Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
The Ark stopping at King’s End was mighty convenient, and the stirring of residual souls all the better. These figments were familiar, made her feel alive, content, more so than she’d been in weeks. Feet light and airy, effervescent rather than slinking or peeling away into the ground, barefoot and free – hastening towards Ludo’s favored wares and festive arrangements. Fangorn under her arm, the youth waved to those she recognized – especially Sah, Seren, and Maeve – before making a beeline to the food table. A few sausages tucked into her free hand, Melita ghosted along and along until she could eventually settle and hover around the lantern aspects.
Because who did she make one for now? What had occurred over this year? Who had they lost? She thought of the man with the bone creature, but refused to be downcast. It would just take some more thoughts, more concentration.
Because who did she make one for now? What had occurred over this year? Who had they lost? She thought of the man with the bone creature, but refused to be downcast. It would just take some more thoughts, more concentration.
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
