there's always a glimmer in those
Maybe one day she’d return to the sea, to the undulating waves, to the potency reigning supreme over its vastness – how it consumed, how it cherished, how it swallowed, devoured, and promised. As a child, she’d basked in its sandy shoal, like another home, playing in its current and pretending to be a monster – breathing in the salty air, whispering into the wind, cast amongst its glass and veneer. Drawn and lured, like a siren, like a moth, like a flame.
She tilted her head, listening while she acquired snacks too, bar food tucked along the back, knowing every inch of the foundation she’d helped create. The girl was unfamiliar with rapiers, not a common weapon where she’d been from. Crossbows sounded delightful, but she did so love pulling the arc, the string, the taut, rigid strands to further precision and depth on her own bow. “Training is training. The more the better,” and she smiled, the same impish grin, constantly willing to add to her repertoire of techniques, skills, and munitions.
She eventually sat again, bringing over the snacks, placing them along the desk before returning to her seat. Despite her mother’s scholarly, healing occupation, Melita had never been beguiled into the marks of soothing or mending – more apt to be applying the damage, the lacerations, requiring a salve or paste. Her eyes peered over it again, bruise balm, wishing somehow, as one always did in later years, she’d paid more attention to her mother’s carefully cultivated herbs and actions. “How lovely.” A smaller smile then, while she thought. Considering she’d named Fangorn, perhaps she wasn’t the best choice for the job. “What about Groen?” Green.
She tilted her head, listening while she acquired snacks too, bar food tucked along the back, knowing every inch of the foundation she’d helped create. The girl was unfamiliar with rapiers, not a common weapon where she’d been from. Crossbows sounded delightful, but she did so love pulling the arc, the string, the taut, rigid strands to further precision and depth on her own bow. “Training is training. The more the better,” and she smiled, the same impish grin, constantly willing to add to her repertoire of techniques, skills, and munitions.
She eventually sat again, bringing over the snacks, placing them along the desk before returning to her seat. Despite her mother’s scholarly, healing occupation, Melita had never been beguiled into the marks of soothing or mending – more apt to be applying the damage, the lacerations, requiring a salve or paste. Her eyes peered over it again, bruise balm, wishing somehow, as one always did in later years, she’d paid more attention to her mother’s carefully cultivated herbs and actions. “How lovely.” A smaller smile then, while she thought. Considering she’d named Fangorn, perhaps she wasn’t the best choice for the job. “What about Groen?” Green.
who have been through the dark
MELITA
