to be lit up from within
vein by vein
Fangorn did accept scratches, leaning into Amalia’s gentle ministrations with a welcoming grumble and hiss. Melita listened, addressing Samuel with a nod, pondering over his appearance here too, but welcoming and genuine just the same, her smile peeking through the cluster of apprehension nestling within. Since the plan was to try, she allowed Fangorn down upon the ground while Amalia seemed to summon them. Her last bout had been with the Punking, full of blight, and otherwise she had made a point not to harm any of the gourds, since her companion was one, and it felt wrong, somehow.
Then they came – some larger, some malevolent, some materializing with the familiar rumbling. Fangorn inched towards them, sibilances carrying through the haze as if he were conversing, attempting to make some sort of peace between the group. Melita missed the Fae’s insinuations from nearby (perhaps best, when they were supposed to be remaining calm), and instead, kneeled, closer down to the ground, staff in hand.
Her own vampire gourd began translating their nuances, Amalia following suit, and a subtle sigh swept through her.
Because she had been part of killing that said queen and mother.
Her jaw clenched, knuckles white across the wooden portions of her weapon. “Leave us alone, we want the same,” she whispered. “Aren’t you tired of this game?”
--
Fangorn attempts to be a peacekeeper. Melita readies her staff and uses a rhyme.
to be the sun
MELITA
