Another busy, bustling street. On one side of the road you can find red curls, falling over one another and shielding a part of Sota's face from the public. He's got his chin facing the ground, his head facing the clouds.
Budding within is the mixture of tar and spite. A growing void of black, harboring colors that he refuses to paint on the outside, hidden from the eye of the public — whether it be his family or the persons he surrounds himself with. Well. Maybe there was one, single man that was allowed to peek into the underbelly of his mind. A man that was the root of it all, and perhaps the someone who would know what to do — what to say. But even to the sennin Sota know not what display to give.
So he's left with the pointy corners of his own thoughts, poking into him, interrupting every train of thought that tries for a distraction. A spider's thread extends down, touches the top of his crown.
What the fuck bothers him so badly?
A sudden symphony. Gentle, familiar. Distant, like a river hidden behind a forest. Again: the sound of a soft stream. Waters dancing through flesh.
Sota knows what this is. Has gotten used to its calls over the past couple of days. Knows that somebody's nearby, and fails to calm his nerves before they push him up. From the wall he'd been leaning against and into the busy crowd. Ought to give him deja vu with how much he approaches strangers on the streets and barks at them demands. This one goes:
"you. I need to try something," followed by a hand moving to grab them.
Whether they'd offer their consent or not, his eyes would zip to their injury, and he'd force a tight grip over it. As if wanting to collect every drop of blood that leaks through the slit.
—
wc 315
IMPORTANT: it's assumed that ur character is injured as sota just approached some1 with a cut. could be anything from a paper cut on their thumb to an open gash in their eye, idc. but ya.
Budding within is the mixture of tar and spite. A growing void of black, harboring colors that he refuses to paint on the outside, hidden from the eye of the public — whether it be his family or the persons he surrounds himself with. Well. Maybe there was one, single man that was allowed to peek into the underbelly of his mind. A man that was the root of it all, and perhaps the someone who would know what to do — what to say. But even to the sennin Sota know not what display to give.
So he's left with the pointy corners of his own thoughts, poking into him, interrupting every train of thought that tries for a distraction. A spider's thread extends down, touches the top of his crown.
What the fuck bothers him so badly?
A sudden symphony. Gentle, familiar. Distant, like a river hidden behind a forest. Again: the sound of a soft stream. Waters dancing through flesh.
Sota knows what this is. Has gotten used to its calls over the past couple of days. Knows that somebody's nearby, and fails to calm his nerves before they push him up. From the wall he'd been leaning against and into the busy crowd. Ought to give him deja vu with how much he approaches strangers on the streets and barks at them demands. This one goes:
"you. I need to try something," followed by a hand moving to grab them.
Whether they'd offer their consent or not, his eyes would zip to their injury, and he'd force a tight grip over it. As if wanting to collect every drop of blood that leaks through the slit.
—
wc 315
IMPORTANT: it's assumed that ur character is injured as sota just approached some1 with a cut. could be anything from a paper cut on their thumb to an open gash in their eye, idc. but ya.