[se] springtime and the storm

Melita

yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard

They skipped along for a while, before halting at another source of peppermint bark, though the youth noted it was much smaller, crouching and kneeling along its ramparts. It seemed to be a bit blocked by the rest of the limbs and trees surrounding it, and had there not been a distraction, she probably would’ve persisted in ensuring it had some assistance. Even if Melita was oblivious (sometimes), her small hoard of companions ensured other things didn’t go unnoticed.

Like a stranger staring at them.

For a moment, all three of them went stock still. Fangorn and his vines drooped. Sila sauntered behind the Honeybee’s vast curtain of long, crimson locks. Melita pondered over the range of weapons within her bag and along her bracelet, wondering if there would be a need to unfurl and rampage.

Instead, perhaps in some manner of growth, she rose back from her crouch, and didn’t immediately launch into an explosive, prickly tirade. Maintaining her distance, her eyes narrowed in speculation, and maybe a mode of danger; emboldened caution. “Hello,” she prompted, instead of offering a provocation (got a problem? had stuttered across her tongue more than once).

I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury