SUNJATA
the flood
but am i too late? or hearts to your spades,
if i don't suit you? then what do you want from me?
if i don't suit you? then what do you want from me?
This morning should have gone like every other. Smoothly. A coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, an easy trek to the Slagveld to open it for the day for those wishing to train. It’s still somewhat dark within, the lanterns long burned out, but sunlight filters through in swaths of blues and golds from the partially overcast sky. And in practiced motions, Sunjata unlocks the door, flips the sign in the window to open, moving to pull the cigarette from his lips and go about prepping the place for the day.
The scent of blood in his senses isn’t unusual, not for a place like this. But this amount of it, dry iron mixed with sand is different. It’s still somewhat fresh in comparison, and the volume of it that assaults his senses is wrong. That should have been his first clue.
He finally takes a moment to look around the boxing ring, spying a shadow on the wall that instantly has him on edge as he partially shifts his gaze to see better, as feathers navy hued and vibrant flick down his neck and shoulders in his surprise. He recognizes the face, albeit vaguely.
He recognizes the death more so.
And it’s horror that crosses him, that has him dropping the coffee into the sand, (what’s a little spill of coffee among the pool of blood?) the cigarette wavers pinched between his lips as his feet take him nearer when he simply would rather have nothing to do with this at all. But when does he ever get his wish?
He nears it, the body, trying his best to swallow down the horror and sudden nausea, of the memories it sparks back to the surface, long hidden and drowned, of blood on a marble floor, of promises made but never kept, of slit throats purely for show and pain.
He finds the letter, the handwriting so much like his it makes him feel sicker. He reads the language of his home. And he knows. He knows. He hates it.
And there’s nothing he can do but to follow the instruction. To look back up at Arsen, quietly cursing out the man for coming back, cursing him out for not staying away like he’d tried to make him do.
The cigarette is discarded, and Sunjata finds himself beginning to pull the nails from the other man’s wings, shuddering at the thought of them being his.
The scent of blood in his senses isn’t unusual, not for a place like this. But this amount of it, dry iron mixed with sand is different. It’s still somewhat fresh in comparison, and the volume of it that assaults his senses is wrong. That should have been his first clue.
He finally takes a moment to look around the boxing ring, spying a shadow on the wall that instantly has him on edge as he partially shifts his gaze to see better, as feathers navy hued and vibrant flick down his neck and shoulders in his surprise. He recognizes the face, albeit vaguely.
He recognizes the death more so.
And it’s horror that crosses him, that has him dropping the coffee into the sand, (what’s a little spill of coffee among the pool of blood?) the cigarette wavers pinched between his lips as his feet take him nearer when he simply would rather have nothing to do with this at all. But when does he ever get his wish?
He nears it, the body, trying his best to swallow down the horror and sudden nausea, of the memories it sparks back to the surface, long hidden and drowned, of blood on a marble floor, of promises made but never kept, of slit throats purely for show and pain.
He finds the letter, the handwriting so much like his it makes him feel sicker. He reads the language of his home. And he knows. He knows. He hates it.
And there’s nothing he can do but to follow the instruction. To look back up at Arsen, quietly cursing out the man for coming back, cursing him out for not staying away like he’d tried to make him do.
The cigarette is discarded, and Sunjata finds himself beginning to pull the nails from the other man’s wings, shuddering at the thought of them being his.
so we're not written in the stars,
but i'm okay with that. i'm okay with anything
but i'm okay with that. i'm okay with anything
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.
