifting his feet in the sand, beginning to move away from the pools, slowly, so that Jack might be able to join him. Though he still peeks occasionally at the palm tree. “His name’s Sahib Senzaok.” He begins, jaw grinding as he clamps them shut. “Eyes like mine, slightly shorter than me, a variety of scars. No tattoos.” It’s a struggle, but he forces himself to remember what his father looked like, the cruel smile, the clean shaven face, the hard steel set to his eyes.
He remembers how pleased his father had been after killing his mother, how disappointment lingered there too that Sunjata hadn’t outed the location of the rebellion with a simple phone call. He remembers getting captured and peering up at his father from blood soaked marble flooring, and the feeling of being at an utter and total loss. Trapped and caged, and so full of rage.
As quickly as it comes, he pushes it away with a visual shake of his head.
did you get out all of that angry passion?
is it still formin'? Has it started to torture you?
is it still formin'? Has it started to torture you?
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.
