Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
Sila, who’d never even strived for a one-winged corkscrew maneuver, drew back a screech/gasp combination, hovering overhead to watch and witness Spice’s antics unfold. It was quite impressive, and she certainly didn’t want to be left behind on the possibilities and parameters of such a defiant move. From there she dove, not quite as elegant or regal as the other dragon, managing a quadruple twirl, twisting and twisting until it seemed she’d be dizzy, and then unfurling enough so she didn’t look so ridiculous.
Melita and Flora’s discussion, in their own regards, had been raised to one of those where any onlookers might’ve thought neither of them should’ve ever been plotting together. “Right?!” She screeched with excitement immediately, dropping one of the bottles into her bag with a pitch too much strength. A very Ludo-esque proclamation, if she did say so herself. “Or someone gets a weapon and it makes them punch themselves instead,” arrived with a lofty, mischievous grin, and it wouldn’t be so difficult to believe the Honeybee could, and would, put her fingers together ominously in a villain pose.
Flora’s insinuations about the sand though interrupt the train of heinous thoughts more into mulling, methodical ones – however quick those were to burn out. They churned over and over in her mind, collecting into various decrees of romance and delusion, affixed with blood and gore and some manner of inane stupidity. Snapping her fingers again, because this might be a layer of chaos for both (Iskra wouldn’t know what her plans were, and vice versa), that her features eventually revolved back into a wicked little grin. “Sold! You’re very good at this,” she wrinkled her nose, pointing back at Flora as if she’d dreamed up some grand conspiracy instead of just another day of dates and sand interludes and bedlam.
Melita and Flora’s discussion, in their own regards, had been raised to one of those where any onlookers might’ve thought neither of them should’ve ever been plotting together. “Right?!” She screeched with excitement immediately, dropping one of the bottles into her bag with a pitch too much strength. A very Ludo-esque proclamation, if she did say so herself. “Or someone gets a weapon and it makes them punch themselves instead,” arrived with a lofty, mischievous grin, and it wouldn’t be so difficult to believe the Honeybee could, and would, put her fingers together ominously in a villain pose.
Flora’s insinuations about the sand though interrupt the train of heinous thoughts more into mulling, methodical ones – however quick those were to burn out. They churned over and over in her mind, collecting into various decrees of romance and delusion, affixed with blood and gore and some manner of inane stupidity. Snapping her fingers again, because this might be a layer of chaos for both (Iskra wouldn’t know what her plans were, and vice versa), that her features eventually revolved back into a wicked little grin. “Sold! You’re very good at this,” she wrinkled her nose, pointing back at Flora as if she’d dreamed up some grand conspiracy instead of just another day of dates and sand interludes and bedlam.
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
