[se] fleet-footed

Melita

yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard

She made an adequate mess of tying her hair back, since the long crimson locks were stained and caked with mud to begin with, but with the rampant humidity it was better than nothing at all. Wrapped and knotted around, twisted along an old piece of yarn, the youth could correspond to striking movements and motions, rather than contemplating the distinct sticky, muggy atmosphere. “A dam,” she pondered, giggling a little. The honeybee imagined a bramble of sticks contorted in and amongst themselves, some half-falling, some carved off, some shorn too short. “Maybe just a hut? Recessed into…” and then she had to ponder some more, uncertain where one even put a place in a bog. “Creepy, ominous trees?” She pointed to several up ahead, distorted and tangled like knives and fingers.

As for the rest of the tales, the youth had to tilt her head again, listening to Fangorn rumble along Milo’s discernment. Leave it to a Natural to cut through fables they hadn’t heard before. “You get a big oven, and you bake your house, of course!” Like this wasn’t completely stupid. “True. I would too. And what would you do if it rained?” Soggy gingerbread didn’t sound delectable. Or very structurally sound. “But the witch used it to lure children in. To eat them.” A shrug of her shoulders and a Cheshire grin to match settled back along her mud-streaked face.

I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury