MELITA
Instincts, savage, untamed, and unhinged, wild and wild and wild, particles of disease and illness spread through her like an inferno. What fire she’d always held had now been used against her, conforming to conflagrations and embers, cinders and ashes, built to an inferno on blighted kindling and stoked machinations – inherent bloodshed building into her heart. She launched into the woods, leaving Fangorn behind again, as if there was no bond at all (and gods love him, the little vampire gourd chased after her into the night to try and keep her safe – but it was no use, no use, when she didn’t listen to his hisses and growls and cries). Inside her heart and lungs were naught but the pulse, the persistence, the pervading essence of hatred and vehemence, bending and bounding towards the Mathair.And there, in between roots and fortifications, where Melita once made baskets with Amalia and talked of becoming little monsters, she was one, but so out of her own elements and control, it scarcely mattered. She growled and sniffed the air, eyes searching for what her compulsion and intuition told her existed in these clutches: roses, planted somewhere, in the breadth and width of this anointed, consecrated grove, already blighted and darkened in its own way.
She was here to destroy.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
