Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
“My uncles are in King’s End,” she makes some half-hearted shrug; not relaying where, since that was made to be some semblance of a secret. And she can keep those – even if one of them constantly irritates her. “I think it’s beautiful, cold or not.” With fields upon fields of flowers, stone benches, mysterious archways that led to nowhere, and barrows masquerading as rolling hills. It was a place her sister, and her mother, would have relished and enjoyed. So she did so every so often, simply for them.
While she wished her story about the Ark was a trick, a joke, simply because the whole damned thing did sound like something out of a fairy tale – she laughed. “I promise, I’m not lying!” She flipped one of her knives along her fingers, until the hilt was in her palm, steady and relaxed. “Jack is apparently a Safrin man now.” That even sounded bizarre to say. “Come on, with all the things you’ve already experienced from gods, surely this isn’t out of the realm of possibilities.” And there she tilted her head, arching her brow in his direction, daring him to defy that reel of logic.
While she wished her story about the Ark was a trick, a joke, simply because the whole damned thing did sound like something out of a fairy tale – she laughed. “I promise, I’m not lying!” She flipped one of her knives along her fingers, until the hilt was in her palm, steady and relaxed. “Jack is apparently a Safrin man now.” That even sounded bizarre to say. “Come on, with all the things you’ve already experienced from gods, surely this isn’t out of the realm of possibilities.” And there she tilted her head, arching her brow in his direction, daring him to defy that reel of logic.
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
