melita
There’d been rumors before about cursed dolls and relics, so she rolled her eyes at his bait. “Maybe,” on half a shrug, nearly goading him to try it, but then he’d already gone after the chocolate. Her eyes widened, rounding in surprise, already taking several steps forward, the berating measures on her tongue. “Oh my gods, I don’t have any healing it-,” and then came the dramatic clutching at his throat, and she could feel her jaw tightening. In all fairness, she’d probably given him more than a few segments of frantic interludes, panic, apprehension – but they’d both lost multitudes, and she figured he’d know better.
Her mouth snapped shut and she ceased her movement, settling for a glare, then something molten, trying to find humor and pierce, puncture, through the emotions fractiously contorting through her spine. “Well, if you end up poisoning yourself, I say I win by default.” Crossing her arms over her chest again, she wrinkled her nose, taking a deep breath to stop the bristling along her ribcage. “But maybe we should have Goose judge,” thinking, of course, he’d go for the bone – though she did purposefully lift the confectionary notions out of the pile.
salvation doesn't look like light
