Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
The question had been facetious: Melita and Fangorn had been bonded for quite some time now. But the youth knew the fabrications and the contents of her companion, and certainly not this other one – with his claws, with his might, with his obvious power. The fight was obviously there, and she pondered over the ramifications if the fledgling should become free and liberated once more – for Melita wouldn’t be holding back from protecting one of her own. So she didn’t answer, wrinkling her nose, brows furrowing, nearly unhinging a snarl, while her arms remained wrapped and tight around the gourd.
The admittance was strange too, and only made her clutch harder. “Well, he won’t be doing that,” was all she could surmise from the strange encounter. Wondering if this would be the proper time to part ways, to continue going along, as one might do with opposing, walking dogs, the youth clambered onward, forward. “Sorry if we disturbed you,” with half a shrug notched and nestled, and her limbs began to maneuver, intending to round them back along and curve across the beach.
The admittance was strange too, and only made her clutch harder. “Well, he won’t be doing that,” was all she could surmise from the strange encounter. Wondering if this would be the proper time to part ways, to continue going along, as one might do with opposing, walking dogs, the youth clambered onward, forward. “Sorry if we disturbed you,” with half a shrug notched and nestled, and her limbs began to maneuver, intending to round them back along and curve across the beach.
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
