Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Coming home held different connotations this time.
It was still cold, still harsh, still brisk, and she had tucked herself quietly into the modest fur coat she’d snagged in Halo, thoughts rambling upon the latest adventure. What should’ve been something awe-inspiring, between relic snagging and rock giant spying, desecrating, and the Falling actually being somewhat alive…
Her eyes flickered towards her house, and she permitted Sila’s tail to curl around her shoulder a little tighter.
Fangorn followed along as they reached the scale of Apopo, her mind wandering while her feet traversed. Her muscles knew the paths anyway, even if they were occasionally lined in ice, rime, and pockets of snow now, and while her breath plumed out in front of her, she caught a glimpse of another.
Her brow furrowed, spine straightening, wondering if she needed to reach for her weapons by instinct alone, but the fellowship of crimson hair worked out the possibilities and parameters before her hands snagged over bow or staff. “Evie?” Was an inquiry out over the wind – her head tilted vaguely, own locks taken along by the breeze.
It was still cold, still harsh, still brisk, and she had tucked herself quietly into the modest fur coat she’d snagged in Halo, thoughts rambling upon the latest adventure. What should’ve been something awe-inspiring, between relic snagging and rock giant spying, desecrating, and the Falling actually being somewhat alive…
Her eyes flickered towards her house, and she permitted Sila’s tail to curl around her shoulder a little tighter.
Fangorn followed along as they reached the scale of Apopo, her mind wandering while her feet traversed. Her muscles knew the paths anyway, even if they were occasionally lined in ice, rime, and pockets of snow now, and while her breath plumed out in front of her, she caught a glimpse of another.
Her brow furrowed, spine straightening, wondering if she needed to reach for her weapons by instinct alone, but the fellowship of crimson hair worked out the possibilities and parameters before her hands snagged over bow or staff. “Evie?” Was an inquiry out over the wind – her head tilted vaguely, own locks taken along by the breeze.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
