From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
She poises a question to him that makes him pause as he stares at the sky and the way the clouds flit in and out above the sun, creating dips in the light here and there. It isn’t until he inhales deeply and sighs that he finally deigns to respond. “Well, I got my fathers temper and his nose.” He chuckles at first before growing softer. “My rebellious heart from my mother.” His eyes skate to her with a raised brow. He doesn’t want to offer more than that, and he leaves it as simplistic as he can.
He explains more about the Large Vulture, and watches her as she watches him – wanting to understand where he came from when it came to Gaal. And he can’t blame the girl. Aside from the fact that it must be hard to learn your father was a piece of shit – it was hard for him to understand at first too, but at least he could witness the injustices first hand. So he inhales deeply again and shakes his head. “Many things.” He rumbles, steel eyes narrowing at the memories.
“He had this way of thinking that people owed something to him – that he grew up with a sad story and deserved people’s pity. I don’t know if he used it to make himself feel better or to get more women into his bed. But back home in Korofi, things were hard and we were always fighting one thing or another.” He pauses. “My story is one I’d consider a lot harder, a lot darker than Gaal’s and he had the audacity to laugh about it in my face the day my father arranged the marriages between my sister and him, and I to another.” His eyes rolled.
“My sister was smitten with him, she couldn’t see through what he portrayed himself as being – but after brawling with him for so many years I knew what type of man he was. And I knew that any chance he got, he’d… well, break her heart. Even if she denies it. But she’s my sister, you know? And I couldn’t let that happen.” He pauses to let her take in the story. “Gaal the Goliath, Graasvoel the large vulture. All he did was use people for what they were worth and move on.” He frowns before he looks to Melita with an almost apologetic smile.
“I am sorry you’re related to him. But if it helps, I can teach you his language? So if he ever appears here you can tell him to ‘fuck off’ correctly.” He gives her a slight roguish grin, an almost avian quality that seems so similar to the mannerism that Gaal likely had at one point. A habit of home.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
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.
Father’s tempers and noses, mother’s rebellious hearts; and the girl received ferocity and sweetness, an interchanging, colossal balance between vehemence and compassion. Sometimes they were blinding and overwhelming, sometimes they were scattered and torn, sometimes she didn’t know what she was or how she walked along this earth. But she tried, and that was more than lingering along the thresholds of nothingness, despondent and rejected, curled away from everything else, waiting for the next set of plagues to be set upon her. Did Gaal try? Did he ever care? Or was it all too much or never enough, a haunting correspondence of upheaval and greed? How many other women became entangled, enraptured, and then left with naught? Or with children – unwanted, mistakes born of avarice, inattention, or simply utter indifference? Her eyes watched his, waiting for the infinite details, starting to complete a picture of Gaal, of Graasvoel, of a figure larger than life, but lacking a majority of its virtues – no paragon sanctioned in his threshold, no statue built in his honor.
Entitled was the first sentence, feeling better about himself in pity party antics, coaxing more women into his bed (so Melita and Clementine could be one of many, flickering embers, coals, and ashes scattered all over kingdoms and worlds), always fighting, always enduring. It wasn’t so much different from the Rift, perhaps, except she couldn’t fathom or understand when anyone would find the time to entice and inveigle another into anything, when they were all just managing to survive.
And Sunjata’s story was harder? She tilted her head, rounded her shoulders, fingers flexing across the bridge, then pommel of her staff; her other hand drifting along the surface of the water, curling and coiling into the river. But he didn’t go into it, didn’t provide those details. Maybe he didn’t want to tell – his to own, his to covet – so her mouth failed to form the adequate inquiry, delving more into the hate, the malice, the rancor behind the other man’s abhorrence.
Arranged marriages: and she wondered if either party was ever content, happy, with them. His sister smitten, incapable of seeing the path she lingered upon, the man she wanted but couldn’t quite ever truly grasp. Was he swayed too much by others, by ravenous, rapacious edges? And did that scare her a little, when she was the same way about violence, about vehemence, about vitriol, insatiable when battles waged? “What did you do?” Couldn’t let that happen, had to protect his sibling; and she could understand, comprehend those layers. She’d done for as long as she could, until she finally wasn’t enough.
A sad, wistful smile lingered on her lips at the apology. “Not much I can do about it,” she murmured, a dulcet laugh billowing from her chest. Her voice threatened to be swallowed by the wind, by the breeze, but she let it hang there, a cluster of supposes. “Was there anything good about him?” Fangorn uttered a rasp on the shoreline, poking at rocks, while she shrugged, while he proffered more. Melita wasn’t sure she deserved anything else – not after these trials and tribulations, these revelations scorching her skin.
But the gift was far too tempting.
Her smile bloomed into an impish grin, head raised, figure rising onto her knees, a very devil-may-care platitude simmering its way over her sights. It was a true restoration of what she was, underneath the sorrow, the anguish, the melancholy, and the trappings; heart suddenly soaring at the notion of mischievous ambitions. “Yes please!”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
She asks what he did in that instance, and those steel eyes snap to hers. Perhaps it was an innocent question of curiosity , or perhaps she genuinely wanted to know. And he hadn’t exactly told anyone of the personal challenge, the battle for the right, where it would have ended the minute Jata brought him to his knees. But he couldn’t stop there, couldn’t stop as the vultures knees hit the ground with a hard thud, blood trailing down his face as well as the same from the crooked nose of the man. And he sighs inwardly at the memory, dragging his eyes from her as if he’s uncertain to tell her how far it had gotten.
He thought he had killed him, but he hadn’t. Not if Melita here was proof.
And so he gnaws on his lip gingerly for a moment while he collects his thoughts. “Well, I challenged him.” He tells her in the easiest way he can. “And we fought until we were covered in blood both our own and the other’s, until he passed out.” His eyes drift back toward her. “And I took my sister and ran. We made it quite a ways and for a time before I suddenly appeared here.” His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, as if it hadn’t been a big deal — when it had literally been everything.
But she asks if there was anything good about him, and for a moment he wants to laugh and tell her no; that her father was just as much of a piece of shit with no redeeming qualities as he led her on to believe. But he can’t do that, and he tilts his head as he regards her. “He was incredibly charismatic.” He tells her with a slightly raised brow. “And I think if things had been a bit different in his life he could have been a good man.” The last bit is as honest as Sunjata can get. Because nobody from Korofi had been decent, they had all been trying to survive — ruthless, vengeful, filled with venom, looking for any kind of outlet.
But his next statement of learning the language has a smile crossing over his face, and he splashes the water near him to bid her to get closer if she wanted before he thinks about it. “Fok jou means fuck you.” He begins with a quiet chuckle. “Stukkie kak Vader is piece of shit father.” He sends a wink her way. “Hoer is whore.” He raises a brow as if to ask if she had anything else that came to mind she wanted to know.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
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.
There were always going to be worlds cornered and covered in desecration and disaster; but it didn’t mean corruption was paramount. It was the choices one made in life – just as she’d done, over and over and over again, losing modicums of innocence amidst depravity and terror, aiming to squander anarchy and arming herself with sedition because it meant keeping those she loved safe. Sunjata had challenged Gaal to do the same – a cherished sister, not meant to be sequestered and locked away with a vulture. Would she have been unhappy? Would he have altered or changed himself for her? The past was the past, but the stories repeated in refrains – could anyone have warned her mother, gentle and kind, about the brute with the charismatic tongue and the well-spun lies? Or was she doomed, just as the scores of other women? The girl’s eyes narrowed, careful perusal and study of the man who fought her father, who thought to cover them in blood, in ashes, in bones, broken pieces of enamel, ripped apart for victory, for triumph, for evasion, for escape. Would Graasvoel have cared if she left of her own volition? The series of inquiries had no answers, no particular meanings except intrigue, a youth lost in the tidal waves of conclusions and revelations – so she didn’t voice them, not for now, as he shrugged, as steel met fire.
He could have been a good man. They could’ve all been good. Did anyone arrive into the world evil and vile? Didn’t they grow into it, from experiences, from devastation, from ruin, or from virtue, rising to paragon status?
So if she never knew Gaal – was the fire and fury sizzling and smoldering in her ichor, simply her own? No one else to blame for its vitriol but herself?
As she considered this, her gaze settled on him, trying to piece together lives wrapped up in shards of insurrection, ones beyond the Rift, worlds apart. “Do you know if anyone else from your kingdom lives here?” Because if there was a whole other set of family members – then she wasn’t truly alone…and it gave her some pause, some cause, to search across the vast plains and the ancient forests. “There were several from Helovia, like Kiada,” but the name slipping between her teeth was bitter and rancorous, etched in abhorrence and belligerence; ferocity entangled amidst brutality, munitions for munitions, no forgiveness lined in their chambers.
