not everything is a poem

The Honeybee

I believe in holding grudges
I'll heal in hell

She’d already snagged at her bow and arrow when another approached – and to say Melita was surprised was an understatement. Kiada hadn’t been a face she’d seen in years, and with all the hard-edged animosity, spite, and rage from lifetimes before embedded into her bones at the sight of her, for the moment, she didn’t know what to do. She’d somehow managed to survive again (surprise surprise – and with a gesture towards the horns, the demigod realized it had been one more alteration at the behest of a deity). Her eyes widened, speculative, watching and waiting not unlike a predator to see what might occur next; before opting to spread all the flare of her inherent hatred into her fingertips.

Grabbing at her quiver, notching at her arrow. It might’ve looked like a threat and the Honeybee didn’t really care. “Hunting whatever pops up,” she delivered in response, curt and blunt and still the truth. Sila landed on the railing nearby, cooing at something in the water, and her attention went towards the rush of movement and motion below.

She eventually turned the weapon away from Kiada though, pointing it towards the splashing, relinquishing an echo of the Ancient’s question. “You?”

Pay a little more attention to the healing power
of incandescent rage

Melita