temporary fleeting thrills, keep me bruised and make me ill
my skin has lavender tones
my skin has lavender tones
Grasses soon shift to dirt, noticeable by how Sunjata’s eyes linger on the ground before him rather than around him — as if putting blinders on was the best option he could in lieu of accidentally coming across something else infected with the void. He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t notice nor hear the man from the festival step down the path toward the village too. If anything, it’s the yelp of alarm that has the ribbon of water blooming into a shield of sorts, flattening and glittering briefly in the dim light.
His wings flare out behind him, too, his own surprise echoed in the ah! that passes by scarred lips. But, he sees that the abandoned is familiar, enough they’d shared words at the festival before he’d had to go and get rid of everything in his stomach from seeing Everest’s face.
The water drops at his feet, splashing against the dirt and grass and his wings tuck in as he tries to calm his hammering heart. “Sorry, sorry.” Comes the accented hum, clawed hands lifting in a placating gesture as he prevents himself from coming closer. And then, as if finally catching a glimpse of his clawed hands, the Flood swallows and drops that portion of his partial shifting— returning his hands to the regular, scarred ones, palms facing the necromancer. “Seems like I keep ruining your night, huh?” It’s a self deprecating joke (a flat, tired one to be honest), one because he’d nearly ran the kid over earlier, and now because he’d nearly spooked him into falling over.
His wings flare out behind him, too, his own surprise echoed in the ah! that passes by scarred lips. But, he sees that the abandoned is familiar, enough they’d shared words at the festival before he’d had to go and get rid of everything in his stomach from seeing Everest’s face.
The water drops at his feet, splashing against the dirt and grass and his wings tuck in as he tries to calm his hammering heart. “Sorry, sorry.” Comes the accented hum, clawed hands lifting in a placating gesture as he prevents himself from coming closer. And then, as if finally catching a glimpse of his clawed hands, the Flood swallows and drops that portion of his partial shifting— returning his hands to the regular, scarred ones, palms facing the necromancer. “Seems like I keep ruining your night, huh?” It’s a self deprecating joke (a flat, tired one to be honest), one because he’d nearly ran the kid over earlier, and now because he’d nearly spooked him into falling over.
the flood
tell me i'm a loaded gun, tie me up and come undone
i can cover it up, i can cover it up
i can cover it up, i can cover it up
totally sniped from odd ilu
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.
