MELITA
If Pim thought to scare her, he’d come to threaten the wrong individual – Melita, born in the regions of the Dragon’s Throat, giving rise to legends of those who breathed flame and instigated acrimony. Instead, she was suitably impressed with his growing size, tilting her head a fraction in quiet study and perusal, appreciative hums under her breath. Fangorn wasn’t to be daunted either, raising his own hackles and growls, sneers and hisses, back at the fledgling, despite being much smaller. “Hello Pim,” the honeybee youth muttered on a puff of air, on a whim, before the beast turned, lumbering away. And if Pim was there, that meant Phoebe-Who appeared quickly thereafter, wrapped in layers, perhaps affected by the cold and chill as well. “Hi Phoebe,” she murmured with a delicate smile and a vicious lack of exuberance, dragging herself in further while Fangorn hovered at her ankles, clingier than usual, eerie eyes twisting back to the healer. “Not hurt,” shrugging, shaking her head from side to side, no sing-song on her lips, no display of enthusiasm; worn, drawn, exhausted. “I just don’t feel well.” She curled back into her furs, draping them further over her form. “Normally when I get sick, it doesn’t take long for me to recover. But this has been weeks and I’m not getting better.”
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
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
