MELITA
Melita fought off an eyeroll at the first answer – not a response at all really, but a sidestep, a way to condescend. She ignored it, allowed it to bristle off, but she was no closer to an actual Wicker Woman or completing her quest. Her hand was refused, which she should’ve expected, given the cold, chilling vibes, but her spirit wasn’t maligned or shifted, still remaining, pivotal and bright, a blistering, simmering thing, christened from the sun, the sands, the dunes rising across her toes. Not much could dissuade her. She didn’t expect the swift movement or motion, reminding her of snakes, of asps in the grass, or the sable fur, the predatory talons curling and unfurling from fingertips, stretching, imploring, as if she would suddenly be lacerated and lanced by those claws, shredded, mauled. But then it didn’t happen – in the blink of an eye, there was only normalcy, her elbow clasped, a curt smile from a warrior christened on the woman’s face. “That was so cool,” she whispered, in obvious, beatific awe, thinking about asking the chieftess to do it again just so she could watch the ripple of animalistic power and prowess – thought better of it seconds later. Then Melita went to do the same, but deficient in the fundamental, carnivorous exploits – lacking claws or talons, but ardent, zealous, fervent, and dangerous in her own right all the same. “Pleased to meet you, Delah.” Which wasn’t a lie – her eyes were rounded, wide, bewildered, but intrigued, curious, and amiable too, listening at the bark of her laugh, at her chuckle upon Ludo’s request.
Had Ludo been sending her to her doom? Jigano had told her of its trickery. Perhaps her naivete had made her believe the deity was only kind and beneficent, taking her mere shells and inspiring her down this road to recover her cracked, splintered staff – face hidden by masks. A sudden chill fell over her, features blanking; a maddening fear closing over her mind as she remembered, recalled, the way their world had fallen apart, lured and beguiled by false paragons and deities, how’d she sworn not to follow her forefathers in their foolish games and quests –
She swallowed down the ravenous bile burning down her throat. “Oh,” was a whisper, brows furrowed, eyes suddenly not on the chieftess or canopies at all, but the ground, as if that was the only place her stare was worthy. She shook her head, impulse and impetuousness driving her onward, to here, to here, to here, and then nowhere else – no information, no knowledge, no sagacity, just boundless, emboldened, stupid hope. “No. I didn’t. I just thought – “ but she hadn’t thought, which was her usual problem. Not her lack of precision. Not her strength. Not her fortitude. But her blinded ineptitude, audacious, and avaricious persistence. She folded her arms, tucked them against herself, and felt Fangorn brush against her ankles.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
