sold my soul to the calling

SUNJATA

the flood

i'm nothing more than a page unwritten
on the pavement, blowing in the wind

Sunjata isn’t that hard to reach, at least. Freshly showered and with the blooming red of a mark pressed against the compass tattoo on his neck, the Flood makes his way downstairs. He is surprised to hear that it’s Ronin that’s called for him, but as he moves through the House of Midnight, he mentally prepares himself to get over the shades he’ll see in Ronin’s face from the infection that had plagued them both.

Dressed down in a dark tank top and dark jeans, hair still damp and curling, the Flood slides into the seat beside Ronin and purposefully doesn’t look at him as the bartender already slides a glass his way. Similar to Ronin’s, it’s a smoky, dark whiskey that comes his way, and with it in hand the Flood finally does dare to glance at his old friend. “It’s not often you come to my neck of the woods.” He says quietly, regarding him once the eyes and teeth have passed, a quiet tiredness in his gaze, apprehension for what he could be here for. “So what’s up?” Might as well rip the bandaid off, right?

you win a lot, and you lose
just a little bit more than you gained in the end