MELITA
The soft ambience floated through the wings and corridors, reminding Melita of lighter, calmer moments, not seething below potential sieges, not tempestuous, bestial storms, not the breaking of demons and mortals alike. She followed it, staff in hand like a lifeline, clutched by tightened fists, meandering down the halls because the guild was familiar and the music recalled memories and pockets of better times – before these calamities, before these torn asunder lifestyles. Fangorn bounded beside her, airy too, as if he knew and recognized the strings of harpsichord whims and rhapsody over the idle tides of melancholy and disaster – and maybe he did, born to survive when the rest of his brethren had fallen.The youth wasn’t surprised to see others gathered in the main portions, enticed and tempted by the rapture instead of the molten, infernal schism below, as if it were a lacquer, an enamel, a bounty over munitions and sedition. She nodded to Remi, to Ronin, waved to Aoife, and settled herself near Adam, by the fire, maneuvering her quiver, her staff, so they settled into her lap (always ready, always fervent, always itching below her flesh and bone). Fangorn managed to place himself amidst the weapons, eerie eyes watching Lily, as Melita tried to match with a light little hum; incapable of lyrics and stanzas with any beauty or grace.
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
