Training We mean it, but I promise we're not mean
Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 1 - Strg: 62 - Dext: 63 - Endr: 63 - Luck: 62 - Int:
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 2,936 | Total: 10,868
MP: 6754
#13
MELITA
It was all childish: tempestuous storms built up behind her brows, a mercurial, cantankerous edge glorified into her rage, her redemption, her wrath, her fire and venom. It even feels victorious as Kiada tugged and strived to rid Melita of her staff, and it doesn’t go, it doesn’t break, it stays within her hands even though she was crashed into the floor, even though all she’d done was growl into the darkness, even though she was becoming a bitter, rancorous little heathen. She couldn’t even help the undignified smirk crossing along her lips, watching even as the Harpy grabbed hold of her staff again, found it in the shadows, just how she’d always seemed to live. It didn’t surprise Melita at all: it was how Kiada orchestrated plans and deceits, how she followed the reign of Kisamoa and his sickening assurances, her ghastly pledges, their quest, their search, for power and prowess over the agonizing, anguished people.

She wanted to bring her staff down along the girl’s skull just to hear the satisfying sound. Just to feel the weight of it. Just to watch the world burn in her sights. Just so she could say that vengeance had been hers, for those scarce, few seconds.

She didn’t think about how her mother would’ve been disappointed in her triumphant, agonizing haze. She didn’t think about her sister would’ve shaken her head, begged, and pleaded for her to stop.

Her gilded gaze watched as Kiada lay nearby, splayed out. She could finish her right then and there. It would be a beautiful moment. She’d remember it for the rest of her life.

Fangorn hissed and something in her snapped. She rolled off onto her side, hissed at the feral pain, the court of exhaustion, the weight of fatigue suddenly settling into her limbs. Only when she rose from the ground, striving not to show, not for her enemy to see how the brutality scarred her, how the tangents had blistered upon her too. Instead, the youth wiped her sleeve against her face, beat away the salt, the sweat, clinging to her brow, and growled. “Have you had enough?”
See I've come to burn your kingdom down


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RE: We mean it, but I promise we're not mean - by Melita - 07-14-2019, 12:41 AM

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