you must burn brighter than ever
Melita wasn’t a delicate thing; and therefore didn’t handle her wares as such either. Wrinkling her nose in obvious distaste at the way the banners still clung and tangled, she worked along the bounds and coils, heaving a sigh when some had managed to intertwine themselves amongst one another with relish. Fangorn grumbled and rumbled one more incoherent facet – but likely it was borne of frustration too.
Her head tilted upwards, tongue sticking out as she worked and grappled with one particular bunting twisted upside down, as the stranger asked about her gourd. He was always a curious topic amongst strangers – especially those who hadn’t been amidst the Grounds or amongst the many who wandered during Leafchange’s intervals. A faint smile bloomed at the discussion, at the inquiry, attention only drifting momentarily down to the youth as he drifted below the ladder, vines working to straighten the rest of the string. “He is. His name is Fangorn. A vampire gourd.” In response, the pumpkin showed his fangs out of principle – though there was no malice or menace behind it. In a low whisper, as if telling some enormous secret, Melita hummed. “I found him during Leafchange a couple years ago. Gave him a little bit of meat and that was that.”
And she rather liked the notion of him being like brass knuckles – as wild as her.
Though the other girl didn’t give a name, perhaps hesitant, perhaps distrusting, the youth carried on in her fire and boldness. “I thought it might suit the market. The whole carnival thing and all that.” Something fun and amusing, bright and alluring, rather than dark and damning. “What were you doing up here?” And she lifted her chin, jutting it forward, clearly indicating the roof.
Her head tilted upwards, tongue sticking out as she worked and grappled with one particular bunting twisted upside down, as the stranger asked about her gourd. He was always a curious topic amongst strangers – especially those who hadn’t been amidst the Grounds or amongst the many who wandered during Leafchange’s intervals. A faint smile bloomed at the discussion, at the inquiry, attention only drifting momentarily down to the youth as he drifted below the ladder, vines working to straighten the rest of the string. “He is. His name is Fangorn. A vampire gourd.” In response, the pumpkin showed his fangs out of principle – though there was no malice or menace behind it. In a low whisper, as if telling some enormous secret, Melita hummed. “I found him during Leafchange a couple years ago. Gave him a little bit of meat and that was that.”
And she rather liked the notion of him being like brass knuckles – as wild as her.
Though the other girl didn’t give a name, perhaps hesitant, perhaps distrusting, the youth carried on in her fire and boldness. “I thought it might suit the market. The whole carnival thing and all that.” Something fun and amusing, bright and alluring, rather than dark and damning. “What were you doing up here?” And she lifted her chin, jutting it forward, clearly indicating the roof.
Melita
