MELITA
Her hands reached for the smoke ring, for the rush of fire, warm laughter chiming and singing along with her musings. They parted along – and her smile remained, the effects of disaster no longer clinging quite so heavily, quite so readily. “Maybe,” came along on a shrug, but the grin stayed, while Fangorn and Aidon went traipsing along – the gourd extending his vines again and egging the dragon on some kind of whirlwind chase down the beach.Hands clinging to granules, sifting and shifting, eyes following the bounty of musings, her head only lifted slightly at the notion of Seren, and tumbleweeds. “I haven’t! Which woods did you go to?” The jungle-laden, with its vines, with its potency, with its humid wakes that still made her want to dance within puddles and mist? Or the Greatwood, contorted and shrouded in mystery, where the Fae once granted her a gift, still residing on her ankle? “I’m sure he was grateful to you.” And bonded, swift and sure.
Her gaze scanned the ornamental divisions of searching and scouring; cockles and scallops, bonnets upon bonnets. She considered, but didn’t go for them just yet, intending to find something different in the adornments. A little more maneuvering, and her fingers hit the edges of a moon’s shell, twisted and turned, and she thought of Safrin; but this wasn’t pale enough to reach the stars.
At the mention of King’s End and gardens, the youth settled, spying over her recent acquisition. “Just some flower crowns.” Pondering, wondering, idle was her mind for a moment. “What kind of garden? Do you have some herbs?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
