Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
This had not been the first time, and likely not the last, that Melita had to defend her companion. Often in the stokings of the Grounds, where the vampire gourd had originated, there’d been inklings of hisses and lackluster demeanors, with credit given, considering how much irritation the pumpkins brought. But Torchline seemed to bask in the wake of potential destruction of those bonded and loved too – which the youth found ridiculous, considering Fangorn had never shown any inklings towards calamity, torture, or terror. That was usually her.
She’d tolerate curiosity, because he was a living, breathing gourd with fangs, but not outright violence.
So he huddled in her arms, screeching and grumbling, as the dragon was finally corralled by its keeper. Melita still held out her staff, in case something else occurred. In case the beast broke free. In case she too had to unleash and unfurl treachery and disaster. “How can you tell?” Her eyes went to leathery wings; once such a prized thing back in her old land. “We’re fine.”
She’d tolerate curiosity, because he was a living, breathing gourd with fangs, but not outright violence.
So he huddled in her arms, screeching and grumbling, as the dragon was finally corralled by its keeper. Melita still held out her staff, in case something else occurred. In case the beast broke free. In case she too had to unleash and unfurl treachery and disaster. “How can you tell?” Her eyes went to leathery wings; once such a prized thing back in her old land. “We’re fine.”
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
