MELITA
The honeybee girl knew danger, sometimes relished its treacherous expanse, its scalding eternity, no world entirely safe from its heathen, fiendish craft. A voice caught at her senses and entangled, implored, her to look, and while Fangorn hissed, Melita’s eyes met the encroaching, ominous beacon. Then she smiled.
“Oh – where could I find one then?” Her smile was bright and uplifting, as if she didn’t stare upon a warrior clad in her crafter armor, in her hatred, in her venom, in her vitriol – all predator while Melita should’ve been the prey. Instead, she was impossibly incandescent and bold, audacious still despite the scorn sent her way. How many times had she gazed upon fire and poison, and never turned away? It wasn’t going to happen now – not when she’d come this far. Misguided. Perhaps she was. Simply looking to take. In a sense, yes. There was no lie there, hidden amidst the brush – forthright and voracious, and she shrugged, glancing back at the trees. Then she twisted back to Delah, a hand proffered, introductions extended even if the woman wanted little to do with her. “I’m Melita.” And since she wasn’t wanted here (a common malady the girl had frequently faced – down in the Rift’s crypts, blistering, scalding, and seething her way to safety; you won’t scare me settling upon her defiant, amicable features). “Ludo asked me to find the sap of a Wicker Woman.” Her smile turned somewhat sheepish, as if she were apologetic for stumbling and bumbling her way in. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be bothering anyone here.”
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
