Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
After spending time with Nate, some portion of her soul was in no rush to return to the sea. Instead, the need, the itch, to wander pulsed and pervaded, and so with bag in hand, weapons over her shoulder, Melita and Fangorn began to navigate the world of King’s End.
The morning was as lush as the fields before her – beautiful and unwinding, flowers blooming, and something in her heart ached. Clementine would’ve loved this part of the world – wide and unyielding, seemingly never-ending, giving way from rolling hills and furtive barrows, to stretches of endlessness, where she could’ve bound their way by singing, by dancing, by exploring.
So she bent her head and sang one of their songs – a bright, cheerful tune they might’ve snagged from their mother at some other interval – gathering all those thoughts and placing them in a chord she’d never be able to replicate. Not gentle enough, not harmonious enough, but the vampire gourd bobbed in step to it, and by the end, through distraction (nothing of war, nothing of sorrow, nothing of the world falling apart from above and below and everywhere in between), they’d arrived at some lingering set of stairs.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, especially with the way it seemed to stretch and reach upwards, then cease entirely. She shrugged, no use in speculation to another creature who wouldn’t have the answers either – and instead, sitting on one of the first few stone steps, and beginning to rifle through her satchel.
The morning was as lush as the fields before her – beautiful and unwinding, flowers blooming, and something in her heart ached. Clementine would’ve loved this part of the world – wide and unyielding, seemingly never-ending, giving way from rolling hills and furtive barrows, to stretches of endlessness, where she could’ve bound their way by singing, by dancing, by exploring.
So she bent her head and sang one of their songs – a bright, cheerful tune they might’ve snagged from their mother at some other interval – gathering all those thoughts and placing them in a chord she’d never be able to replicate. Not gentle enough, not harmonious enough, but the vampire gourd bobbed in step to it, and by the end, through distraction (nothing of war, nothing of sorrow, nothing of the world falling apart from above and below and everywhere in between), they’d arrived at some lingering set of stairs.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, especially with the way it seemed to stretch and reach upwards, then cease entirely. She shrugged, no use in speculation to another creature who wouldn’t have the answers either – and instead, sitting on one of the first few stone steps, and beginning to rifle through her satchel.
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
