MELITA
Today it was the staff in her hands, journeying back to the training grounds instead of dancing and savagely stepping through the woods; wild and chaotic, becoming one with the nettles and brambles. Instead of basking beneath leaves and boughs, she’d brought forward one of the human-looking targets (slightly reassembled, restitched, as if it’d already been through a series of hardships), eager to maul and manifest. She’d been slightly irritated with her lack of proper performance during the Capture the Flag game (which was ridiculous in hindsight, when hours later everything had succumbed to monster ministrations, upheavals, and death), and intended to gain more prowess, more potential, more pernicious wakes. Had it been something to relish, listening to Kiada scream and snarl? She’d be lying if she said no.
Fangorn had wandered somewhere along the sunbeams, and Melita invested her full attention into her movements. Quiet, swift, instead of what used to be – demonstrative and impulsive, giving herself away well before she’d actually instigated an attack – flipping the staff over and over in her hand, until she pinpointed a segment of the target’s limb, slashing and cutting it a swift ascension towards the stuffed ramparts.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
