Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
For once, Fangorn didn’t agree to be held by the youth as she offered, extending out her muck-covered arms. Content to rumble and grumble along the embankments, the vampire gourd hissed, turning along to follow at Milo’s suggestion. Melita shrugged, shouldering her bag once more, eyes taking to the rest of the horizon, the scenery, gazing out and imagining the snakes running rampant amongst and amidst the other named creatures. “Sure.” Any direction seemed plausible; it was just unfortunate they hadn’t run into anything that might herald an actual pinpoint. A location. She probably should’ve pressed and asked Aurelia for more details.
Humming under her breath, the sun beginning to cake and dry the mud along her – now some blatantly sticking and holding fast to her hair, she began to weave and ponder prospects. “What do you think a swamp witch lives in?” The middle of a mire, deep in a bog? In a hollowed out log? In some sunken in cave? A ruin, an old tarnished remnant of years gone by? The speculations went wilder and wilder, until she was laughing at herself. “My mom told me a story once of a witch that lived in a gingerbread house. And some with huts standing on chicken legs.”
Humming under her breath, the sun beginning to cake and dry the mud along her – now some blatantly sticking and holding fast to her hair, she began to weave and ponder prospects. “What do you think a swamp witch lives in?” The middle of a mire, deep in a bog? In a hollowed out log? In some sunken in cave? A ruin, an old tarnished remnant of years gone by? The speculations went wilder and wilder, until she was laughing at herself. “My mom told me a story once of a witch that lived in a gingerbread house. And some with huts standing on chicken legs.”
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
