a eulogy for roads untraveled

Melita

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

Melita furrowed her brows deeper, into they were glowering things, glaring at the sand; forgetting, quite often, to mask her emotions. “Family stuff is a bit strained at the moment.” Maybe just for her; it was hard to tell, with how often she ducked in and out of the house eaves, striving not to be caught by another one, and unwinding elsewhere. Sometimes she concocted those mannerisms simply because she didn’t want to know anymore – what situation had prevailed over the others, who had returned to who, which individual still permitted everything to happen, which didn’t know what a god damned boundary was. It usually ended with her snapping, emerging frustrated for another party, and then left to her own devices anyway.

So she shrugged it off and let it fade, die, into the opus and oeuvre of the waters and dunes, rather than continuing to reflect on the people who made up her life. At least the image of Stormbreak was a little better than what she’d pictured (obviously filaments of rock and…maybe a break in them). “Ah. So quite a bit different from here,” and she laughed; piety not a prevailing suit in Torchline. Under cloaks and daggers, maybe, but everything seemed to be a melding point, with no strong tethers anywhere, save for her uncle.

The Celestine sounded wonderful though. Animals. Twilight gardens. And the Falling, with geysers and cliffs. Maybe the sea connected along there. The youth tilted her head a fraction. “Do they have anything to represent Ludo?”

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