But her grin reappeared on the notion of devilish devices, and she sidled closer at his encouragement, a fluid balance along the water, until she crossed her legs near him, leaning forward, as if she were poised to strike. Instead, with the staff across her lap, she was merely imploring, excited, exuberant, for the potential of follies and mayhem. She listened to the chuckles, to the way he pronounced, strived to shape her mouth the way he had. “Fok jou,” she repeated, giggling, gilded gaze rising to the sky. It probably didn’t sound quite correct, remembering the deeper intervals of Gaal’s tone, but she tried to embody the movements and motions as best she could. “Stukkie kak Vader,” was melded and molded with more emphasis, laughter springing across her tongue in following, beckoning waves. “Hoer.” Then the honeybee lingered backwards, practicing the airs for her rehearsal. “Fok jou hoer stukkie kak Vader." The embellished smile thereafter was proud, superior, and smug, as if she’d just recited a blessed anthem. Then her gaze swung directly back to his. “What else?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
He shrugs his shoulders to her and gives a light shake of his head. He hasn’t heard of anyone, but he supposes that didn’t matter much when it came to the possibilities. There were many from his world, fewer that knew what he was capable of. He only hoped they remained a fair distance away. But, it isn’t until she mentions a certain Kiada that has his brow lift. “I don’t know her.” He comments quietly. “But her name holds meaning in our language.” Our because it was hers now as much as it was his. “If I recall, it was a name from a neighboring land. Your father had a cousin who lived among them.” He considers before his brow raises slightly.
“It means….” His brow furrows as he tries to translate, steel eyes shifting toward the sky as his face scrunches with the attempt. “Schematic? Orderly?” He says with a tilt to his head. But before long she’s repeating his insults and stringing them together as any good student would, and he chuckles as he looks to her with praise. “Jy vertel die ou baster!” He gives her a booming laugh before he regards her again. “That’s ‘you tell the old bastard!’ Now let’s see…” He trails off again as he thinks up more.
“Gat is ass.” He pauses with a grin on his lips, finding a not so surprising amount of fun in being a bad influence again. “Do you have any particularly good insults I can translate for you?” He asks with another chuckle.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
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.
While Melita longed and yearned to make connections with those from the same kingdoms, because of time, because of distances, because of things they’d all experienced, she hadn’t considered that some didn’t long for those similar links and associations. Even Kiada, no matter how embittered she was towards the other girl, was a snippet of ruins, of chaos, of destruction, of a familiar rancor she could settle within, gnaw and gnash her teeth upon. But the fact that her adversary’s name held meaning in this language meant something else; that there might’ve been closer ties and tethers, tomes and books and histories melding together, and the notion sent the deepest rankles up her spine. Your father had a cousin who lived among them curled and coiled in her chest, in her ribs. Melita kept the snarls to herself, growling inwardly, because she didn’t cherish any potential relation there; and perhaps, by chance, there was naught, nothing, that embedded or ensconced them any deeper than their mutual contempt and abhorrence. The only sentiment expressing her displeasure was a wrinkling of her nose, a moderate frown, turning her lips downcast as she stared along the water, listening to the translation.
Schematic. Orderly.
As if that described Kiada at all – she withheld the snort threatening to loosen itself from her throat.
But then there were more fiendish inclinations, and as any classic rebel, she dove headfirst, back into the insurrection, listening intently with the rapacious grin settled back upon her fringes. Much like before, she strived, she attempted, to catch the particular phrasing and syllables, repeating them as best she could. “Jy vertel die ou baster! Gat!” A fresh set of giggles and laughter billowed along the river, especially as she thought over the intervals in which she could utilize these wonderful phrases. Easily enraptured by the potential for sedition, for devilry, for antics, she hummed underneath her breath, pondering over any insults she’d like put to another language. Well, there was one individual notable for being a…”What about bitch?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
He doesn’t miss the wrinkle of her nose at the mention of the name, snickering quietly to himself at the rage this girl must have for the other before he tilts his head. “Your father and I were from Korofi. Kiada’s name comes from Dorobo.” He explains easily, as if he’s flipping through the pages of a book. “Korofi is east of it, and we didn’t often get along.” He says as if it’s any consideration that it might just be more than experience with the girl to create such hate — perhaps it was in their blood too. But he grows quiet again, waiting for her to repeat the insults.
