He says, "Oh, baby girl, don't get cut on my edges.
i'm the king of everything
She laughs and his brow raises, but it still manages the ghost of a smile on his face in response. “I might need a teacher.” He rumbles to her, a knowing look crossing his gaze. Korofi had been about getting hands dirty with blood and sweat, never for planting. That was a separate country’s problem. Still, the smile grows a small amount bolder, despite the pain of the muscle shifting over his cheek as she snaps at his fingers. “Careful now, I’m wounded.” A light tease with none of his storm beneath it, only confusion and perhaps a small amount of sadness.
Still, he makes his way to the chair, settling in and watching as she gathers the things she needs. That damn needle and thread, with fingers that were gentle and brutal all the same. But she brings over whiskey and his slate eyes follow it, another quirk of a smile on his lips. Gods she knew him so well. As she hands it to him, he pauses before doing anything with it. A hiss of pain and frustration slipping from him as she dabs the wound, and he knows something is wrong when it comes away with red blood, spiderwebbed with black. An oil, a darkness.
“A girl.” He tells her before he knocks back the glass and drinks about half of it before setting it on the table, sighing with a grit to his teeth as it burns and slides down his throat. He almost wishes it was a bear, it would be easier to explain. But this? There was nothing easy about this. And while he puts the cloth in his mouth to bite down onto, focusing on the churning of the alcohol in his stomach, he nearly doesn’t hear her.
And he almost misses what she says.
Steel eyes slide up to hers, as she begins to stitch the wound, something akin to home and not home, that he finds himself biting into the fabric harder with a hum of agreement. Gods how he didn’t want to do that, but… it almost seemed as though they might not have a choice. He thinks back to how rabid Phoebe had been, how nearly nothing had gotten her to calm down. The venom and spite flung his way, of his softness, of how his mother would have preferred the midwife over Lusea. He snorts as he looks up at his flame, eyes sparking with that hint of a storm, chasing away the small amount of fear that’s grown within him.
And he fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette and his matches, waiting for her to be done before he says anything else. All he can do is watch, appreciate, love while she does what she’s always done best, fixing him up after his failures and victories.
Still, he makes his way to the chair, settling in and watching as she gathers the things she needs. That damn needle and thread, with fingers that were gentle and brutal all the same. But she brings over whiskey and his slate eyes follow it, another quirk of a smile on his lips. Gods she knew him so well. As she hands it to him, he pauses before doing anything with it. A hiss of pain and frustration slipping from him as she dabs the wound, and he knows something is wrong when it comes away with red blood, spiderwebbed with black. An oil, a darkness.
“A girl.” He tells her before he knocks back the glass and drinks about half of it before setting it on the table, sighing with a grit to his teeth as it burns and slides down his throat. He almost wishes it was a bear, it would be easier to explain. But this? There was nothing easy about this. And while he puts the cloth in his mouth to bite down onto, focusing on the churning of the alcohol in his stomach, he nearly doesn’t hear her.
And he almost misses what she says.
Steel eyes slide up to hers, as she begins to stitch the wound, something akin to home and not home, that he finds himself biting into the fabric harder with a hum of agreement. Gods how he didn’t want to do that, but… it almost seemed as though they might not have a choice. He thinks back to how rabid Phoebe had been, how nearly nothing had gotten her to calm down. The venom and spite flung his way, of his softness, of how his mother would have preferred the midwife over Lusea. He snorts as he looks up at his flame, eyes sparking with that hint of a storm, chasing away the small amount of fear that’s grown within him.
And he fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette and his matches, waiting for her to be done before he says anything else. All he can do is watch, appreciate, love while she does what she’s always done best, fixing him up after his failures and victories.
and oh, my tongue is a weapon"
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.
