MELITA
“I am!” She announced with such a semblance of pride that one might think hunting demons and monsters for a living was far greater and grander than most other occupations – though she hesitated internally. It was no longer Ronin’s, and no longer standing. The honeybee child withheld the comment threatening to sting and sink on her tongue, allowed it to meander in her membrane instead of unleashing it upon an individual who didn’t deserve it. The bright smile remained in its place, liberated from the wall of judgment and dread fortifying itself in her skull.Bastien didn’t seem to mind the use of mud and muck as a painting medium, the grin there matching and embellishing hers. “Interesting! I used my finger though. I’m afraid it would likely destroy your brushes.” Leave too many clumps, too much dirt and debris that probably wouldn’t come out no matter how many times washed. “It looks neat when it dries though!” Only to be washed away by potential rain and snow; a transient form.
She hadn’t thought of the hues matching her hair – only the fire of her old home, the crimson sands, the incandescent sun, the illustrious, vibrant wake of scorching lines and colors. “My old home – the Dragon’s Throat. It was a desert.” Her smile failed to dim, despite the heartache of the world’s absence. Better. She could be better. Humming beneath her breath and grabbing her supplies, she turned to him, utter curiosity embedded in her gilded eyes. “What’s your favorite thing to paint?”
You're all gonna watch me
Disappear into the sun
Disappear into the sun
