MELITA
The gun formed by sticks was only a subtle outline, and she stared at it as she raised it to see better in the light, pondering how she could fill it in. Maybe some pine cones? Or pieces of dried grass, leaves? The inquiry settling over her, distracting, so that her eyes aligned back to them. “By hand. I don’t have magic.” Or shifting. Though she’d take the ability to summon a god anytime; not allowing her voice to hold any envy or jealousy – long since accepted that she hadn’t been granted those particular gifts. She’d simply learned to foster her own capabilities with strength, precision, and headstrong, ruthless, reckless contortions. “Do you have any?” Perhaps they were one of the many with those spans and strains; endlessly curious of what others could come up with and form.As for her materials being used? “Absolutely. Go ahead.” She’d rather see them utilized, and not just by her roughened, less-than-artistic hands.
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
