MELITA
Were Nathaniel to ask or even exclaim those notions, Melita would’ve informed him that she didn’t think it was a shame at all – content to have company, to be in his amity. Her eyes scanned him while he shook his head, no information prospered on this Peter fellow; but the youth didn’t frown, didn’t warrant any sense of disappointment. It wasn’t his fault; mostly hers, really, to be ignorant of people and faces she should’ve known, should’ve met, should’ve acknowledged instead of bounding along with nothing but the sun on her fire or the clouds in her horizon.But Nathaniel did give her something to work with, and the rapacious, greedy conflagration within her snagged and took whatever she could grasp. “Smaller than you,” she mused thereafter, gaze scrutinizing again – as if it truly mattered, both of them knowing full well this sweater was going to come out looking like a disaster. If this poor Peter person was the least bit fortunate (and he already wasn’t, since he received her as a gift granter), it might come out formed like a singular sock or hat. “I could try!” The girl chirped, gliding a piece of yarn up against one of his arms, looking like she was taking measurements, tongue sticking out in concentration and idiocy. It was what she always did: try, attempt, strive, a thunderous amount of determination molded and melded from within, even if there wasn't a hope or prayer in the same sanction. Humming under her breath, gliding on pretenses, ignorance, and blatant stupidity (might as well own it now), she prospered inquiries and divinations. “What have you been up to?”
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
