[seasonal event] out of the clouds

MELITA

It was the crashing waves of the waterfall’s nuances that intrigued her, dragged her from whatever other means and measures she’d been roaming within, and the crimson blur and blend of hues that kept her. Entrenched along the embankment, she stopped and stared for the longest of times, marveling as the clear liquid descended and became a blistering red; like blood, like pools of ichor, like lifeforces clinging to pulsing veins, desperate to hang onto what little remained. Melita had no issues with contorting and cavorting with her curiosity, leaning over the edge, gaze enraptured and entrapped by the notions consuming her. Had it been caused by an animal, ancient and long-since buried under the weight of the water, but their blood consistently, constantly, dragged to the surface? Was there some sort of spectral curse hovering on its edges and fringes, hemorrhaging its wicked words and nefarious enchantments, doomed and damned? Or was it something altogether innocent, but reminiscent of battlefields and warfare, bodies dragged and persecuted right across the molten floor? Her gaze swept from the water to beloved Fangorn, who hadn’t been bothered by the blushing tides at all, grabbing hold of some plants nearby and dragging them around by his fangs. “What do you think?” She inquired, but not necessarily expecting an answer; the gourd eyed her rather reluctantly, gave a half-hearted leap meant to constitute a shrug, and then went back to his idle pandemonium.

“Hm,” the honeybee girl pondered, eyes glancing back at the brimming refrain. She’d forgotten what she’d come out here for, a gift for the incoming festival, and crouched on the border and embankment again, wondering what she could do. Staring hadn’t revealed any semblance of a response. Could she dive in? Could she wade along its depths and discover the reasoning? Was it safe? Did she care? The temptation, the enticement, clustered and held her there, poised aloft, longing to take a leap, headless and reckless, passionate and savage.

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight