but there's chaos brewing
underneath my skin
She nodded; accepted, neither attuned, abandoned, or ascended, somewhere bounding along heralds and gods, and then nowhere. Carving, whittling, and weaving her own path, nefarious, savage, or bestial, nestled with hints of compassion and warmth, intervals of where she’d been born and how she’d fought to overcome.
Water and air enchantments, probably incredibly suitable for the waves, for the ocean, for the sea. “Does that help with sailing, then?” She made no mention of her infused items: of the quiver of arrows that could ignite and unveil infernal decrees, of the nymph ministrations curled around her ankle, of the bow bracelet settled along her wrist. Furtive and secret, specious and withdrawn – snorting at his wink.
But her expression changed into the wild ebullience all over again at the notion of cannons, ignoring the thought of settling in – avaricious and grasping for the wickedness, for the decadence, for the potential for learning another skill, another munition. “Oh, the cannons please!” The grin flickering and following was insatiably wild; fervent and eager for the fray.
Water and air enchantments, probably incredibly suitable for the waves, for the ocean, for the sea. “Does that help with sailing, then?” She made no mention of her infused items: of the quiver of arrows that could ignite and unveil infernal decrees, of the nymph ministrations curled around her ankle, of the bow bracelet settled along her wrist. Furtive and secret, specious and withdrawn – snorting at his wink.
But her expression changed into the wild ebullience all over again at the notion of cannons, ignoring the thought of settling in – avaricious and grasping for the wickedness, for the decadence, for the potential for learning another skill, another munition. “Oh, the cannons please!” The grin flickering and following was insatiably wild; fervent and eager for the fray.
trying to hold in the storm
instead of making waves
MELITA
