[seasonal event] the chorus will come in

MELITA

Jax’s scratching worked wonders, and Fangorn preened a little under the ministrations, half-turning, eerie, enigmatic square centered on the boy. His eyes then went to Melita, as if asking permission (where ordinarily he would’ve just gone, curious and inquisitive, bestial and barbaric, knowing how to survive on his own; the enduring gourd of nightmares and revelry). She nodded, arching a brow in a sort of mocking display, before setting him down on the grass. Fangorn obliged the boy with a hiss, and then set off in a rambling, leaping sort of movement, ducking within some of the ruins and then coming back out; an invitation to chase.

As for the basket weaving, it seemed Melita was in for another undertaking requiring some form of precision (which seemed too bad, really; why didn’t anything in this world simply require an educated guess, a disastrous run, and then just high peels of laughter?), struggling to picture how she’d entangle reeds and twist them together in some pattern, let alone get then conform to a basic shape. This would’ve been another concept and capability for Clementine: born to sit amidst the sun, sing, and create. Melita had been baptized in the same gentle tunes and harmonies, but had never quite taken to it – diving headlong into battles and savagery instead, grasping at flower crowns and petals when it suited her. “Where did you get your materials?” She asked next, pondering where to start the next venture; perhaps the Oasis had some suitable wares, and then she could beg some other poor individual nearby for some assistance.

The boys’ introduction came thereafter, and she smiled at them, identical but not, certain that differing personalities trilled amidst them. “Hello boys,” and she nodded to each in turn, nearly proffering information about herself, about her twin, about the orange blossoms lost to the darker places in life. But she kept inward, tucked away, brow furrowed slightly, before smiling again, as if the sudden pang and pain couldn’t quite make it to her face.

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