SuNJATA
the flood
He hopes he gets the point across – a memory hitting him of the brief conversations he’d had with Haai before she’d passed when he’d gained the ability to, how it was almost childlike in a sense, and so he’s careful as he picks his words to try and make it so she’ll understand. He’s still tall and as she presses a clawed foot to his knee to raise herself a bit higher, he finds some amount of bolstering to his emotions to help explain it.
Of course, it doesn’t help when Loki responds, the childlike question, the gone and the dead hitting him like a bag of bricks, and he’s lucky he doesn’t have to talk audibly to the dragon because he doesn’t think with how tight his throat has grown that he’ll be able to say anything else other than what he’d told Wessex. Yes. I’m sorry. He sends over instead, working his jaw again, nostrils flaring as he tries to even out his breathing.
Sunjata hates tears, conditioned to believe that it made him appear weak. He has a hard enough time letting them go in his own company, let alone others, so he doesn’t look up at Wessex when she offers her condolences, the hand at his shoulder a comfort for him despite how shaky his and the demigod’s relationship was. Instead he simply ducks his head with a nod because he can’t speak. And when Loki noses her head in, Sunjata takes a shuddering breath as quietly as he can. Always. He tells Loki, though his voice is hoarse and stricken with his grief, and he manages to lift a hand to rub at his eyes as if he’s trying to get to the root of the tears that brim his steel gaze.
He recovers enough to run the same hand through his hair. “I’m sorry too.” He admits to Wessex, throat tight as he focuses on the body of the goat he’d taken down.
Of course, it doesn’t help when Loki responds, the childlike question, the gone and the dead hitting him like a bag of bricks, and he’s lucky he doesn’t have to talk audibly to the dragon because he doesn’t think with how tight his throat has grown that he’ll be able to say anything else other than what he’d told Wessex. Yes. I’m sorry. He sends over instead, working his jaw again, nostrils flaring as he tries to even out his breathing.
Sunjata hates tears, conditioned to believe that it made him appear weak. He has a hard enough time letting them go in his own company, let alone others, so he doesn’t look up at Wessex when she offers her condolences, the hand at his shoulder a comfort for him despite how shaky his and the demigod’s relationship was. Instead he simply ducks his head with a nod because he can’t speak. And when Loki noses her head in, Sunjata takes a shuddering breath as quietly as he can. Always. He tells Loki, though his voice is hoarse and stricken with his grief, and he manages to lift a hand to rub at his eyes as if he’s trying to get to the root of the tears that brim his steel gaze.
He recovers enough to run the same hand through his hair. “I’m sorry too.” He admits to Wessex, throat tight as he focuses on the body of the goat he’d taken down.
love will save you, but it won't save me
BASE INSPIRED BY ODD <3
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.
