SUNJATA
the flood
'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading
The silence is nearly a welcome reprieve from what other kinds of arguments they can get into. But the daggers are kept carefully at his side, his earrings within his ears as far as he was aware – a quick shake of his head and the weight of them ensuring that yes they indeed were a part of it. And he continues to break down the crates to pile the wood within its own pile, the rest of it for later use because repurposing was what Sunjata knew about many things of the Grounds as well as what they had done back home in the rebellion.
He’s surprised with the tone of Rance’s voice, seemingly distracted by what it is he’s working on. Sunjata pulls another board from the crate, dropping it onto the pile once more before brushing his hands off of the wood as he goes to gather the nails used to keep it together. “It’s either here or the Inn down the street.” He offers, as if it made the answer clear. But Korbin doesn’t know him, doesn’t know what kind of memories sit within the Inn down the street.
So he exhales quietly, collecting the nails and grabbing a couple ropes to begin to tie the wood into its own pile for easy transport. “I plan on staying here.” He offers after a moment in a final type of answer, the muscles of his back moving beneath the shirt while he works on the task at hand, clearly a man that’s focused on keeping prime as if pinning the boy to the crates with a dagger to his throat hadn’t been any other indication.
He’s surprised with the tone of Rance’s voice, seemingly distracted by what it is he’s working on. Sunjata pulls another board from the crate, dropping it onto the pile once more before brushing his hands off of the wood as he goes to gather the nails used to keep it together. “It’s either here or the Inn down the street.” He offers, as if it made the answer clear. But Korbin doesn’t know him, doesn’t know what kind of memories sit within the Inn down the street.
So he exhales quietly, collecting the nails and grabbing a couple ropes to begin to tie the wood into its own pile for easy transport. “I plan on staying here.” He offers after a moment in a final type of answer, the muscles of his back moving beneath the shirt while he works on the task at hand, clearly a man that’s focused on keeping prime as if pinning the boy to the crates with a dagger to his throat hadn’t been any other indication.
you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do
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.