And she repeats them with such fervor that he can’t help the wide white grin that spreads across his face without abandonment. “Perfect.” He chuckles in response, sitting up a bit further in the water while his shirt clings to the grooves and dips of his body. Her question keeps his grin alive as he considers. “Teef.” He tells her with another mischievous smirk. “And you can string them together however you like, though some words sound similar to the common tongue here.” He informs her with a small tilt to his head. “But if you want to insult her to her face, I think kutomba wewe is fuck you in the Dorobian language, provided she knows it.” He snorts, giving her a quiet grin — a fan to her flames.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
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.
We didn’t often get along; outstretched territories, mismatched, rankled, tethered along the same plain – one of them each from the other, as if it was crooned into their blood to be natural enemies. “Did you go to war against one another?” Curiosity extended – whittled around her cranium. Truthfully, Melita had liked Kiada when she met her, when they described Helovia, when they had begun to tell of their experiences – and then everything had spiraled away thereafter, when the truth snapped and seared, sizzled and snatched, and it had taken every ounce of the honeybee’s control to not flicker and splinter apart. That had come later, when opportunities for bloodshed and marring presented themselves, when apologies were proffered, and she’d been too bitter, too unrelenting, to even truly listen to what Kiada embodied. What did sorries and sorrows do anyway? They didn’t bring her mother back. They didn’t bring her sister back. They didn’t bring ruined lands back. It’d only been a mirroring of regret, a promise to change; and Melita wondered if that would even happen at all.
Her grin dimmed a little, explanations on the tip of her tongue. “I didn’t mind her, until I found out she had a hand in our home being destroyed and hundreds dying.” She shrugged thereafter, not certain of what to do or what to say in the pressing gloom, straying away from it as best she could, in explaining that sometimes it wasn’t nature, but nurture, what occurred, what presided, despite anyone’s best efforts.
Sunjata’s smile was enough to set her back to mischievous rights. As if she’d practiced them forever, putting them to perfection and routine, just as she did with her bow, with her staff, with any other munitions and weaponry she could get her hands on, she did a mocking little bow, tipping her head towards the master. The youth grabbed hold of the newest insult, absorbing it on teeth and tongue, extending it out into the ether with great, wild enthusiasm. “Teef!” How amusing it would be to sling the proclamation upon the Harpy, mouth firm on a string of new insults, ready and eager to exploit them at any given opportunity. Maybe one others who bugged her (which were few), and it’d be more diverting and laughter-inducing because they wouldn’t know what she meant. Content with this knowledge, a smug smirk landing back on her lips, she took the last one too.
“Kutomba wewe,” she repeated and echoed, personal slight, slander, and affronts on a fresh round of wounds. Instigated and provoked, a series of cyclical phrases spun around her mind, and she hummed contentedly around the syllables, reflecting them on fiery intonations. ”Fok you, jutomba wewe,” simmered along the river, and then ringing laughter to follow, not thinking of how aghast her family would be.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
His head tilts when she asks if they’d gone to war against each other, and he ponders on it for a moment before he responds. “A few times.” He says with a mischievous grin and a huff of laughter. But then the man leans forward on crossed legs in the water to lean toward her as though he’s telling her a secret. His hand even lifts to the side of his mouth as he looks to her. “We always had the upper hand.” He tells her with another light chuckle, hands dropping back down into the water for support as he leans back on them.
But he listens to her explain why she doesn’t like Kiada, and he finds himself understanding. For all the trash his home had given him, he finds that he misses it. And that if someone had a hand in destroying it, he’d probably be upset as well. And the thought of his sister succumbing to such things? Even worse. His lips form a small frown and he nods in understanding. “Yeah that’s fucking terrible.” He rumbles as he looks away a brief moment. The only attachment to home for him was his sister now, his lover having been killed, friends turning on friends. It had been ruthless and brutal, but he had managed the best way he knew how. And it wasn’t by destroying the very dirt he stood on.
She grows happy to speak the curses though, and it fills him with something like pride as he chuckles with her as she strings them along. “Msaliti is traitor in Dorobian. It’s also verraaier in ours.” He rumbles with a light smirk, uncertain what other kind of words she’d like to know. But he’d be content all day teaching this young woman his language of telling people to go fuck themselves without them realizing it.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
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.
