MELITA
He avoided the question, and she only arched a brow at the implications of the unknown, saying nothing else about it. If he craved to hide the ruminations and intonations, far be it from her to continue prying, especially when she could’ve always done the same (clench her jaw, bite down on her tongue, rage and rage and rage). “Nice to see you too,” she gave in response, warm and beneficent, content to be in the stretch of sun, out of LongNight’s torrent, out of the blight’s touch. Eventually summer would fold over and she’d be able to catch synapses and lacquer that reminded her of the Dragon’s Throat, the resounding, ricocheting, wondrous rays kissing over skin. But then there were more inquiries about her current task, the laughter there, present, ready to buoy and burst; she giggled, a burst of humor and enthusiasm despite the obvious circumstances. “I signed up for the gift exchange. The person I picked requested a sweater.” Which was unfortunate for them that it’d been her hand choosing their name and wish; if they were truly lucky it might be formed into the semblance of a single sock before the end. She shook her head at his query though, another round of laughter. “No – how can you tell?” A wink, inspired and incited by her own failures, instead of sputtering around in the dirt and leftover rime – perhaps it was ridiculous, but pouting in these spirals and events didn’t seem necessary. “Oh? Did you pick up any of her skills?” She held up her knotted accordion of yarn, needles, and anything else that had been gathered along the way (some portions of leaves, maybe, some grime, hard to tell). Her mother might’ve taught her to knit, had she been around, had she been alive – but those were deviations for another day.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
