MELITA
Completely unaware of his mistrust, because she’d never done anything untoward to instigate those feelings in others (well, except for the blight, but that had been entirely out of her control), her smile continued to radiate and beam, blossom and bloom, fingers dipping into the mud and orchestrating other outlines. Never quite an artist, most of them likely looked archaic or childlike, placing a toothy grin on her fabled gourd picture, before moving on to a rough sketch of a luxere, a little disappointed she couldn’t capture the depth of their glowing antlers. “Pleasure, Oliver,” she hummed under her breath, Fangorn’s eldritch, uncanny eyes riveted on the ivory spikes of the man’s hair. She tilted her head at his compliment, but shrugged her shoulders then, continuing on with the rough surface of the deer. “Do you like to draw?” Maybe he was an artist by trade, or belonged to that particular guild. Perhaps he had a talent for it, back from wherever he’d come from (not a Natural; they were known citizens – and he certainly wasn’t). She watched him begin another design, grinning at wings, before curiosity seemed to entangle itself along his fold too. “Oh, I come out here a lot.” For amusement, for glancing off into the ether and fog, for rampaging across the bridge, for daring, for goading, for trying to help her friends face their fears, where she likely should’ve had some. Then she volleyed the question in return, the tunes still halcyon along her tongue. “Why are you here?”
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
