Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
It was in this moment Melita deigned to fade into the crowd. Unlike the Crimson Cataract, it seemed, for it was blood, not lichen, that rippled and churned, that mauled and wounded and laced the water. She blinked steadily, eyes searching the prone form for some semblance of recognition, but her brain, her memories, compiled nothing.
Not unlike all those animals in Torchline.
Was it coming for people now? “Why does this keep happening?” went aloud, rendered without much thought, shuddering down into her spine and clicking over her feet. What was the cause, the reasoning, the logic – if any at all?
Not unlike all those animals in Torchline.
Was it coming for people now? “Why does this keep happening?” went aloud, rendered without much thought, shuddering down into her spine and clicking over her feet. What was the cause, the reasoning, the logic – if any at all?
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
