i was raised as a scorpion
being pulled by the moon in a high tide
being pulled by the moon in a high tide
A snort leaves him with a slight nod, lips quirked in a slight twist of a smile. “I think there are varying degrees on how different people can be before and after a war. I leaned toward the more opposing ends, I suppose.” A casual shrug is given toward her before he sighs and downs the rest of the whiskey in his glass, unaware of how she studies him like he’s some kind of mosaic she needs to figure out how to put back together.
But, she finishes her drink and he moves to stand to set his back down, regarding her curiously with that same slit steel of his dragon’s shift. “Of course.” He hums, collecting his glass and leaving her own and the last little bit of the whiskey left behind, alongside the fruits and foods from before that she seemed so inclined to like. And once he’s done, (because he still has some kind of reputation to uphold), he turns to her and reaches for her hand, bending to run his hand up to her wrist, one draconic claw gently dragging along, lips pressing a soft kiss to the back of her hand.
He pulls away with a playful little smirk, hand returning back to its typical scarred state. “Sleep well, Dahlia.” He rumbles, stepping toward the door as the rest of his shift starts to appear – the horns curling about his head, the leathery wings that remain tucked in tight behind him, marking him a perfectly devilish silhouette as he opens the door to leave her for the night.
But, she finishes her drink and he moves to stand to set his back down, regarding her curiously with that same slit steel of his dragon’s shift. “Of course.” He hums, collecting his glass and leaving her own and the last little bit of the whiskey left behind, alongside the fruits and foods from before that she seemed so inclined to like. And once he’s done, (because he still has some kind of reputation to uphold), he turns to her and reaches for her hand, bending to run his hand up to her wrist, one draconic claw gently dragging along, lips pressing a soft kiss to the back of her hand.
He pulls away with a playful little smirk, hand returning back to its typical scarred state. “Sleep well, Dahlia.” He rumbles, stepping toward the door as the rest of his shift starts to appear – the horns curling about his head, the leathery wings that remain tucked in tight behind him, marking him a perfectly devilish silhouette as he opens the door to leave her for the night.
the flood
that's why i'm broken, yeah,
am i a villain or a saint?
am i a villain or a saint?
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.
