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
He’d told Phoebe his intentions, what he’d wanted out of this to make it tolerable, and she’d declined it of him. Had told him that miserable together was better than miserable alone. And while, perhaps at the time he’d agreed, because he hadn’t been quick enough to save the festival from the collapsing of the ice wall as he and the mud monster ran into it, how it had killed her nephews and Aoife, had destroyed Ronin and Remi, and his mind in the process.
It was harder here, where he couldn’t just run, and gods, how used to running he became. To leave and avoid, evade wherever he could, that he evades this now. Evades the marriage that has him shackled to someone who claimed to know him, who still hurt him in the end – the flood that became soft, when he told her he hated the way she’d made him weak, when she’d laughed and told him that he was scared because she brought out that side of him.
He’d never wanted to be that soft broken child of before, he’d wanted to become something else – the hard edges, the sharp pieces, the teeth to bite back at those that had wronged him, and yet he’d never had a chance – just this strange amalgamation of what he might have once been, changed within his soul to better fit the status quo. He was a soldier, turned rebel, turned Devil, turned husband to bear children he doesn't want and a sedentary lifestyle he hates, and he shivers beneath Maea's trembling touch as he exhales a shaky breath.
She leans into his embrace, and his fingers tighten in her hair slightly before it falls away, before his claws scrape slightly at the cloth at her lower back as he adjusts himself and pulls away. Their height difference is huge, and he wants to see her, and so he uses her as a sort of pillar as he gets down onto his knees and tilts his horned head up to her, to catch her gaze, nothing but shadows and confusion and a broken resolve hidden within that he doesn’t even know where to begin.
The anxiety is enough that it withdraws the claws on his hands, to flit vibrant navy blue feathers through his wing tattoos, bringing them to life beneath the compasses that point at her from where he kneels in the sand. He has no expectations, absolutely none when it comes to what’s happening here. And it writhes within him, wars within him as the ring is left within the sand, sure to be brought back to the grounds, placed upon that finger again until he can find it in him to face the consequences.
Perhaps right now is punishment enough.
It was harder here, where he couldn’t just run, and gods, how used to running he became. To leave and avoid, evade wherever he could, that he evades this now. Evades the marriage that has him shackled to someone who claimed to know him, who still hurt him in the end – the flood that became soft, when he told her he hated the way she’d made him weak, when she’d laughed and told him that he was scared because she brought out that side of him.
He’d never wanted to be that soft broken child of before, he’d wanted to become something else – the hard edges, the sharp pieces, the teeth to bite back at those that had wronged him, and yet he’d never had a chance – just this strange amalgamation of what he might have once been, changed within his soul to better fit the status quo. He was a soldier, turned rebel, turned Devil, turned husband to bear children he doesn't want and a sedentary lifestyle he hates, and he shivers beneath Maea's trembling touch as he exhales a shaky breath.
She leans into his embrace, and his fingers tighten in her hair slightly before it falls away, before his claws scrape slightly at the cloth at her lower back as he adjusts himself and pulls away. Their height difference is huge, and he wants to see her, and so he uses her as a sort of pillar as he gets down onto his knees and tilts his horned head up to her, to catch her gaze, nothing but shadows and confusion and a broken resolve hidden within that he doesn’t even know where to begin.
The anxiety is enough that it withdraws the claws on his hands, to flit vibrant navy blue feathers through his wing tattoos, bringing them to life beneath the compasses that point at her from where he kneels in the sand. He has no expectations, absolutely none when it comes to what’s happening here. And it writhes within him, wars within him as the ring is left within the sand, sure to be brought back to the grounds, placed upon that finger again until he can find it in him to face the consequences.
Perhaps right now is punishment enough.
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.
