Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
Melita had yet to make a comment about Thalassa’s latest exploits in their last venture here because it didn’t really matter to her. She wouldn’t judge on those particulars. Having already died once, it was an understandable notion that someone would fear crossing that line, especially so soon into their bout with a fuckin’ tree. Had the Ancient been someone the Honeybee actively detested, it might have been a different story (no one ever said her moral compass was grand).
So she said nothing, the others didn't seem like a talkative bunch, humming lightly to herself as she sprung over bits of mud and debris, putting gloves on to avoid any nasty purple bullshit coating her skin. The others were quiet but doing their own thing, and before long they had manifested a decent sized pile of leftover nonsense.
It was unfortunate, however, that Thalassa 's bad luck would persist, and she’d find herself stuck in some portions of the mire slipping and snagging at her from underneath.
“You good?” Melita called over, wondering if the other woman would need help. If not, they could all eventually start on the nearby old, desecrated stumps that needed to be hauled out and taken to the pile too. Gnarled, purple, twisted, and decrepit, there was no reason for them to continue to be around, other than to serve as reminders of bullshit.
--
The pile has grown and Thalassa is stuck in the mud.
You may either help or start helping to get rid of the old stumps. No post order!
So she said nothing, the others didn't seem like a talkative bunch, humming lightly to herself as she sprung over bits of mud and debris, putting gloves on to avoid any nasty purple bullshit coating her skin. The others were quiet but doing their own thing, and before long they had manifested a decent sized pile of leftover nonsense.
It was unfortunate, however, that Thalassa 's bad luck would persist, and she’d find herself stuck in some portions of the mire slipping and snagging at her from underneath.
“You good?” Melita called over, wondering if the other woman would need help. If not, they could all eventually start on the nearby old, desecrated stumps that needed to be hauled out and taken to the pile too. Gnarled, purple, twisted, and decrepit, there was no reason for them to continue to be around, other than to serve as reminders of bullshit.
--
The pile has grown and Thalassa is stuck in the mud.
You may either help or start helping to get rid of the old stumps. No post order!
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
