MELITA
The sun was not on her side, as it usually was, beacon and child of its surface, of its ether. The arrow arced and fell; Fangorn leaping and bounding after it again, collecting the makeshift weapons in his mouth as they plummeted and descended. Despite her miss, she could hear his crowing – either appreciation for her exploits or his own at not being hit. The youth obliged him with a smirk, before following through on her age-old methods, gearing up for another round, another volley. He offered her a reprieve from the rays skimming over her sights, but not in ways of movement. There was more of a natural rhythm to his motions, as if he were truly prey seeking to flee, out of her orbit, not yearning to be taken, snagged, or snared. She breathed, easy and smooth, as if she’d done this a hundred times before (perhaps she had), unleashing and unfurling the taut lines of her bow’s string, intending to increase her timing and precision, launching it where she imagined tufts and plumes would soon be.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
