MELITA
The arm of another was barely registered, not with persistence, pursuit, and petulance pummeled into her mind; bestial and barbaric, her staff reaching its designated denizen with great aplomb, a sinking, simmering growl layered on her teeth and tongue. It was a triumphant howl, an unleashed savage interlude into the sky; one of the sweet, sweet little roses dead, incapable of doing anything at all. She wanted the world to know, raising her weapon into the sky on an illustrious bellow – the voice curling nearby having no effect. It went deaf in her ears, ineffectual and ineffective against the drumbeats of maniacal edges and scorched sentiments, gone was the compassion, fleeting were the notes of serenity. Her name flickered once, twice, and she finally turned her head to glimpse upon Rexanna – not a stranger at all, someone known, brave, kind, and generous. Melita snarled in response, raised hackles and lips as if she were some great, ridiculous beast, instead of a girl who once dreamed of saving anyone and everyone. She dropped into a crouch, her staff still implored in her hands, lifted up again, over her head, ensuring she’d strike. “Get away from me,” she hissed, an untamed insinuation. It might’ve been a warning, an omen, a clear distinction that the honeybee child wasn’t well, and the Penumbra should leave before she became wounded, or one more indication that the roses and destruction were the only thing on the youth’s mind – rattled, addled, and chained to irreverent pieces and unholy vehemence.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
