M E L I T A
Melita likely didn’t have a fair way of assessing evenings and whether they were blessed or not; her series of circumstances and experiences held aloft to demonic, monstrous intervals, skulking in shadows, or proceeding into the next brutal riot, seething and seizing, waiting to see who would have to bludgeon who, which beloved kin would be spurned or scorned next. She was content with this one, not disturbed by the proceedings of stabbing strange, eerie pumpkins or chatting beside a total stranger: she hummed under her breath as she turned the gourd over and over again, listening to the rind spit and crackle. The pleasantries and camaraderie was a familiar accord; in the Rift, one was either friend or foe, and matters were usually dealt with clasped hands or broken bonds. Rexanna appeared warm, gentle, and amiable, so the honeybee youth thought nothing of sharing these moments together – had no reason to howl in the moonlight, to strike and assail, to wound and fight, to brutalize and protect. “You’re welcome,” she laughed, then turned towards her cooking food, eyeing it and praying it was nearly ready. “What do you think-“, but her voice was cut off by a chuckle as Rexanna’s chosen vegetable suffered the throngs of the fire, and the sudden sizzle, snap, of an arrow flying between them.
Impulsive and impetuous, she was a swift, ignited frenzy, honed by years spent upon the threshold of fiends and monsters, rising and raising her pumpkin stick as if it were a spear, eyes narrowed, body framed and fervent for the fray. Her eyes caught the intended victim, and then the figure threading its way through them – her mind was a blistering beast, sparking a million different thoughts and motions, hand tightening over her makeshift weapon, and had the other not said anything, not offered apologies or understandings, she would’ve been a fury, a menace…
She swallowed and breathed instead, felt her heart flicker in its ferocious accord, masked stranger removing his veil to claim his target and aim. The smell had drawn him in, just like she, and the sudden edges of her savagery felt blunt, keen, and asinine; ineptitude crawling over cheeks with a flush. The girl sat back down and balanced her pumpkin back over the flames as if nothing were the matter – she should’ve known something else was lurking, followed the siren scents and aromas of food, been capable of stopping it before it even happened. Idiot her mind chuffed, and she struggled to set the smile back along her face towards the newcomer. He was traced in shadow; portions and pieces of him set alight by the hallows of fire, and her grin maintained its usual regard as seconds ticked by, as she breathed easier, as she fought against her own flaws and defects, hands slightly shaking, the stick trembling on its pivoting lines. “Thank you,” was stoked by her ambience, head nodding towards the hunted cretin, other hand outstretched towards pieces of ground and flames not already occupied. “By all means!”
