Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
At the sound of her name carried on a masculine singsong, her eyes raised up from her craftmanship, arching a brow, turning, and then finally pinpointing upon Locke. Half a snort ensued from her, shrugging her shoulders in the carefree breeze, an ease to movements and motions as she returned to the whetstone. Lifting a dagger to inspect the level of serrated edges and proportions, she indulged him. “Hi Locke,” came on a wave, and an enthusiastic smile (bordering maybe more on Cheshire, given the weaponry in her hands) following. “Just sharpening my knives.” Like any normal, rational person would do.
Considering she hadn’t seen him in a while, as she couldn’t recall him passing through during LongNight or Deepfrost in particular, she hummed another note, content to lower her head and continue striking the armaments against the rock. “What have you been up to?”
Considering she hadn’t seen him in a while, as she couldn’t recall him passing through during LongNight or Deepfrost in particular, she hummed another note, content to lower her head and continue striking the armaments against the rock. “What have you been up to?”
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
