M E L I T A
Might polished her movements, set herself alight on the pathways and beams of the moon. She’d never been all stealth – more chaotic embraces and audacious splendor – the world always knew she was coming; but she was swift, she was quick, and she was cunning. The youth had spent her past few moments chasing down wayward vegetables, intrigued by the eerie set of their eyes at first, and then growling, hissing, and howling the next. You won’t get me, she seemed to embark and haste, bright, illustrious smile glowing from her mouth, the taste of boldness settling over her skin. These monsters were different, altered, from the Rift – lacking the fundamental cunning, the wayward, demonic splinters and strikes. Perhaps she was being led further into the labyrinth and warren, maybe it was a ploy to trap and ensnare her again, and if so, she played into its hands willingly, a caustic, emboldened grace of fire and light. Her hands grabbed ahold of one and she threw it into the air, watched it soar, watched it careen, watched it smash – and she laughed until her sides hurt, gasping for breath, eons split and rekindled since her last utterance of joy.
But then a smell wafted past her nose, and she stopped entirely, allowed a few mercurial gourds to escape, golden gaze flickering over to the fire in the distance, the scent of food careening towards her senses. Her stomach roared and rumbled in response; suddenly empty and deprived, the few berries she’d found while exploring already exhausting their abilities. She licked her lips and considered her options: rummaging further into the wood, hunting on her own in furtive, foreign areas, or wander into a stranger’s keep, hope for favor and indulgence. The gilded set of her stare crept along the intertwining glades, then back to the woman kneeling by the fire, the cooking whiff billowing back towards her again…
Living nearly entirely on impulse, the girl grabbed the nearest block of dried wood and a pumpkin headed her way, arms full of gourd and log, making her way over through shadow and the crackling glow of the blaze. “Hello!” She called out, not wishing to alarm, not yearning to present herself as a threat (she could fight, she could scald, she could maim, rip, and tear, but if it wasn’t necessary, then she didn’t have to waste the precious energy). Melita likely looked a bit haggard; dress torn along the edges, mud, dirt, and leaves twisting and tangling their way through her red curls, but the smile she wore was ebullient and ethereal, the gifts she proffered an act of beneficence. “Do you mind if I join you?”
