MELITA
Blessings, perhaps; since the poor gourd had been under their scrutiny lately. At least this one, manners aside, didn’t immediately launch and try to fling Fangorn off into the sands. By way of invitation, since the dragon hadn’t suddenly assaulted him, the pumpkin unleashed some of his vines, trailing them outward in an entanglement of amiability, like that of a handshake, waving them around in subtle, feral greetings. “What do you call him?” Melita piped up while she watched, still a little apt to guard her beloved bonded.Her attention went briefly to Maeve thereafter, narrowed eyes flickering in between human and companion, fingers catching over the serrated shell for a moment. “A black conch,” she murmured in echo. Perhaps that made sense.
She ducked down once more, uncertain what else to say or do, and placed the artifact in her bag, amongst and amidst the other treasures in her hold. The crouch kept her near Fangorn, so that she might lunge if she had to, and occupied her hands with the sand tilling between digits, digging thoughtfully, humming a little under her breath. “I like any of them – the more color, the better.”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
