SUNJATA
the flood
i'm nothing more than a page unwritten
on the pavement, blowing in the wind
on the pavement, blowing in the wind
“Please.” He says softly at her offering, able to tell that the cider is similar to the one he’d grown used to. Similar recipes yielded similar results, after all. And instead, he listens to her as she abandons the barstool and moves to slip around it, the question of what he’s in the mood for causing him to think for a brief second before a snort leaves his nose. “Something strong.” Something to forget.
She stops in whatever it is she’s aiming for to turn to him. A muscle feathers in his jaw as he lifts his gaze from the letter still tucked in the envelope to look toward her when she speaks, mulling over everything she tells him. And while part of him wants to complain further, he’s not in the mood for it. He lets her explain further, closing the distance between them, letting his steel gaze linger on her and the way she leans across the bar.
There’s a huff of a sigh that leaves him as he reaches up to run a hand through his hair again. “I never said anything about a hermit.” A shrug, but he understands what she means. There’s a small, almost groan, that leaves his throat as he gives into her and what she says, eyes dropping to the letter. He can’t help the way that he reaches for it in such a reluctant way.
“I don’t know, Weaver.” He admits, quiet, hollow, the discomfort streaming from him as he lifts the back of the envelope and pulls it out, fingers tracing over the edge of the parchment with her penmanship that’s directed toward him. He inhales deeply, setting it on the table before pulling out a cigarette and the lighter Libbs had made him because gods knew he was going to need it to calm the nerves.
He lights up, smoke curling around his lips, leaving the cigarette in his lips as he begins to read. Fingers begin to tremble as he focuses on the words she says, a letter written before her venture to Torchline to the Ghost Whales. And with it, how awkward it almost feels – like she’d known. Unless, of course, there were multiples she’d written and gotten rid of before something disastrous happened.
She tells him that she was the happiest of her life when she was with him, spending time with him, and it fucking hurts. She tells him not to let it break him and he can’t make any guarantees, he can feel the fractures, the spidering of the pain within him, and he reads the rest of it quickly – to decipher it further when he’s all alone, setting the letter down on the table to pull the cigarette from his lips and run his hands along his face.
She stops in whatever it is she’s aiming for to turn to him. A muscle feathers in his jaw as he lifts his gaze from the letter still tucked in the envelope to look toward her when she speaks, mulling over everything she tells him. And while part of him wants to complain further, he’s not in the mood for it. He lets her explain further, closing the distance between them, letting his steel gaze linger on her and the way she leans across the bar.
There’s a huff of a sigh that leaves him as he reaches up to run a hand through his hair again. “I never said anything about a hermit.” A shrug, but he understands what she means. There’s a small, almost groan, that leaves his throat as he gives into her and what she says, eyes dropping to the letter. He can’t help the way that he reaches for it in such a reluctant way.
“I don’t know, Weaver.” He admits, quiet, hollow, the discomfort streaming from him as he lifts the back of the envelope and pulls it out, fingers tracing over the edge of the parchment with her penmanship that’s directed toward him. He inhales deeply, setting it on the table before pulling out a cigarette and the lighter Libbs had made him because gods knew he was going to need it to calm the nerves.
He lights up, smoke curling around his lips, leaving the cigarette in his lips as he begins to read. Fingers begin to tremble as he focuses on the words she says, a letter written before her venture to Torchline to the Ghost Whales. And with it, how awkward it almost feels – like she’d known. Unless, of course, there were multiples she’d written and gotten rid of before something disastrous happened.
She tells him that she was the happiest of her life when she was with him, spending time with him, and it fucking hurts. She tells him not to let it break him and he can’t make any guarantees, he can feel the fractures, the spidering of the pain within him, and he reads the rest of it quickly – to decipher it further when he’s all alone, setting the letter down on the table to pull the cigarette from his lips and run his hands along his face.
you win a lot, and you lose
just a little bit more than you gained in the end
just a little bit more than you gained in the end
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.
