and if you want, i could tell you the truth
that this life takes a toll on you. i spend nights
The trip to Halo had been a nightmare, had set him back in his illness even further, and he was sure that the next time Nate saw him, things were going to be rough. So he’d avoided it, dealt with sleeping like shit, dealt with Phoebe leaning harder into alcohol the longer the two of them found something to argue about. It came to a point where the horns and the fangs hadn’t left, even in the warmth and relief of the grounds. It was a nightmare from start to finish, but he was back, he had duties to attend to, and one of those being training for Maea.
Part of him feels like shit for putting it off, for not being fully into her with the sly jesting, with the playful banter. But the ring is still on his finger, and he devolves even further into himself as the days go on. He is waiting for her on this particular day, however, having brought the bow Deimos had made him and a few smaller ones that could be adjusted for Maea, and he sits along the side of the training grounds, against the wall of the barracks, rifling through quivers and arrows to mark them for practice.
He wears not more than a sleeveless shirt and a pair of jeans, dark boots, hair swept back and along the horns, and an equally stormy look to match the bags beneath his eyes, the exhaustion set in his face. He doesn’t notice her yet, too focused on the task at hand, setting aside a quiver to inspect his ebony bow complete with deep gashes into the side — an aesthetic flair from Deimos he cherished more than most things these days.
Part of him feels like shit for putting it off, for not being fully into her with the sly jesting, with the playful banter. But the ring is still on his finger, and he devolves even further into himself as the days go on. He is waiting for her on this particular day, however, having brought the bow Deimos had made him and a few smaller ones that could be adjusted for Maea, and he sits along the side of the training grounds, against the wall of the barracks, rifling through quivers and arrows to mark them for practice.
He wears not more than a sleeveless shirt and a pair of jeans, dark boots, hair swept back and along the horns, and an equally stormy look to match the bags beneath his eyes, the exhaustion set in his face. He doesn’t notice her yet, too focused on the task at hand, setting aside a quiver to inspect his ebony bow complete with deep gashes into the side — an aesthetic flair from Deimos he cherished more than most things these days.
stitching up the loose threads of my soul
so in the morning i'm bullet proof
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.
