// welcome to paradise //
Who would have thought that building a town meant a whole fucking lot of work? Like sure, on paper it seems like a lot and you wrap your mind around it and it makes sense that it’ll take days and nights, a lot of hard work and elbow grease. What isn’t often accounted for is the scale if it when you’re standing in front of the bare bones that had already taken a shit ton of work. And now, you’re faced with even more additions to be made, the little fences and garden areas, a lot of thumbs hit with hammers, a lot of muscles hurting that you didn’t even know existed.
That’s precisely where Sunjata stands. And for a demigod? It’s kind of saying a lot.
But, as always, the Flood wears his exhaustion well – tattooed shoulders a touch heavier as he dismisses the few people that had come out to help him today, suggesting that they head back toward camp a ways away or to the House of Midnight if they felt like taking the horses back. Because while the town was up, it still needed a lot of work. And finding exhaustion there but not detrimental, the Flood simply continues the work in spite of it. Like adding the embellishment to the insides of the houses so that they seemed less like a shell. It takes him a little while to get down the path before he takes a break, stopping as the sky shifts to sunset overhead, watching the hues of violet, pinks, and oranges fill the sky.
At least the brunt of the heat is over, though it hasn’t stopped Sunjata from utilizing his rain magic in the middle of the golden streaked street, healing sore bones and soaking him to the skin through his clothes. It’s comfortable, at least, and it prolongs his aches and pains from occurring for at least a few days. And, here in the middle of nowhere with no one around to tattle on him, the Flood finds himself stepping away to the side of the house to grab the bag of holding he’d brought with him, rummaging within it to find the pack of cigarettes he’d gotten the last time he was in Torchline. Sticking one between his lips, still soaked, he procures the matches as well, lighting it and taking a very much needed drag as he leans against the fence post for this particular house.
That’s precisely where Sunjata stands. And for a demigod? It’s kind of saying a lot.
But, as always, the Flood wears his exhaustion well – tattooed shoulders a touch heavier as he dismisses the few people that had come out to help him today, suggesting that they head back toward camp a ways away or to the House of Midnight if they felt like taking the horses back. Because while the town was up, it still needed a lot of work. And finding exhaustion there but not detrimental, the Flood simply continues the work in spite of it. Like adding the embellishment to the insides of the houses so that they seemed less like a shell. It takes him a little while to get down the path before he takes a break, stopping as the sky shifts to sunset overhead, watching the hues of violet, pinks, and oranges fill the sky.
At least the brunt of the heat is over, though it hasn’t stopped Sunjata from utilizing his rain magic in the middle of the golden streaked street, healing sore bones and soaking him to the skin through his clothes. It’s comfortable, at least, and it prolongs his aches and pains from occurring for at least a few days. And, here in the middle of nowhere with no one around to tattle on him, the Flood finds himself stepping away to the side of the house to grab the bag of holding he’d brought with him, rummaging within it to find the pack of cigarettes he’d gotten the last time he was in Torchline. Sticking one between his lips, still soaked, he procures the matches as well, lighting it and taking a very much needed drag as he leans against the fence post for this particular house.
the flood
// where me and you can always hide //
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.
