Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
Indifferent if she was a bad role model (actually – that would probably only offer inspiration), she turned over the meat, content for the stage whispers of dramatics and mischief. Laughing again, at the mere image of Jack tossed overboard, hissing and snarling like a cat, the sound were defiant measures – amused all the more, vicious for its onslaught. “I’m not sure I have the ambition for Captainhood. I’d end up just trying to hit things with the cannon.” Or running the Ark straight into something else – for the sheer and mere adventure, violence, and vitriol of it all.
As for the Grounds themselves? The Honeybee can’t see the youth wildly adventuring towards a land of perpetual heartache, abandoned places, trauma, and then godsforsaken nothingness, so she shrugged her shoulders. “Not unless you really like farmland, lightning storms, and ruins.” Not even an ideal place for a vacation – save for no one coming to find anyone there. Couldn’t be assed.
Her brows arched as she turned the meat over again, the smell and aroma enticing, inviting, stomach rumbling at the mere thought – mostly due to his reasoning. Stormbreak didn’t make her want to dance and cheer and flee, but her experiences were probably different than most. “Did you like it?” Perhaps someone else’s opinion might skew her own. But more than likely not.
She snorted at the maid comment, snagging at her food when it was ready, playing with the tongs more than once, before sliding them all on another plate. “Of course he has,” and she shook her head, with some level and layer of fondness. “How’s he doing?”
As for the Grounds themselves? The Honeybee can’t see the youth wildly adventuring towards a land of perpetual heartache, abandoned places, trauma, and then godsforsaken nothingness, so she shrugged her shoulders. “Not unless you really like farmland, lightning storms, and ruins.” Not even an ideal place for a vacation – save for no one coming to find anyone there. Couldn’t be assed.
Her brows arched as she turned the meat over again, the smell and aroma enticing, inviting, stomach rumbling at the mere thought – mostly due to his reasoning. Stormbreak didn’t make her want to dance and cheer and flee, but her experiences were probably different than most. “Did you like it?” Perhaps someone else’s opinion might skew her own. But more than likely not.
She snorted at the maid comment, snagging at her food when it was ready, playing with the tongs more than once, before sliding them all on another plate. “Of course he has,” and she shook her head, with some level and layer of fondness. “How’s he doing?”
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
