they made a mockery of him once 'look at the walking tragedy' now they whisper when he passes
he's a demon, with a crown of blood
She’s uninterested in the sandwich, and he can’t really blame her. He hasn’t been hungry for a time lately, either. Instead, eyes drift toward Pim with a small nod of encouragement. Someone should eat it, at the very least. But his eyes follow Phoebe as she moves toward the water, and grabbed a few blankets before cocooning herself onto the couch, but he remains leaned forward – arms drifting from the wounds along his neck, the scratches and bites that are edged in black until they appear as though they’re nearly made of black. But there’s stitching there, something to keep it together in the hopes it’ll go away soon. But he knows they’ll scar.
Instead, he runs his hands through his hair, holding his head for a moment as he breathes deeply and lets the burn of the alcohol settle in his stomach. But it’s not enough, not enough to dull the confusion that lingers in his mind and heart and soul. And after a moment, he stands again and moves into the kitchen, taking yet another shot of something hard, pausing after to glance over at her – eyes closed and comfortable beneath the blankets. And he curses himself, when he feels the blight reacting slightly, changing his thoughts. And in a moment of his own weak rebellion, he slips from the kitchen again toward the couch and sits on the other side of her, one leg pulled up beneath him as he faces the fire – letting the glow of the flame reflect in the silver of his eyes.
“I’m sorry about the blight and everything.” He gruffly says, refusing to look at her – his eyes lingering in the flame. “I’m sorry you have to deal with it alone.” It’s perhaps the most sincere thing he’s ever said. But he means every word.
Instead, he runs his hands through his hair, holding his head for a moment as he breathes deeply and lets the burn of the alcohol settle in his stomach. But it’s not enough, not enough to dull the confusion that lingers in his mind and heart and soul. And after a moment, he stands again and moves into the kitchen, taking yet another shot of something hard, pausing after to glance over at her – eyes closed and comfortable beneath the blankets. And he curses himself, when he feels the blight reacting slightly, changing his thoughts. And in a moment of his own weak rebellion, he slips from the kitchen again toward the couch and sits on the other side of her, one leg pulled up beneath him as he faces the fire – letting the glow of the flame reflect in the silver of his eyes.
“I’m sorry about the blight and everything.” He gruffly says, refusing to look at her – his eyes lingering in the flame. “I’m sorry you have to deal with it alone.” It’s perhaps the most sincere thing he’s ever said. But he means every word.
does it look like he's still under your control?
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.
