MELITA
Missed and near-captures punctured the scene, the laughter buoyant, light, and ridiculous; only altering in her steadfast movements and motions when Fangorn was incapable of keeping up, suddenly victim to Harper’s muddy ministrations. She whipped around, her eyes glinting, suddenly a wild, fierce, feral thing, not to be trifled with, not for her beloved companion to be threatened. The girl was aware it was all a game, all amusement and diversions, but it was one she intended to win, to conquer, to unravel. The malevolent edges to her smirk might have been entirely savage and nefarious, wicked and disastrous, making fast, swift motion to her wrist, as if drawing back a bow – for it to materialize from her bracelet, adorned along her arms in one traced contortion to the air. “I never surrender,” she remarked, the cheekiest of grins maligning her edges, her boundaries, her fringes, mire-coated and ember-laden, reaching into her quiver for a fire-scorched arrow, notching, aiming. On a frenetic movement, Fangorn intended to make his escape and evasion, not that he would’ve cared much about the mud, already speckled and traced in its filaments. Then the girl, Cheshire and unrelenting, maneuvered her gaze straight back to the stranger. “But perhaps you should.”See I've come to burn your kingdom down
