His time for rages were through, and at this point he was far too quiet from his exhaustion. But it was different, the second time, there was nothing to rage to other than himself, nothing to do other than wallow and mull along his own thoughts. He hadn’t been able to rage against those that had trapped him, those that had caused it, because nobody truly had. It had been her, and her alone. Woefully unprepared.
But none of it was fair, though life for him never had been. And Melita didn’t know half of his history, or hardly any of it at all other than the parts that included her father, why he didn’t rage and storm and create a fury of fire. That was the Korofi within her. That was the fire she was born with. For him? Lusea had been his fire, the spark to ignite it all. And when left by himself? He was left with an overwhelming sense of internal torture – the flood they had called him, though he drowned himself more often than others. To be one is to become one, and his quiet nature as he looks to the lantern, watching Melita take the chalk and ruler and begin to swipe out the pale lines of shapes in terms of sizes, comes from the feeling of his drowning again and again.
He’s trying to be better, trying to feel better, but it only goes so far.
Still, he looks up to her as she questions if it’s enough, steel eyes meeting her gilded ones with the faintest hint of a growing smile of approval crossing his stubbled face. “[say]I think so.[/say]” He announces, removing the lantern and focusing on what else could go there without just being the lantern. There were enough spaces to allow for knickknacks, small memories to add to the rest of the grouping.
“[say]Alright, let’s make a bunch and pick where ours will go.[/say]” He offers, grabbing another piece of chalk and setting Lusea’s lantern aside, grabbing a second ruler to ensure the lines would be straight – a guide to put the beams up in place, to nail them into the wall. Shelves of memories and loved ones, so they’ll always have a place there.
But none of it was fair, though life for him never had been. And Melita didn’t know half of his history, or hardly any of it at all other than the parts that included her father, why he didn’t rage and storm and create a fury of fire. That was the Korofi within her. That was the fire she was born with. For him? Lusea had been his fire, the spark to ignite it all. And when left by himself? He was left with an overwhelming sense of internal torture – the flood they had called him, though he drowned himself more often than others. To be one is to become one, and his quiet nature as he looks to the lantern, watching Melita take the chalk and ruler and begin to swipe out the pale lines of shapes in terms of sizes, comes from the feeling of his drowning again and again.
He’s trying to be better, trying to feel better, but it only goes so far.
Still, he looks up to her as she questions if it’s enough, steel eyes meeting her gilded ones with the faintest hint of a growing smile of approval crossing his stubbled face. “[say]I think so.[/say]” He announces, removing the lantern and focusing on what else could go there without just being the lantern. There were enough spaces to allow for knickknacks, small memories to add to the rest of the grouping.
“[say]Alright, let’s make a bunch and pick where ours will go.[/say]” He offers, grabbing another piece of chalk and setting Lusea’s lantern aside, grabbing a second ruler to ensure the lines would be straight – a guide to put the beams up in place, to nail them into the wall. Shelves of memories and loved ones, so they’ll always have a place there.
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.
