Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
“I’m always ready,” a lift to her chin, the defiant little smile flickering and bounding over her mouth, the decree more than precise. She was fervent for anything resounding and reverberating in violent, tempestuous storms, quick and swift, certain and sure, convictions of violence brewing below the surface, eager to be called upon. It was fire and flames, storms and seas, brimming, overflowing, gestures to the roll of her shoulders, and the audacious lilt to her gaze. “Of course,” she nodded, hitching the quiver up along her back further, pulling the bow from her bracelet. Second nature, loved and adored, a precious armament she’d never be able to replicate – home in her hands, across her calloused palms.
The implications there, she returned to being a restless contortion of feral, fierce nature, only cycling back through his words after a moment. “What’s a Ramphire?” Not an animal she was familiar with; already accustomed to the mantas, to the Hels, to other things drifting in and amongst the sea. This name was foreign, unknown, causing the slightest wrinkle to her nose.
The implications there, she returned to being a restless contortion of feral, fierce nature, only cycling back through his words after a moment. “What’s a Ramphire?” Not an animal she was familiar with; already accustomed to the mantas, to the Hels, to other things drifting in and amongst the sea. This name was foreign, unknown, causing the slightest wrinkle to her nose.
Melita
