// 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 //
“It doesn’t have to be difficult.” He mutters, keeping his arms crossed. She’s charismatic enough to huff a laugh, to flash a smile, to make a joke and explain. But he takes it for what it is, tries to calm his feathers and emotions, working his jaw as everything softens, as he lets a bit more about himself slip out unintentionally. It was something that continued to happen, just another little tidbit of information that looked into the window that was this scarred, traumatized man.
He doesn’t really have the heart to repeat himself as he had so many times before – of explaining how the weeks leading up to the Trial that he’d hoped he had. That something within him had snapped when the gun showed up at the Trial and broken the rules, and he somehow managed to get ahold of it. How he’d been numb and broken when he’d been the last one standing, hauled up out of that pit of death.
How that pit of death grew within him and soured, poisoned him from the inside out.
He works his jaw again, swallowing hard as the plates move against his neck and click together as they catch on the grooves torn into the scales. He doesn’t have anything to reply with, nothing that would change her mind, so he nods – ducks his head, figures an agreement has been made even if it isn’t one he completely agrees with. “Okay.” He decides instead, waiting a bit impatiently for the shopkeep to be done with the cart so that he might haul it back for her.
He doesn’t really have the heart to repeat himself as he had so many times before – of explaining how the weeks leading up to the Trial that he’d hoped he had. That something within him had snapped when the gun showed up at the Trial and broken the rules, and he somehow managed to get ahold of it. How he’d been numb and broken when he’d been the last one standing, hauled up out of that pit of death.
How that pit of death grew within him and soured, poisoned him from the inside out.
He works his jaw again, swallowing hard as the plates move against his neck and click together as they catch on the grooves torn into the scales. He doesn’t have anything to reply with, nothing that would change her mind, so he nods – ducks his head, figures an agreement has been made even if it isn’t one he completely agrees with. “Okay.” He decides instead, waiting a bit impatiently for the shopkeep to be done with the cart so that he might haul it back for her.
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.
