Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
Unaware of the inward implications of her statement, she tilted her head, listening all the while as acceptance rallied there on the ice – easily granted and given. Thinking nothing of the offer, her thoughts motioned more to the point of Frey, a quest, and any other implications coinciding. Especially with her uncle as the sex proportion of angles – striving not to wrinkle her nose at the thoughts. “Oh.” She tapped on her chin, lost momentarily in how those could become instruments of disaster and mayhem, but maybe they were pointed, segmented, and serrated at the tip, rather than acting as future quills. “That’s a neat idea.” Especially if they could come back to her – relaying a lack of retrieval or losing them altogether in the points of danger. Melita usually just shot her arrows and thought nothing more.
As for the other proportions? “Same,” not even bothering to think about whatever the fuck Sunjata had got himself into. “So what do you need to do for your feathers?”
As for the other proportions? “Same,” not even bothering to think about whatever the fuck Sunjata had got himself into. “So what do you need to do for your feathers?”
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
