Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
Beneath the lush blaze of spring, with a hum and light, nymph-like movements, the youth had scoured for a few more rocks for future gifts, but otherwise, tended to her own means and measures along the prismatic embankment. While Fangorn meandered along long reeds and grasses, fumbling around for insects brave enough to forge along the warm patches of water, she reached into her bag. Rarely doing anything quiet, rifling through its contents, she snarled at herself. ”Where is it…”
Eventually, the youth procured what she was looking for, with a vicious curl of her mouth, as if she’d triumphed over the inanimate object. “Aha, got you!” With a little screech a triumph, she snagged at the whetstone, then procured an assemblage of her throwing knives (for she always knew where those were). Settling herself along a rock, items all scattered amongst her, she began to sharpen the daggers in turn, ensuring their serrated presences remained so – and all the better for her vehement, violent, manners.
Eventually, the youth procured what she was looking for, with a vicious curl of her mouth, as if she’d triumphed over the inanimate object. “Aha, got you!” With a little screech a triumph, she snagged at the whetstone, then procured an assemblage of her throwing knives (for she always knew where those were). Settling herself along a rock, items all scattered amongst her, she began to sharpen the daggers in turn, ensuring their serrated presences remained so – and all the better for her vehement, violent, manners.
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
