now take what i offer, straight up the nose, down the throat
it's a bearable bruise on your conscious
He was an anchor, waiting to be pulled under and drowned, suffocating like he had within the mud monster – feeling the weight of the mud and rocks crushing down on windpipes and limbs. Only he had fought back then, fought back hard for that gasp of breath, only to now feel like he’s giving in, breathing in all the filth and letting the rocks bounce along his lungs. But he doesn’t utter it, doesn’t comment on it – imagining that Deimos can see the lie for what it is. He’s thankful with the Sword doesn’t ask.
He can keep it under wraps, until the day arrives at least. Then it’ll all break loose.
Instead he focuses on the task at hand, helping Deimos place and plant the pieces of wood for the ramp for him to nail them into place. And with it, he listens to Deimos as he mentions that he should probably meet Safrin’s Shield. It’s enough of a distraction from his own whirlwind of a life that he nods, the ghost of a smile dancing along his hardened jaw, the wind whipping a lock of hair around one of his horns as he nods. “I’ll have to.” He comments quietly, moving to help further.
The comment of the spar however, grants a nod from him as well. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take it easy on me. I’m sick and recovering.” A hint of the humor there, a glint of it in his eye, despite how much of an understatement it was. Had he not gone and seen Nate he likely would’ve left it to succumb until he eventually drowned himself. Perhaps Deimos can hear it in the rasps of his breath, the crackling of the fluid in his lungs. The humor fades quickly, however, as he focuses on Deimos. “I’m sorry that the memory mud made it to the Festival.” Feeling as though some of the blame has been placed on him.
He can keep it under wraps, until the day arrives at least. Then it’ll all break loose.
Instead he focuses on the task at hand, helping Deimos place and plant the pieces of wood for the ramp for him to nail them into place. And with it, he listens to Deimos as he mentions that he should probably meet Safrin’s Shield. It’s enough of a distraction from his own whirlwind of a life that he nods, the ghost of a smile dancing along his hardened jaw, the wind whipping a lock of hair around one of his horns as he nods. “I’ll have to.” He comments quietly, moving to help further.
The comment of the spar however, grants a nod from him as well. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take it easy on me. I’m sick and recovering.” A hint of the humor there, a glint of it in his eye, despite how much of an understatement it was. Had he not gone and seen Nate he likely would’ve left it to succumb until he eventually drowned himself. Perhaps Deimos can hear it in the rasps of his breath, the crackling of the fluid in his lungs. The humor fades quickly, however, as he focuses on Deimos. “I’m sorry that the memory mud made it to the Festival.” Feeling as though some of the blame has been placed on him.
but don't it feel good? don't you feel calmer?
i am the way and the life in the best looking truth
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.
