the sea speaks a little more honestly
The Flood nods, the smile on his face softening as the rain continues to drip down the side of his face into the stubble left behind. “Had help along the way.” His accent deepens, as if he’s unable to take all the credit for good luck and quick thinking. Because to be honest? He had neither. His luck had always been shit (hence his feat of advantage if he misses), and he was impulsive rather than thinking everything through. It’s how he got in so many shitty situations without seeing the easy way out.
He felt too much. A weakness, as his father had said his entire upbringing. A weakness that needed to be culled.
But here he is. And Shaju sits, hopefully, as a pile of bones at the bottom of the Arclight.
The feathers of his wings flex against her side again as she turns toward him. And with her approval, the Flood’s smile turns crooked, roguish, as he sits up to shed the wet shirt that’s already clinging to him. It’s a bit of a challenge, but he manages it, the rain hitting his skin with a cool warmth that drips down sun-kissed and freckled skin. His tattoos are fully visible now, the very same navy that matched his macaw shift that stays buried below. But the two compass tattoos on his neck’s northern points aim straight at her as he settles before her to point out each one. The burn scar on his shoulder, the one down the side of his neck, the circular sharkbite scars that crest above his hips where his pants still sit, soaked and clinging, and finally the scars that claw up his sides. “— And my legs are all fucked up from the time I got attacked by sharks.” Ending easily at the circular shark bite scars and not particularly elaborating any further, the next set he hesitates at.
The little NW carved into his skin against his ribcage. “Nate gave me this one. And we.. shared, this one.” He leans toward her, hand outstretched that still boasts the wedding band with a crescent moon sat atop it. The palm of his hand is scarred in a line, and as he gets into her space to explain, his grey gaze flits up to scan her face. “So, the place I’m from is called Korofi. And it was.. a backwards ass place in terms of rules. My father was the Arbiter and basically ruled a whole police region. So..” Rolling his eyes and letting the grimace bloom for a moment, his gaze finds Colt’s face again as he loosens up.
“Bloodline was important. And being a guy meant you had to be ruthless and iron willed and the sole provider. So the marriage tradition was that the guy would cut his palm and draw a collar in his own blood around his soon to be wife’s neck like a stupid little know your place.” The distaste is palpable in the low thrum of his accented voice. “But Nate and I adapted it. We did it to each other. A little piece of home but modernized.” And he’d kept both of them. Reminders of promises long since gone in the years that have passed.
He closes his palm and from where he’s settled in the rain and the water, it’s half hovering over her in order to show her the multitudes of scars, but the Flood draws silent as he waits for her reaction. He’d left a lot out, summarized it the best he could for a man that couldn’t utilize his words well at the best of times.
He felt too much. A weakness, as his father had said his entire upbringing. A weakness that needed to be culled.
But here he is. And Shaju sits, hopefully, as a pile of bones at the bottom of the Arclight.
The feathers of his wings flex against her side again as she turns toward him. And with her approval, the Flood’s smile turns crooked, roguish, as he sits up to shed the wet shirt that’s already clinging to him. It’s a bit of a challenge, but he manages it, the rain hitting his skin with a cool warmth that drips down sun-kissed and freckled skin. His tattoos are fully visible now, the very same navy that matched his macaw shift that stays buried below. But the two compass tattoos on his neck’s northern points aim straight at her as he settles before her to point out each one. The burn scar on his shoulder, the one down the side of his neck, the circular sharkbite scars that crest above his hips where his pants still sit, soaked and clinging, and finally the scars that claw up his sides. “— And my legs are all fucked up from the time I got attacked by sharks.” Ending easily at the circular shark bite scars and not particularly elaborating any further, the next set he hesitates at.
The little NW carved into his skin against his ribcage. “Nate gave me this one. And we.. shared, this one.” He leans toward her, hand outstretched that still boasts the wedding band with a crescent moon sat atop it. The palm of his hand is scarred in a line, and as he gets into her space to explain, his grey gaze flits up to scan her face. “So, the place I’m from is called Korofi. And it was.. a backwards ass place in terms of rules. My father was the Arbiter and basically ruled a whole police region. So..” Rolling his eyes and letting the grimace bloom for a moment, his gaze finds Colt’s face again as he loosens up.
“Bloodline was important. And being a guy meant you had to be ruthless and iron willed and the sole provider. So the marriage tradition was that the guy would cut his palm and draw a collar in his own blood around his soon to be wife’s neck like a stupid little know your place.” The distaste is palpable in the low thrum of his accented voice. “But Nate and I adapted it. We did it to each other. A little piece of home but modernized.” And he’d kept both of them. Reminders of promises long since gone in the years that have passed.
He closes his palm and from where he’s settled in the rain and the water, it’s half hovering over her in order to show her the multitudes of scars, but the Flood draws silent as he waits for her reaction. He’d left a lot out, summarized it the best he could for a man that couldn’t utilize his words well at the best of times.
to those who are willing to drown
SUNJATA
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.
