MELITA
The little bronze hatchling peeked out from behind tendrils of crimson, permitting a slight roar as if to sound menacing, but coming across as a tiny squeak instead. Melita snorted – presuming, eventually, the shyness would cease and the confidence would flourish. “Her name is Sila,” she preened, reaching out a free hand to scratch at the top of the fledgling’s head. Dropping the wood into the pile, the honeybee started wandering further down the beach, beginning to start another. The more bonfires, the more amusements, or so she figured with a shrug meant only for her. Fangorn provided and presided some aid, entangling his vines around a few sticks and carrying them over to the newfound distinction. “Torchline tends to use wood for bonfires. We have some nice parties on the beach.” And by that she meant get stark-raving drunk and give zero shits about the darkness. She conformed the rest of his speech with a wrinkle to her nose. "I wouldn't trust the Voice either. But you don't have to stay in the Grounds." There were plenty of other suitable places.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
