SuNjATA
the flood
Things go pretty well until a choking sound occurs beside him, and Sunjata’s gaze focuses on the blonde man, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to avoid the fuzziness of his mind, of the world that shifts ever so slightly in his peripherals. Dark brows furrow in quiet surprise, watching as Oliver’s eyes well up with tears, and he brushes one away, stuttering over his words, until finally he tells him what’s wrong. That he fucked up, that he’s bad, and a part of Sunjata reflects back to the moment he had felt the same.
A girl, a monarch, a knife to her throat, guttural words in native languages that defied the monarchy until her last breath.
How he had held her when she died, the scar on the side of his neck given to him in his push to be with her. How he had cursed himself every second of every day when he had been forced to leave her there.
He swallows hard, turning to Oliver, seeing some form of semblance in the young man that he once had too. After all, when he had killed someone for the first time, it was when he was seventeen. And he hadn’t left his room for months after because of what it did. He had thought he was terrible too. He still thinks it at times. “What happened?” He asks quietly, surprisingly tenderly though his accented words slur a small amount. He reaches for Oliver, intending to pull him into him, like he had with the younger rebels when they’d taken their first life.
He doesn’t know whether Oliver has or hasn’t, but LongNight reminds him too much of those nights, holed up and uncertain, surrounded and living in danger. He smells of alcohol and cigarettes, of leather and exhaustion, but it’s the best he can do. “Just breathe.”
Gods he fucking hates this place.
A girl, a monarch, a knife to her throat, guttural words in native languages that defied the monarchy until her last breath.
How he had held her when she died, the scar on the side of his neck given to him in his push to be with her. How he had cursed himself every second of every day when he had been forced to leave her there.
He swallows hard, turning to Oliver, seeing some form of semblance in the young man that he once had too. After all, when he had killed someone for the first time, it was when he was seventeen. And he hadn’t left his room for months after because of what it did. He had thought he was terrible too. He still thinks it at times. “What happened?” He asks quietly, surprisingly tenderly though his accented words slur a small amount. He reaches for Oliver, intending to pull him into him, like he had with the younger rebels when they’d taken their first life.
He doesn’t know whether Oliver has or hasn’t, but LongNight reminds him too much of those nights, holed up and uncertain, surrounded and living in danger. He smells of alcohol and cigarettes, of leather and exhaustion, but it’s the best he can do. “Just breathe.”
Gods he fucking hates this place.
this ain't no place for no hero
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.