Wars and upper hands; she smiled, but only because the only invasions and feuds she’d been permitted within had come from stories, tales, and legends – content and happy to hear about clamoring of steel and battle plans, strategies and tactics from brave, strong warriors and their slashing endeavors. What would it be like – she often wondered, in the back of her mind, in the pique of her aspirations, in midnight dreams and delusions – to participate in a full-scale battle, with armor, with fire, with vehemence coursing through their veins? Would it be like days in the Rift, succumbing to survival mode, where the only skill and strategy required was to stay alive? Or would it be something grander, something richer, something to sink and bite her teeth into, let the whole world see her for what she truly was - fire, fire, fire - or was that too miserable an assumption, that battlefields were places for glory and triumph, that there was more to be had and savored from those malicious tastes? “What did you fight about?” She pondered aloud, eternally engrossed in myths and histories, because the only ones she had were hearsay or rituals of persistence and endurance – craving the fortitude, the might, the sheer willpower of devastation not witnessed before her very eyes.
He nodded and seemed to comprehend the measures of her hatred and abhorrence, looking away, and she tilted her head downward again, one finger gliding into the river, soaked like the rest of her, but not deluded, not deceived. Melita breathed in the fresh air, wondered about the crackle in her lungs, about the currents beneath her form, about the lives lost and whittled away, about the girl who would be set upon not only by her weapons, her munitions, or her contempt, but her words too, laced with foundational poison.
The chuckles continued, the rumble of phrases. Traitor seemed like a dirty thing, far more than any of the other slung insults, born of hostility and terror, of betrayal and annihilation. The honeybee had never thought of it in such a way, but perhaps Kiada had been a defector in some way, shape, or form, proffering her assistance to a false god, an indulgent paragon, swayed and moved by the undulations of power, instead of the press, the turn, the hands of her own homeland and kingdom. How far would she have gone? “Msaliti,” she emphasized, pinpointing on the middle sounds, as if it cursed Kiada here and now, granting the Harpy no justice. “Verraaier,” and it was enough without the other curses in front or behind it, nourished in the fault lines of her rancor and enmity. Her eyes lifted, gold on steel; narrowing down to slits while she made a poor mask of her hatred for another. “What about murderer? Or greedy?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
“What did you fight about?” She asks with a quiet interest, and he has to think about what was the most common thing they had disagreed upon. His brows ruffle slightly and he sits back in the water as it laps against his chest as he glances to the reflection on the waves. “Many things, really. We didn’t agree with how they raised their children, they didn’t agree with the way we raised ours.” He considers. “Then of course, there were fights over who were more important. My family, my house, we were the ones that enacted justice. We were the judges and the punishers. Gaal’s house was a supplier – they made the weaponry our kingdom used against outsiders.” He hums thoughtfully before he raises his shoulders in a shrug. “It really came down to who thought supply was more important than making sure everyone obeyed the laws of the land.” His eyes soften as they land on her again and he quirks a small smirk at her.
“I obviously thought my work was more important.” He says with a laugh, sending her a wink. “Besides, it’s not like Gaal did jack shit anyway.” He trails off before he’s informing her of more words to call this unknown Kiada, this traitor to Melita’s home. He listens diligently as she repeats, a small amount of pride blossoming in his chest at the sounds of his native tongue coming from a child of the land, despite her being the descendent of who she was. At least it seemed she hated him as much as he did. And soon enough, she’s poising more questions at him and he grins to her with the suggestions. “Moordenaar. is murderer in our language. Uhhh… Muuaji in Dorobian.” He pauses, thinking on it. “And greedy is uchoyo in Dorobian. Gulsige in ours.” He smirks. “Gaan weg is piss off, in ours too.” He snorts, his nose wrinkling slightly.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
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.
She’d missed all the battles in Helovia, all the rage, all the vehemence, all the back and forth between rival kingdoms and their seething, smoldering rancor. Perhaps that’d been for the best – the end had been vexing, depressing, and anguishing on its own, with everyone coming together simply to fall apart. But she listened, intent, on the subject matter that spurred agitation and incensed aggravation: child rearing, importance with justice, judges, juries, and executioners – her father’s house none of those things, overseeing weaponry and munitions instead. Some of it sounded ridiculous, hardly worth searing, smoldering provocations, but it evidently wore its way into their hearts and souls; differences of opinion settled with force. She slipped away from the quip about her father (she wasn’t really surprised anyway, it seemed to fit the man’s pattern), quieting down, somewhat subdued, the rustle of the current calming, a peaceful platitude despite her soaked garb. “Did your fights ever amount to anything?” What were the results? Did they matter, in the long-run? Or were they just squabbles and petty nothings?
