SUNJATA
i'm drowning in all these voices in the sea
and meeting all my vices in the ring
and meeting all my vices in the ring
She stays surprisingly close, and he embraces her a bit further, a softness to the touch of his roughened calloused hands with her soft cheek against his stubbled own while he speaks, recollects, talks of his past. While he talks of Lusea, his flame, the significance to the flaming arrow on his chest, to the arrows on his compasses which had been aimed at what was in front of him, because Lusea had been there the entire time – unable to keep his eyes off her, to keep himself from drifting away from her, she was the sun to his planet, revolving around and stuck within her orbit, helpless to stop the spinning, not ever wanting it to stop.
At this present moment, the compasses along his neck point directly at her as she speaks, and another shiver slips down his shoulders and spine as she absently played with the curls of his hair at the base of his neck, so close to the scar that lingers there along his main vein. He’s silent for a moment as he thinks on it, hands slipping up along her back to play with her own, to feel the silky strands of ivory slip through his fingers as he pulls his head away a small amount to look along her pale face.
“He knew it was me. It was made well known.” He offers, perhaps a bit ruefully. “He killed my mother for it and the wing tattoos.” The way he says it almost seems like it doesn’t matter, but there’s a darker space in his gaze, a haunting that still bothers him – that he’d been the source for it, for the carnage and rage his father had been put in. “I ran to my room, sure I'd be sick, unsure what to even do, and that’s the first time Lusea came to stay with me. She’d brought her father’s best bottle of whiskey and we drank it all night until I passed out.” A quiet tilt of a smile to his lips at the memory. “But that was... Six years ago now I think, it happened before Lusea and I ever said anything about feelings to one another.” When he’d been young and shaken by the fiery woman with flint eyes and enough spitfire to kick his ass at the end of the day for literally anything.
“We weren’t successful in the end, though. Korofi did burn, but I’m sure my father still lives.” And how it kills him that the bastard does, wanting nothing more than to tear him apart with fang and claw.
But he offers her an equally brighter smile at the offer of training, and he shrugs a bit to that, causing her arms to rise and fall along with them. “I’m a member of the militia, so I’m sure I could find a thing or two to help get you started.” He admits, thinking it over already, piecing it in the back of his mind how they could go about it.
At this present moment, the compasses along his neck point directly at her as she speaks, and another shiver slips down his shoulders and spine as she absently played with the curls of his hair at the base of his neck, so close to the scar that lingers there along his main vein. He’s silent for a moment as he thinks on it, hands slipping up along her back to play with her own, to feel the silky strands of ivory slip through his fingers as he pulls his head away a small amount to look along her pale face.
“He knew it was me. It was made well known.” He offers, perhaps a bit ruefully. “He killed my mother for it and the wing tattoos.” The way he says it almost seems like it doesn’t matter, but there’s a darker space in his gaze, a haunting that still bothers him – that he’d been the source for it, for the carnage and rage his father had been put in. “I ran to my room, sure I'd be sick, unsure what to even do, and that’s the first time Lusea came to stay with me. She’d brought her father’s best bottle of whiskey and we drank it all night until I passed out.” A quiet tilt of a smile to his lips at the memory. “But that was... Six years ago now I think, it happened before Lusea and I ever said anything about feelings to one another.” When he’d been young and shaken by the fiery woman with flint eyes and enough spitfire to kick his ass at the end of the day for literally anything.
“We weren’t successful in the end, though. Korofi did burn, but I’m sure my father still lives.” And how it kills him that the bastard does, wanting nothing more than to tear him apart with fang and claw.
But he offers her an equally brighter smile at the offer of training, and he shrugs a bit to that, causing her arms to rise and fall along with them. “I’m a member of the militia, so I’m sure I could find a thing or two to help get you started.” He admits, thinking it over already, piecing it in the back of his mind how they could go about it.
so step inside, i ain't afraid to bleed
there ain't a casket strong enough for me
there ain't a casket strong enough for me
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.
