(o) lost so much from overthinking

pacific coast highway in the movies, you promised me sunshine, why's it gloomy?

“Hopefully that won’t be the case.” Sunjata replies easily, though there always was that slight bit of concern if the monsters would follow the Grounders to wherever they went to go to escape the possibility of a deadly LongNight. But the Greatwood hadn’t experienced it last year, so there was some hope at the very least.

So instead he focuses on the glass that’s slid over to him, taking it and a seat beside Jack as he lifts it to his lips. “Nope. Outlander.” He offers after taking a sip, a shrug of a tattooed shoulder to that. “Fell in a little over a year ago in the Grounds.” And while he’d hated the Grounds for what it was, for tearing him away from his sister, it was at least almost a paradise in comparison to Korofi and the amount of backward traditions and bloodshed he’d dealt with. “You?” He asks, steel gaze sliding over to the smuggler.

we'll wait 'til the night to catch the moonbeam

SUNJATA

I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art

"Better put our money on that hope, then," Jack said, raising his glass with a crooked smile and taking a sip of whiskey. After the fighting in the alleyway and the mental stress at having to keep his mind open for any new developments, the drink was a very welcome respite.

It didn't surprise him too much to learn that Sunjata was an Outlander, given all of the thoughts about the place where he'd grown up; but for all of the sailing in the world, Jack hadn't been everywhere in Caido. Yet. "It obviously made a good impression, for you to run here at the first opportunity," he remarked with a snort. "Me? Born in Torchline, guilty as charged," he said. "These islands raised me, taught me a lot of what I know."

pacific coast highway in the movies, you promised me sunshine, why's it gloomy?

“Money?” A quiet chuckle leaves him with that — having been so long since he had to even think of true currency like coin and money. But he offers a nod, understanding the sentiment all the same. His attention focuses on the drink in his hand now, relishing in the slight burn it starts in the pit of his stomach before his gaze finds Jack again.

Somehow he finds it not surprising that Jack was born and raised here, either. A slight half smirk crossing his face as he considers it, a deep nod granted at the fact it likely had taught the other man quite a lot. “Reminds me of my home.” He offers, thinking to the moonlit oceans him and his sister snuck out to, to the flood waters he’d been born and raised learning how to navigate to survive. Even the hardened Naturals reminded him enough of the slums that it felt welcoming, nostalgic, even if it were the opposite. “Where all have sailed off to?” He asks, raising the glass to his lips.

we'll wait 'til the night to catch the moonbeam

SUNJATA

I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art

"Mm, or whatever you can find worth tradin'," Jack said with a smirk, relishing the warmth spreading through his bones from the drink, taking another sip before setting the glass down. He wasn't out to get drunk, especially not around the Arbiter tonight. "If it reminds you of home, you must've had a rough upbringin' as well," he said, barking out a laugh and getting comfortable in his seat. "There's a lot to love and a lot to hate about the place."

As for where he had sailed, Jack's smile turned wicked, secretive even. "Now, Arbiter. You reckon I'd give all that away?" Where the Ark went on her trips, who she traded with, what she smuggled? They weren't quite best friends yet.

pacific coast highway in the movies, you promised me sunshine, why's it gloomy?

That was more like it. Trades. He sips from the drink lightly, setting it down and spinning the glass a bit between his hands as Jack’s words reach him, a hum of a laugh leaving Sunjata with it as well. “That’s one word for it.” It seemed more than rough in some aspects, recalling his duties and what he’d been forced to do – to murder and thrive, write and enforce the laws back home, as backwards as they were. Guns in hand to take down any that opposed him, the floodwaters that swept in to take people out, where he’d nearly drowned when he was six years old after his father had tossed him in with the rest of the children, wondering if he’d survive.

Rough was one word for it.

So he takes another sip from the drink, a bit more of it this time to drown those particular memories out, turning to give Jack more of his attention. “I imagine for a price, perhaps.” He offers with a chuckle, a raise of a brow. While he didn’t have anything in mind, perhaps at some point he’d find out. No loss there, really, when everyone was landlocked for the most part anyway.

we'll wait 'til the night to catch the moonbeam

SUNJATA

I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art

Guns was a word that Jack noted from quite a lot of Outlander minds, and whilst he could imagine very well this instrument that flung out projectiles, it wasn't something he was all too familiar with. He was interested, though. Still, Sunjata's remark was textbook there's more to this but I don't really know if I want to talk about it, and given that the other man was an open book to him anyway, Jack left it there.

"Well, now. There's a price for everythin'," he replied with a very crooked smile indeed, lifting his glass again to take another healthy sip of whiskey. "If you're ever interested, let me know and we'll figure out what that price might be."

But for now, there was just the muted conversation of the Hanged Man and good booze. And after the excitement of the earlier evening, Jack was content with that.

~FIN