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
There’s a brief moment of surprise as she plucks the cigarette from hips lips, and despite the downturned conversation Sunjata can’t help the crooked shift of his lips in a small smirk as she seems to hoard it to herself. Fine, fair enough. He pulls a new one and lights it, dragging it deep and holding it in his lungs until it starts to ache before exhaling, and giving her his full attention to hear her story, her end of their little unspoken bargain.
And boy, does she unleash. He doesn’t mind – finding it refreshing in a sense to not have to relish in his own traumas again and again, and instead focuses on how she managed in her own shitty world she’d grown up in. And one thing becomes clear, very quickly. Survival. So similar to his own despite the circumstances being different that it does peg a bit more of a kinship, as he nods while he listens, lets his gaze scan her face whether or not she’s looking at him. He pulls on the cigarette and drinks from the glass, letting his mind imagine what sort of world this might have been, imagining her thick with dirt and dust from the mines, with calloused hands and that similar, exhausted look to her gaze but continuing on.
Because she had to. Just as he had to.
The steel of his eyes dim a small amount as he listens further, until the rage begins to bubble up, her eyes locked on his despite the flickering glow and bursting color of the flame on the table. And for a moment he breaks the eye contact, to look at it, to process her words and wonder if perhaps she is the source of it. But he doesn’t dare voice that thought – not with what she’s said, instead pretending that a rogue wind had raced into the room and messed with the lamp. It was easier that way, after all.
“I don’t think you’re cruel.” He offers after a moment of silence, nodding with her dark tone, with the shift that the conversation had taken. He hadn’t gone into all the details that she had for him, but there’s a relation there that he can’t help but to voice. So he shifts, cradling the smoke and the glass in one hand, removing his arm from her shoulder so he can turn to face her more fully, lifting and bending a leg so that he can fully look at her as he sits beside her on the couch.
“We’re survivors. We’re given a shitty situation and told to figure it out. And we do. You did with your sisters, even if it cost you yourself in the process.” He pauses, tongue dipping out along his lower lip as he considers his words carefully, before shaking his head and offering a quiet laugh, a small half smile. “You aren’t cruel. You survived. You got justice in the only way you knew how.” Tattooed shoulders rise and fall in a shrug before he takes another long drag. “I am hardly one to judge someone’s cruelty. There’s too much innocent blood on my hands, Aurelia, for me to ever be someone to judge.” It was different now, being the governor of Torchline where he actually has to care and enact judgement on such matters. But for him?
Perhaps there was sympathy that lingered therein. “I went into that muddy, shitty pit at seventeen with fifteen other boys. And I was the only one that made it out. I joined the rebellion and helped them try to take down my father, hurting and killing those that threatened me. Some of them I trained with. Some of them trained me. When Saar and I got engaged, there was no way out except to go through our fiancés. And I did.” A dark brow raises as he tilts his head toward her, resting his other arm along the back of the couch, trying to word his thoughts correctly as his fingertips tap against the back of it. “There are many days where I wonder if I had just died that day in the Trial, if my mother would still be alive, if Lusea would still be alive, if Saar would be married off and happy and things would have been fine.”
“But it does no use. We’re here. It happened. It’s what makes us… Us at the end of the day.” He takes a sip from his glass until it’s empty, and he leans over to set it on the table before giving her his full attention again. “If it’s covered in innocent blood and vengeful as fuck, so be it. The only thing that matters is what we do now, right? And the thing we do best is survive.”
And boy, does she unleash. He doesn’t mind – finding it refreshing in a sense to not have to relish in his own traumas again and again, and instead focuses on how she managed in her own shitty world she’d grown up in. And one thing becomes clear, very quickly. Survival. So similar to his own despite the circumstances being different that it does peg a bit more of a kinship, as he nods while he listens, lets his gaze scan her face whether or not she’s looking at him. He pulls on the cigarette and drinks from the glass, letting his mind imagine what sort of world this might have been, imagining her thick with dirt and dust from the mines, with calloused hands and that similar, exhausted look to her gaze but continuing on.
Because she had to. Just as he had to.
The steel of his eyes dim a small amount as he listens further, until the rage begins to bubble up, her eyes locked on his despite the flickering glow and bursting color of the flame on the table. And for a moment he breaks the eye contact, to look at it, to process her words and wonder if perhaps she is the source of it. But he doesn’t dare voice that thought – not with what she’s said, instead pretending that a rogue wind had raced into the room and messed with the lamp. It was easier that way, after all.
“I don’t think you’re cruel.” He offers after a moment of silence, nodding with her dark tone, with the shift that the conversation had taken. He hadn’t gone into all the details that she had for him, but there’s a relation there that he can’t help but to voice. So he shifts, cradling the smoke and the glass in one hand, removing his arm from her shoulder so he can turn to face her more fully, lifting and bending a leg so that he can fully look at her as he sits beside her on the couch.
“We’re survivors. We’re given a shitty situation and told to figure it out. And we do. You did with your sisters, even if it cost you yourself in the process.” He pauses, tongue dipping out along his lower lip as he considers his words carefully, before shaking his head and offering a quiet laugh, a small half smile. “You aren’t cruel. You survived. You got justice in the only way you knew how.” Tattooed shoulders rise and fall in a shrug before he takes another long drag. “I am hardly one to judge someone’s cruelty. There’s too much innocent blood on my hands, Aurelia, for me to ever be someone to judge.” It was different now, being the governor of Torchline where he actually has to care and enact judgement on such matters. But for him?
Perhaps there was sympathy that lingered therein. “I went into that muddy, shitty pit at seventeen with fifteen other boys. And I was the only one that made it out. I joined the rebellion and helped them try to take down my father, hurting and killing those that threatened me. Some of them I trained with. Some of them trained me. When Saar and I got engaged, there was no way out except to go through our fiancés. And I did.” A dark brow raises as he tilts his head toward her, resting his other arm along the back of the couch, trying to word his thoughts correctly as his fingertips tap against the back of it. “There are many days where I wonder if I had just died that day in the Trial, if my mother would still be alive, if Lusea would still be alive, if Saar would be married off and happy and things would have been fine.”
“But it does no use. We’re here. It happened. It’s what makes us… Us at the end of the day.” He takes a sip from his glass until it’s empty, and he leans over to set it on the table before giving her his full attention again. “If it’s covered in innocent blood and vengeful as fuck, so be it. The only thing that matters is what we do now, right? And the thing we do best is survive.”
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.
