MELITA
The inquiries were there now, either provoked by her story or some other motivations, but she shrugged, her fingers lightly tracing over the lanterns again, little lights exuding from them like striking beams. Her eyes didn’t lift from her drawing while she explained, attention on her silted craft. “More or less. They appeared right alongside the vines the first time,” dragging her out of the pumpkin’s clutches, her gratitude, her acknowledgment, pouring out in waves, the series of circumstances and cycles thereafter – how quickly things had been altered, maimed, destroyed, and then utterly triumphant. “And then by the creature we were trying to save,” in a way, a maneuvering, lumbering beast with no ability to do anything but maneuver along its threshold of ice and snow. Perhaps she should’ve been drawing out that particular scene instead, or the one with the pumpkin.As for what Ludo looked like… “Here!” She pointed down at her moderate tracings of mud, where the rags formed, where the mask conformed, where lantern lights gleamed (immersed in imagination on those ends, perhaps, what it would appear like beneath muck and mire). Her ensuing smile was proud, even if it didn’t properly convey anything and everything Ludo was – she couldn’t quite depict the airs of mischief, the feelings of life amongst scraps of cloth and folds of fabric, the threshold of safety, and the ominous beckoning, foreboding nuances, behind it all. Mysteries and enigmas, quandaries and warrens; her favorite of all the heralds.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
