Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
Without a doubt, Fangorn hadn’t expected to be racing a dragon that day. But the little competitive ire in the pumpkin’s mind seemed to appreciate the nuances, and he rolled along faster, pushing off the sand with his vines, attempting to gain momentum that would otherwise not exist (considering he had no legs).
While Melita watched with an arched brow and striving not to be an overprotective heathen, she continued listening to Seren, occasionally ceasing movement to pick up a pretty shell uncovered by the breeze. The Dragoons seemed like an organized unit, rather than haphazard melees of Torchline – the latter being conformed to street smarts, to physicality, to wit, to grappling, rather than strategy, tactics, and history. They were combined efforts of a people, rather than a brutal force. Either way, it could be barbaric, she supposed. “Is Ronin enjoying himself then?” She could imagine it was what he’d wanted before anything else – like days of sovereignty.
The honeybee pondered what she would’ve been like – growing up in structure, rather than absolute chaos. If she would’ve been able to protect others far better, far greater, or if in the end, it didn’t really matter. If she would’ve faltered somehow, someway, and the ferocity would’ve been all the same.
The other notions caused her head to tilt upward though. “We could always use more medics and healers. Don’t we have enough brutal people?” She laughed; as if she wasn’t one who went in full force and bombarded every step of the way.
As for asking Ludo questions? A subject matter loomed in the back of her mind – days of the blight, when she’d quietly asked a shrine if she was awful, if she was horrid, and the resounding silence there-in. From then on, she hadn’t really pressed, entirely afraid of the answers. “Maybe,” was a hint and naught much more, a tightening to her jaw that she didn’t bother suppressing, hands going back to the shells she’d collected in her palm.
While Melita watched with an arched brow and striving not to be an overprotective heathen, she continued listening to Seren, occasionally ceasing movement to pick up a pretty shell uncovered by the breeze. The Dragoons seemed like an organized unit, rather than haphazard melees of Torchline – the latter being conformed to street smarts, to physicality, to wit, to grappling, rather than strategy, tactics, and history. They were combined efforts of a people, rather than a brutal force. Either way, it could be barbaric, she supposed. “Is Ronin enjoying himself then?” She could imagine it was what he’d wanted before anything else – like days of sovereignty.
The honeybee pondered what she would’ve been like – growing up in structure, rather than absolute chaos. If she would’ve been able to protect others far better, far greater, or if in the end, it didn’t really matter. If she would’ve faltered somehow, someway, and the ferocity would’ve been all the same.
The other notions caused her head to tilt upward though. “We could always use more medics and healers. Don’t we have enough brutal people?” She laughed; as if she wasn’t one who went in full force and bombarded every step of the way.
As for asking Ludo questions? A subject matter loomed in the back of her mind – days of the blight, when she’d quietly asked a shrine if she was awful, if she was horrid, and the resounding silence there-in. From then on, she hadn’t really pressed, entirely afraid of the answers. “Maybe,” was a hint and naught much more, a tightening to her jaw that she didn’t bother suppressing, hands going back to the shells she’d collected in her palm.
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
