M E L I T A
Melita was suddenly at a loss without a threat looming; her breaths came easier, but her mind was abuzz with a hundred implications tracing over the air. She tilted her head, studying the stranger, the interactions between he and Rexanna, the innuendos barely outlining her thoughts and patterns, but somewhat aware she was missing something. Perhaps it wasn’t for her to know – and though she was one of the many keen creatures to pry (her childhood had been spent asking a thousand questions about anything and everything) – she settled with a handshake and smirked at Alistair’s wink. “Melita.”
Make tongues sing caused one brow to arch, and the inquiry was nearly there, right on the edges of her teeth (what did he mean – the only time her tongue had ever sang was in the midst of battle, when she howled and roared with outrageous fury, with delighted fervor, with feverish sedition), but caught unaware, distracted, deterred, when the newcomer tossed her a piece of already roasted rind. She brushed her own stick and gourd away from the fire, giving it a chance to cool off before she tasted its contents, and then fanned the former. Her lips curled together, allowed a small opening so her breath could push away the hotter edges, before biting off a chunk. She considered it for a moment, chewed thoughtfully, slowly, shrugged her shoulders over the texture, but the taste was quite effectual. “This is quite good,” she murmured, taking another piece and munching. “At least we found a use for them,” and she giggled, light, honest, and fair, before finishing off the previous piece and reaching for her own.
