Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
The shoreline abyss called to her along mid-morning, ignoring the potential for other mischief by skipping and frolicking towards the Miana Pool. Not there to make a wish, but to settle along the outer rim, withdrawing her favored staff from her toolbelt of weaponry, humming a little tune. Along the embankment, Sila and Fangorn settled (the former practicing billowing smoke rings, and the latter clearly taking on the role of babysitter).
Her bare feet pressed against the stone, and her breath unfurled, swinging the armament in a graceful arch through the air, practicing her warm-up stances, blow by blow, anchor by anchor, as if there was something there, a foreboding strike to the nature of her platitudes.
Her bare feet pressed against the stone, and her breath unfurled, swinging the armament in a graceful arch through the air, practicing her warm-up stances, blow by blow, anchor by anchor, as if there was something there, a foreboding strike to the nature of her platitudes.
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
