MELITA
Fangorn, eternally loyal to a fault, wasn’t inveigled or tempted into a game. Instead, he opened his gaping maw to unveil a large set of fangs, a warning growl, a warring front, a protective threshold, a persistent survivor through and through. Melita, finally lifting her lids to peek through the haze of light, did naught to stop him. She made no comment on the companion or its bewildering, bizarre complexities; she couldn’t really, when she’d snagged a vampire gourd ages ago, when everyone else, including her, had been butchering and slaughtering them out of sheer irritation. Instead, her attention went to the other notions, the I genuinely love him component, causing one brow to lift, an arch of defiance. The youth cherished him for familial ties, but she could imagine he was a difficult being to devote one’s time too – especially when he didn’t seem insistent on doing the same. She nearly asked why, because she’d been just as vexed with him lately, easily tossed aside, forgotten, in the expanse of the ghostly woman before her, and everyone, everything, else. He was moody and mercurial, prone to impulsive, impetuous designs, and seemingly incapable of forming consistent lines. Not since Lusea, and even then –
“I’m not sure I can help you there.” She shrugged, not sure if she wanted to either. “He’s an idiot.” If that was said with some token affection for moronic imbeciles, then it might have been embedded in her tones, in the tilt of her head.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
