to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
Absorbed in the puddles, in the arc of waves undulating along its surface, she hadn’t noticed Loren’s approach until the familiar grating of his voice sparked and snapped over her ears; and the age-old, feral reflexes scorched along her skin. The summoner had the uncanny ability to bristle over her nerves and bring out the worst in her: the vicious temper, the ferocious abyss, the wild, savage tenacity and tendencies. Perhaps the only other who’d ever managed to cause such a reign of chaos was Kiada, and lumping them together was likely an insult to both. At least her and Kiada’s hatred for one another had history, had bite, had weight; the honeybee girl and Loren’s choking vitriol seemed to rise from misunderstandings and stupidity.
Fangorn glanced at her nervously as her head whipped up to regard him – struggling to decipher how she should respond. A great portion of her leaned towards menace, out of habit, out of the last intervals they’d meandered through. He reminded her of some annoying little wasp that came and went as it pleased, buzzing around unpleasantly, stinging because it could, before wandering off to some other place to irritate. The words surrounding her mouth and tongue were equally unpleasant, and the defiant slant to her chin, to her nose, slunk around her movements. The vampire gourd traced a sigh, eerie stare rummaging from her to Loren, to Astra, looking for an ally in the pending doom.
So she stifled down the mood, for now, attempting to do something other than growl, hiss, or snap. “Are they supposed to signify something?” Her eyes went towards the puddle again, not bothering to gauge his reaction, tilting her cranium a fraction as more images seemed to flow: like ignition, like smoke, like incendiary pieces, billows of ash and fire streamlined from its sanction.
Fangorn glanced at her nervously as her head whipped up to regard him – struggling to decipher how she should respond. A great portion of her leaned towards menace, out of habit, out of the last intervals they’d meandered through. He reminded her of some annoying little wasp that came and went as it pleased, buzzing around unpleasantly, stinging because it could, before wandering off to some other place to irritate. The words surrounding her mouth and tongue were equally unpleasant, and the defiant slant to her chin, to her nose, slunk around her movements. The vampire gourd traced a sigh, eerie stare rummaging from her to Loren, to Astra, looking for an ally in the pending doom.
So she stifled down the mood, for now, attempting to do something other than growl, hiss, or snap. “Are they supposed to signify something?” Her eyes went towards the puddle again, not bothering to gauge his reaction, tilting her cranium a fraction as more images seemed to flow: like ignition, like smoke, like incendiary pieces, billows of ash and fire streamlined from its sanction.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
