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 does nothing when Phoebe sniffles and wipes at her cheeks. He remains drifted from her, eyes away from her while he continues to take drags from the cigarette through trembling fingers. For a moment, he’s afraid to look at her, to see how she responds to his words, his fears, his honesty. But her voice perks up and he’s incapable of keeping his straying gaze as the steel flits back to her honey brown eyes, swimming in the veined inky black like his own. She tells him he needs to grow and for whatever reason it causes a quiet laugh to leave him, breathless with a puff of the smoke.
But loving Phoebe has brought out that seventeen year old in him. And with Lusea, he’s grown and changed and adapted — he is a survivor through some of the worst things he can imagine, that even the youngest version of himself couldn’t ever imagine.
He finds himself pushing away from the awning to approach her again, the cigarette in his left hand when he raises his right hand to brush away a black tear from her cheek and tuck the blond, frozen hair behind her ear, a softness to his steel eyes. “You make me that seventeen year old.” He tells her, a tilt to his head as his thumb lingers on her skin. “And that seventeen year old made some pretty fucked up decisions. Killed a lot of people. Holed himself up in his room for months.” Perhaps a bit more honesty while he’s feeling weak.
“Tried to drown himself in the bath, once. While everyone else pretended that everything was okay and fine. But it wasn’t.” His hand drifts from her to take another drag from the cigarette, eyes remaining on her face. “So that seventeen year old adapted — planned the downfall of his father and his home because of what they made him do. And they had no idea. It took a few more years of course, of training and boring class work before they set me out into the city.” His eyes grow a bit distant.
“And eventually, one night after months of seeing my face posted on the walls of the slums, on the screens up above, of how proud people were of me… that’s when I noticed the underground boxing ring while my fellow enforcers were sleeping. And I had two choices. I could turn them in, or I could finally work on that plan I’d spent years on and work with them.” His eyebrow lifts in a silent question as if to ask her which he’d chosen.
“They called me the Flood. The Deluge. In our language it was die vloed.” He pauses, eyes drifting back to her face and along her neck before he steps away from her, unsure if he wants to tell her more or break again and kiss her — a drug, a temptress, the feeling of comfort and being young and fragile again. “And I reigned hell on everyone… But you, Phoebe, you make me feel like that fragile child again. And I have done so much growing since then… Probably not for the best, but I grew into this person that people looked up to, rather than forward to. I gave people hope. While that seventeen year old me only gave people a puppet to hold, to teach.” His eyes are shadowed as he steps back.
“I don’t want to be that way. I prefer what I’ve become, what she’s made me become. You make me vulnerable, and I’m afraid of growing into the person you think I can be, because maybe it’s not what either of us want.” A heavy sigh. “You deserve someone with far less baggage than I have.”
But loving Phoebe has brought out that seventeen year old in him. And with Lusea, he’s grown and changed and adapted — he is a survivor through some of the worst things he can imagine, that even the youngest version of himself couldn’t ever imagine.
He finds himself pushing away from the awning to approach her again, the cigarette in his left hand when he raises his right hand to brush away a black tear from her cheek and tuck the blond, frozen hair behind her ear, a softness to his steel eyes. “You make me that seventeen year old.” He tells her, a tilt to his head as his thumb lingers on her skin. “And that seventeen year old made some pretty fucked up decisions. Killed a lot of people. Holed himself up in his room for months.” Perhaps a bit more honesty while he’s feeling weak.
“Tried to drown himself in the bath, once. While everyone else pretended that everything was okay and fine. But it wasn’t.” His hand drifts from her to take another drag from the cigarette, eyes remaining on her face. “So that seventeen year old adapted — planned the downfall of his father and his home because of what they made him do. And they had no idea. It took a few more years of course, of training and boring class work before they set me out into the city.” His eyes grow a bit distant.
“And eventually, one night after months of seeing my face posted on the walls of the slums, on the screens up above, of how proud people were of me… that’s when I noticed the underground boxing ring while my fellow enforcers were sleeping. And I had two choices. I could turn them in, or I could finally work on that plan I’d spent years on and work with them.” His eyebrow lifts in a silent question as if to ask her which he’d chosen.
“They called me the Flood. The Deluge. In our language it was die vloed.” He pauses, eyes drifting back to her face and along her neck before he steps away from her, unsure if he wants to tell her more or break again and kiss her — a drug, a temptress, the feeling of comfort and being young and fragile again. “And I reigned hell on everyone… But you, Phoebe, you make me feel like that fragile child again. And I have done so much growing since then… Probably not for the best, but I grew into this person that people looked up to, rather than forward to. I gave people hope. While that seventeen year old me only gave people a puppet to hold, to teach.” His eyes are shadowed as he steps back.
“I don’t want to be that way. I prefer what I’ve become, what she’s made me become. You make me vulnerable, and I’m afraid of growing into the person you think I can be, because maybe it’s not what either of us want.” A heavy sigh. “You deserve someone with far less baggage than I have.”
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.
