SUNJATA
look who's digging their own grave
this is what they all say; you'll drink yourself to death
this is what they all say; you'll drink yourself to death
It’s the least she could do, he thinks. Because it’s exactly what he does these days when he’s unsure about things. Talking to Frey often put things into perspective, helping him grow and adjust and adapt, especially when at the end of the day he’s learned that they only ever want him to be as happy as he feasibly can be.
But perhaps that’s Frey’s nature (ha), to go with the flow of things and see how they turn out. Whatever it is, the Flood hopes that Maea finds whatever it is she’s looking for. And that, is his own form of growth. So he listens as she offers her admission, not fully understanding the meaning of it entirely, but figuring he knew enough to be able to surmise what she was thinking about.
But then she’s laughing, sitting up suddenly and Sunjata’s steel gaze shoots toward her – not full of stormclouds as they once had been, but open. Bright. Grey to match the clouds drifting above the canopy that blots them out. Grey to match the strands flaring through his dark curls. It has him pulling himself up from the stone to come near her, kneeling at her side in the grass, where she can see the constellation of freckles in his cheeks brought out by the sun, the wrinkle lines that weren’t there before, and the curve of a smile that’s far more lopsided than he’d ever been able to do with the scar that ruined the muscle in his cheek. It also puts him in the perfect position for her to catch wind of his passive magic, not that he remembers it even exists these days.
“Nope. I think it might get a bit better for you though, since it’s the first time you have.” The accented laugh that accompanies his teasing is a gentle one, an older one, not plagued with the air of smoke from a cigarette or the aloofness of someone afraid to get attached to anyone. It’s wise in comparison, as if he’s been there before and would hate to be there again.
But perhaps that’s Frey’s nature (ha), to go with the flow of things and see how they turn out. Whatever it is, the Flood hopes that Maea finds whatever it is she’s looking for. And that, is his own form of growth. So he listens as she offers her admission, not fully understanding the meaning of it entirely, but figuring he knew enough to be able to surmise what she was thinking about.
But then she’s laughing, sitting up suddenly and Sunjata’s steel gaze shoots toward her – not full of stormclouds as they once had been, but open. Bright. Grey to match the clouds drifting above the canopy that blots them out. Grey to match the strands flaring through his dark curls. It has him pulling himself up from the stone to come near her, kneeling at her side in the grass, where she can see the constellation of freckles in his cheeks brought out by the sun, the wrinkle lines that weren’t there before, and the curve of a smile that’s far more lopsided than he’d ever been able to do with the scar that ruined the muscle in his cheek. It also puts him in the perfect position for her to catch wind of his passive magic, not that he remembers it even exists these days.
“Nope. I think it might get a bit better for you though, since it’s the first time you have.” The accented laugh that accompanies his teasing is a gentle one, an older one, not plagued with the air of smoke from a cigarette or the aloofness of someone afraid to get attached to anyone. It’s wise in comparison, as if he’s been there before and would hate to be there again.
look who makes their own bed, lies right down within it
and what will you have left?
and what will you have left?
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.
