MELITA
Melita, wobbly, a little unsteady, carried on, bending down to pick up the antlers, the gun, and eyeing the stool once more. Fangorn grumbled several vocal signs of protest, that the honeybee child instantly ignored. At the very least she was careful about the glass, not intending to cut herself open after already losing blood. A sigh rolled through her, the dizziness consuming her eyesight, her mind, as she rose back up – only to hear a yell, and a thump, right after. She swung around, stepping gingerly over the shards, and glanced behind the counter to see Quanil down on the ground, her brows furrowed, tired, listless expression swiftly changing to one of concern. “Are you all right?” Fangorn, ever faithful and stalwart, leapt and bounded across the floor, intending to follow the sights and smells of the third gourd.
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
