MELITA
The crack upon the Ascended hybrid caused the most illustrious smile to bloom across the girl’s features. In another time, in another place, it would’ve been just as magnificent and spellbinding as all her other manifested grins; this one, however, with the blight’s essence, seemed contorted in malice and menace, an eerie, enigmatic interplay of emotions. The fact that she’d been successful was a measure of her disheveled decrees, immersed and entangled with so much brutality that the rest of Melita seemed completely marred and ruined. She could hear Rexanna’s admonishments, the incoming lectures, but she didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care, shaking her head from side to side, bounding along interwoven roots, scaling and leaping across the top of the Mathair’s fortifications, intending to use it as a launching pad. “Why? What're you going to do to stop me?” The youth sneered, the smile turning into a wild, savage, untamed, feral thing, Except suddenly one of the Penumbra’s hands was on her staff, and the youth pulled, tug, bracing against wood and fibers, and cursed some foul notion beneath her breath. “Fok jou,” fumbled through her brain and along a hiss, memories sparking and sizzling from days long since gone – hardly noticing the rose in the woman’s grasp until it was too late.
A thorn grazed her skin, piercing and puncturing, and just like before, when Loren had slashed into her flesh, portions of the Stygian pestilence drained away from her features, and she was suddenly breathless, consumed, exhausted, standing on top of roots with her staff in hand and shock written on her face. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.” Because that was all she could say nowadays, her eyes flickering over to Rexanna, horrified by what she’d done, by her lack of control again.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
