Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
Melita wandered.
With a myriad of quandaries, enigmas, and experiences throttling her mind, the only escape was movement. Motion. Action. Equipped and out-fitted with her weapons, with her armaments, with her fire-forged determination, the youth and her vampire gourd followed tracks made in between vines and moss.
Others had been out here, plain to see in the mark of civilization, snapped twigs, twisted leaves. And after a while, it became habitual to trace over previous foundations, to see what someone else had seen, to view, to wonder, to do something other than sulk, doubt, or unleash her fury.
But then the trails abruptly ended, and she found herself face to face with a series of streams. Instantly delighted, she tread very carefully to the first one’s embankments and edges, reminded of the Greatwood’s expanses. Like the babbling brooks, like the swift turn of shores into rivers, and at some point into oceans. Exuberance, wild and undaunted, billowed from her expanse, as she knelt beside the water, spying the glitter, the deceit, the potential. “Look at this,” she whispered to Fangorn, as her companion joined her (somewhat reluctantly, though his vines did snake back and forth, as if torn between remaining firmly on land or leaning into the soft soil). Her fingers pointed and jutted towards a particularly gleaming, gilded, golden object, tilting her head, rising slightly above a crouch, to gaze upon it a little better.
With a myriad of quandaries, enigmas, and experiences throttling her mind, the only escape was movement. Motion. Action. Equipped and out-fitted with her weapons, with her armaments, with her fire-forged determination, the youth and her vampire gourd followed tracks made in between vines and moss.
Others had been out here, plain to see in the mark of civilization, snapped twigs, twisted leaves. And after a while, it became habitual to trace over previous foundations, to see what someone else had seen, to view, to wonder, to do something other than sulk, doubt, or unleash her fury.
But then the trails abruptly ended, and she found herself face to face with a series of streams. Instantly delighted, she tread very carefully to the first one’s embankments and edges, reminded of the Greatwood’s expanses. Like the babbling brooks, like the swift turn of shores into rivers, and at some point into oceans. Exuberance, wild and undaunted, billowed from her expanse, as she knelt beside the water, spying the glitter, the deceit, the potential. “Look at this,” she whispered to Fangorn, as her companion joined her (somewhat reluctantly, though his vines did snake back and forth, as if torn between remaining firmly on land or leaning into the soft soil). Her fingers pointed and jutted towards a particularly gleaming, gilded, golden object, tilting her head, rising slightly above a crouch, to gaze upon it a little better.
Melita
