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
He doesn’t expect to hear an answer from her. Doesn’t expect anything of it, really. He just wants to be sure it’s said; that she realizes that he’s a mess of a man that can’t figure himself out let alone anything else. And what she had said when blighted, those little tidbits of his home and life he had managed to give her, makes him second guess everything. Makes him wonder, makes him second guess everything. And so he shakes his head, eyes remaining toward the fire until all he can see are blue streams of light before he looks back to her face with a solemn look. “I don’t know, Phoebe.” Because he doesn’t. Maybe if Lusea hadn’t come back, if she had wanted nothing to do with him, it would be easier. But things were never easy, were they?
Yet the alcohol swims in his mind, shifting with the blight in his system, fucking up any thoughts he had that made sense, and he finds himself reaching toward her and the blankets. Slow, shaky hands reach out to touch the blanket where he thinks her shoulder is, steel eyes shadowed and haunted as he looks to her. “I should have never gotten involved.” He admits quietly, until the blight swings in a different way and he recalls her submission of sorts, to Lusea. Of how the minute it all came forth, she had immediately left, and he sighs and looks away. “Nobody fought for me either. Though I can’t blame them.” He tells her, though he knows Lusea would have. And for what? This broken mess of a man? Not even his own mother had fought for him, had thrown him young and soft and quiet to the wolves of an arena drenched in rain, mud, and blood.
Yet the alcohol swims in his mind, shifting with the blight in his system, fucking up any thoughts he had that made sense, and he finds himself reaching toward her and the blankets. Slow, shaky hands reach out to touch the blanket where he thinks her shoulder is, steel eyes shadowed and haunted as he looks to her. “I should have never gotten involved.” He admits quietly, until the blight swings in a different way and he recalls her submission of sorts, to Lusea. Of how the minute it all came forth, she had immediately left, and he sighs and looks away. “Nobody fought for me either. Though I can’t blame them.” He tells her, though he knows Lusea would have. And for what? This broken mess of a man? Not even his own mother had fought for him, had thrown him young and soft and quiet to the wolves of an arena drenched in rain, mud, and blood.
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.