Then there were more insults to be flung, and her grin returned, bright and sublime for the opportunity of savagery with words instead of violence. “Moordenaar,” she uttered first, murderer, murderer, murderer, Kiada’s traces leaving foundations for eons to come – families torn asunder because she’d followed the wrong infidel, the false god, the one who’d led everyone to slaughter. “Muuaji,” she crooned, ending it on an rueful note, brows furrowing down, eyes glancing upon rocks and currents hitting stones. “Uchoyo muuaji,” hoping she hit the right inflections, the poignant mannerisms, the phrases supplying her with more fire, more brimstone, more incitement, instigations, a kindling, a brush of smoke and ash. “Gaan weg” earned a snort, a round of laughter bubbling from her chest.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
She asks if the fights ever amounted to anything, and he thinks for a moment on how much information to give her. He’s not sure if it matters anymore, but he casually looks over at her across the water – her floating, standing on top of the water body that confuses him, but he says nothing at first. Contemplating. Wondering. “Gaal’s and my fights didn’t end up with much result.” He offers a bit quieter. “But, I also didn’t stay long to find out what happened after everything.” His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug.
A face among many, with flame and rampaging buildings from a burning romance that ended with destruction. And he had made it out alive, somehow, by some stretch of the means. And Lusea’s father had managed to destroy the rest. “I was part of a rebellion, so.” He trails off, thoughtful, before Melita begins to echo him – his tongue on her lips enough to spark a bit of pride. He hopes he is there when she uses the terms.
And she croons the words, playful and thoughtful, as Sunjata reaches up with hands drenched in water to run through his hair, slicking it back as she speaks with more flame and fury. He imagines Lusea might like her, but the thought makes him solemn. And he tries to focus on her rather than the impending feeling in his gut.
“Baie goed.” He rumbles to her, a tilt to his head. “Miskien meer lesse en jy kan praat oor almal agter hulle rug? Dit is nogal lekker.” The corners of his lips lift in a smirk before he takes another deep breath to translate in a slightly accented voice. “Very good. Perhaps more lessons and you can talk about anyone behind their backs? It’s quite fun.” He repeats, watching her with his steel eyes – wondering how Gaal could have produced such a youth.
And he wonders if she’ll end up like him, or take after her mother.
the deeper you dig, the darker it gets
No permission needed for power play!
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.
There was an implicit vagueness to her inquiries – just enough to answer, but nothing more, proffered perhaps by way of politeness, to the girl born from enemies and the unknown. Maybe it didn’t matter anyway – those notions were gone, those moments were fleeting, and no one was here to say otherwise. So she nodded, undertones and underpinnings of the tethers she’d dragged along behind her, unware, picked up and tossed with a hapless shrug. He didn’t remain to see if rebellions mattered, if seditions spread, if anything came from barbaric values; and she could understand it, in a way, much like days in the Rift, where she’d skirted along edges and fringes to survive another interval, another evening, another dawn, not thinking about the next day, not contemplating when or where everything would fall, flicker apart, again. A part of the youth craved to fathom what the rebellion was about, where lines had been drawn or calculated, if they’d been worn away by false paragons or pariahs too, or if it had been staunchly political in nature, diplomacies fading into the abyss, the void, the veil, the shroud.
He trailed off, and Melita didn’t ask anymore.
Under his foreign praise though, she brightened once more, returning briefly to a faction of ebullience and exuberance, beneath the mercurial whims of the illness consuming her. Her head lifted and tilted slightly, regarding him with impish endeavors and devilish exploits, never too far away from the denizens of miscreant regards; dancing on the drifts, seething on the sands. “Most of my hate has been reserved for her,” she shrugged too, on the torrent of currents and brewing, brooding storms; she’d been a master of seas and fire given half the chance, bellowing into Stygian rivers and Styx multitudes, forming flame in her palms, in the outstretch of her alms. “But I’ll keep it in mind.” She paused, hands drifting back to the water, permitting it to surge and sink over her fingers, run its rapid course, chilling and intoxicating in the same semblance. “Is there anything else I should know?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
