M E L I T A
Fangorn was a constant source of curiosity. Melita wasn’t surprised, really, when seasons ago the rest of the world, herself included, had done all they could to eliminate and exterminate the pesky vampire gourds. She’d used some as target practice deluges, as games, as entertainment and diversions, the same as everyone else. Perhaps that made her a hypocrite then, to have once kneeled in front of the pumpkin on her shoulder, proffering meat and hospitality when she’d cruelly diminished his brethren. But he’d been quicker, clever, and wittier than all the rest, capable of hiding and blending into his surroundings while the rest of them were scorched, maimed, or eaten. In a show of faith, atonement, those unsettling convictions often contorted in her mind, she’d taken him under wing, into her shelter, and bonded with the little, fanged demon. Maybe he simply reminded her of herself; lost, wayward, and persistent, enduring every hardship cast their way. Onslaught after onslaught, they persevered. So when Vervain asked, her smile was radiant and obliging again, one hand scratching at the top of the gourd’s head. “Yes! This is Fangorn.” The living vegetable hissed in return, eerie eyes swinging back towards the witch’s stare. “I found him towards the end of the season. He’d been among the few to survive.”
In regards to their motivations though, Melita was about the same. “I was restless,” she shrugged, because a multitude of death and damnation had found its way into their shards during LongNight, and she wasn’t going to proffer anything to relieve it on any of their accounts. The only offer she made at all was to continue their wandering, their meandering, on the thick bed of moss and brambles. “I can keep walking with you, if you’d like.” Perhaps Vai wouldn’t take it, craving to be left on her own, and they could go their separate ways – but Melita appreciated her company, craved more of her insight.
