to be lit up from within
vein by vein
She approached, gingerly, perhaps, considering her affiliation with the Halenani itself was nonexistent (and Phoebe as the proprietor was another figment settled in the back of her mind – stems and shoots of drama), but her gilded gaze went to the boards. For Melita was more than a girl who ran into burning buildings to save pets; spitfire herself, armed to the teeth with weaponry she knew how to use, knew how to implement, knew how to wield. A hurricane, a storm, at ease with the mercurial, tempestuous eaves, a complement of disaster, ruin, and sometimes fortune.
She didn’t know Maeve either, but persisted in a greeting nonetheless. Young and spry and bounding again, she nodded from the top of the porch stairs. “I’m Melita.” Fangorn grumbled something alongside her heels, but she was already distracted by the prospect of using tools again (her excitement at swinging a hammer, or being even allowed to use a saw, sent her mind skimming and scheming). “Fairly decent. What do you need done?” Monsoon preparation could be upheld in various factions and ways.
to be the sun
MELITA
