MELITA
She fought the urge to not jump out of her skin as the mud maneuvered, made noises, became human. Instead, the blood within her veins bounded and leapt, accord with adrenaline, with living, breathing, beating pulses, fingers and hands trembling for a weapon when it wasn’t necessary. Her breath came out in quickened inhales, nares flaring for an instant – before reality sunk in, and that this was some other eldritch thing, but not coming to smother or condemn her. Still, she held Fangorn a little tighter. The vague comment was enough to pull her out of the startled adornments and containments, swallowing down the vestiges of fear and trepidation. Memory mud – dangerous? She hadn’t seen it yet, but then again, she’d only played and taunted and planted; recalling its cousin draped in monstrous snow. Curiosity remained entangled, unleashed. “Oh?” A genuine smile appeared along her face, a tilt to her head, fingers running along the vampire gourd’s skin; a growl, a rumble in reply, even though she was talking to someone encased, draped, and smothered in muck. “What can it do?”
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
