Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
Haai found her scouting out the sand, digging her toes into the dunes, rapaciously clawing at the swells and surf, intending to bend and break shells or callously wait for something to sink her teeth into. A wolf’s ambitions, even in the ring of her laughter as the griffin discovered her and Fangorn along the tides, lighthearted with the touches of the wilderness burning into her existence, her presence. She shifted long, lengthy strides, nearly inviting Haai to chase instead of cajole them back to Sunjata’s insistence; a play amidst the runes, the ruins, the beckoning cluster of anything and everything. They could’ve courted fire and disaster in the melee, in the bewitching rounds of giggles and torrents, but all good things had to come to an end, and by the time Haai had manage to convince her and the gourd, all graceful presence had left her.
Instead, she was a little spark and fury on the winds, windtossed mane and tresses emboldened and audacious, matching her gilded gaze as she set her sights upon her uncle. Her bow was nowhere in sight, the quiver on her back notched in promise and predilection, a series of dominions, dominations, and supremacies to showcase – the convictions of a hunt biting into her mind. Perhaps that was all she needed; an opportunity for the irreverence to be snatched and utilized, instead of biding her time along embankments and shores, waiting for the next wave to engulf, or set her alight.
A savage march instead then, a snicker on her mouth as she maneuvered, waved, a constant barrage of movement and motion. “Arbiter,” she called out, a mocking bow extended. “Ready?”
Instead, she was a little spark and fury on the winds, windtossed mane and tresses emboldened and audacious, matching her gilded gaze as she set her sights upon her uncle. Her bow was nowhere in sight, the quiver on her back notched in promise and predilection, a series of dominions, dominations, and supremacies to showcase – the convictions of a hunt biting into her mind. Perhaps that was all she needed; an opportunity for the irreverence to be snatched and utilized, instead of biding her time along embankments and shores, waiting for the next wave to engulf, or set her alight.
A savage march instead then, a snicker on her mouth as she maneuvered, waved, a constant barrage of movement and motion. “Arbiter,” she called out, a mocking bow extended. “Ready?”
Melita
