MELITA
There are no admonishments and reprimands sent her way, despite her expectations and experiences (the lectures, the kind that scarred and the kind that she let flicker away like the wings of a butterfly), and instead, only an offer that her grasping little claws couldn’t ever refuse. “Yes!” She uttered, bright and indulgent, a triumphant grin returning to her face, her heart acquisitive and greedy, eternally yearning to prove herself, to become better, stronger, a beast, a heathen, instead of the sometimes successful fiend. Melita would easily do both, rip and tear apart monsters with her bare hands if necessary, savage and sinister, nefarious and irreverent, waiting for their scales, their teeth, their poison, their venom. “Whenever you’d like!” The notions set her ablaze, ignited on her lungs and in her mind, and she set about her task once more, quicker and swifter, flicking droplets of paint on the ground with the rapacious, voracious edges of her task. She listened too, listlessly sinking her fingers on Fangorn’s head and scratching the gourd, paintbrush tucked between her teeth as she stepped back and observed her progress. “That makes sense, I suppose,” she mumbled around the brush, before taking it back into her hands and going over the missed spots, coating and coating with the remnant of hues, blending them back together. “It doesn’t understand the experiences that your mind does.” The honeybee youth dipped into more of the paint, whisking it back and forth on frayed ends and chipped particles, working her way up so that her arms had to stretch and unfold, twisting her head upwards too, so she could better catch Ronin's light. “But that will come with time too.”
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
