// the edge is getting closer, it's a long spiral down. it's so fun to fly 'til you hit the ground
i think i'm getting too close, i think i'm getting too close //
i think i'm getting too close, i think i'm getting too close //
“No.” He hears, and he shuts his eyes tight, the faint scent of blueberries coming across him. His jaw clenches, and his wings ruffle, and horns from the dragon shift peek out from beneath his hair, his face cold and dark and ready to tell Ronin exactly why he does, exactly where he’s fucked up and where he deserves every terrible thing that happens to him.
So he whirls, his good wing battering into the side of the fireplace, cold steel meeting Ronin before snagging on something else. All that rage and fire burns out of him at the sight of the boy, of himself, before – just after the swim test. The pained leg, swinging from the chair, red and a reminder that makes his chest burn, that makes all those horrible things he’s said about himself choke up in a tight throat.
He turns abruptly, tearing his gaze away from the boy to burn his sorrow and anger into the flames that flicker, wings drawing around him even if one falters and scrapes across the floor. The boy is innocent, he doesn’t know any better. The version of him that stands before the fireplace is all those dark pieces, all the softness and innocence drawn. “He will. He will when he turns seventeen and kills twelve other boys. He will when he takes people from their families to sentence them to execution. He will when he gets his mother killed.” His voice chokes on the words but he tries to trudge on, tries to keep the silver gleam from his eyes, evident in his failure with how his shoulders buckle, how his wings flare and shudder with the sharp inhale he takes. "Because he's weak."
So he whirls, his good wing battering into the side of the fireplace, cold steel meeting Ronin before snagging on something else. All that rage and fire burns out of him at the sight of the boy, of himself, before – just after the swim test. The pained leg, swinging from the chair, red and a reminder that makes his chest burn, that makes all those horrible things he’s said about himself choke up in a tight throat.
He turns abruptly, tearing his gaze away from the boy to burn his sorrow and anger into the flames that flicker, wings drawing around him even if one falters and scrapes across the floor. The boy is innocent, he doesn’t know any better. The version of him that stands before the fireplace is all those dark pieces, all the softness and innocence drawn. “He will. He will when he turns seventeen and kills twelve other boys. He will when he takes people from their families to sentence them to execution. He will when he gets his mother killed.” His voice chokes on the words but he tries to trudge on, tries to keep the silver gleam from his eyes, evident in his failure with how his shoulders buckle, how his wings flare and shudder with the sharp inhale he takes. "Because he's weak."
it's hard to get to heaven with my head in my hands
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.
