Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
Her eyes glimpsed over the saw, the strength and accord going into removing the horn, and while she wouldn’t normally shy away from something that required brute strength, the youth was probably better off removing feathers. She thought she might get in his way, otherwise. Experience with the Hels, and any other hunting of fowl, had helped her in those foundations, and she took a bucket, placing it by her feet, hands getting to work. Steadily pulling, twisting, turning, and then placing the feathers within the container became a routine, certain and sure, and then she could comfortably listen, respond, without forethought towards her task. “Oh, hm.” Maybe her mother would’ve known, had she been a Natural in these parts, capable of so many great, illustrious things, memories of herbs hanging along windowsills, of labels, of names sprung near sprigs, petals, and stalks of green. “How is he going to find out?” Experiments? Trials? Some either fortune or unfortunate patients? How had anyone discovered medicinal qualities and properties?
But then she had no other inquiries for him, and started to work in silence, in recollections, in days of a wild youth that had only altered in statuses of loss. And that wasn’t fair for him to be immersed or embedded within, so Melita kept it entirely silent, while Fangorn remained back in their designated room, trying out the newfound nest.
But then she had no other inquiries for him, and started to work in silence, in recollections, in days of a wild youth that had only altered in statuses of loss. And that wasn’t fair for him to be immersed or embedded within, so Melita kept it entirely silent, while Fangorn remained back in their designated room, trying out the newfound nest.
Melita
