MELITA
“We have a connection. So in a way, he talks. But mostly to me. Or in grunts, hisses, and growls.” She laughed again, her eyes soft as she gazed upon the cretin, the creature, their forged bonds just as much a part of her as the sun, as the wind, as the sky. The youth wasn’t certain about powers, however; the gourd had always been helpful to her, a capable, supportive little being in the midst of trials and tribulations. He’d leapt and bound towards the giant pumpkin brewing with blight, had distracted, had deterred, while they attempted to slay. He’d always been there, a solidified force in the back of her mind. “He’s very good at biting ankles,” she heralded with a grin, with a shrug instead, a light giggle triumphing through her chest and throat. At the notion of monsters though, she could only shrug. She really didn’t know, combatting over the length of ignorance again. “Not necessarily. But maybe they’re sleeping now.” She winked, a light, minuet tease. The youth mostly figured they weren’t irritating whatever lurked below, in the midst, in the fog, and so they weren’t being viciously assaulted by claws, by teeth, by talons. “I’ll protect you if anything comes.” Another hum lingered in the promise and oath, thinking naught of the indication other than the weapons clinging to her back or beside her hands.
The Gods were fickle and capricious at best; Melita had experienced it throughout any of the lands she’d roamed within, from her birthplace, to the Rift with its false paragons and duplicitous means, and to here – even though her trust remained in Ludo. Her fingers absent-mindedly began to trace a new form in the mud, maneuvering away from the luxury's embellished antlers, and to an assemblage of familiar rags and shrouds. “I bet you will one day. And it will be wonderful! Just keep trying.”
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
