M E L I T A
She should’ve known better, she should’ve learned something from the ways of the Rift, from the blinding, sinking talons, from the merciless weight of a shadow’s gaze, from the way corruption simmered and smoldered across flesh and bone. Instead, she bent herself towards ferocity, became riveted by its dangerous elements, by its scabbard intricacies, by lending her soul to its bombardments and munitions.
But this was truly a game, one she’d never played, one she’d never even seen. These notions didn’t exactly stop her – the solid, determined set of her eyes wandered from Wessex to the other stranger, watching as he attempted to take part in the diversion. Her study was quick, swift, wondered if she used more power, more control (a joke; Melita was probably the living, breathing embodiment of impulsive, irrational actions), then she could topple a few more (all) of the sticks. “Fair enough,” she stated, accepting the terms, grabbing a firmer hold of the pumpkin in her grasp, wandering closer and closer to the marks, towards the sticks, closing her mouth and inhaling, exhaling, smoothly from her nose. This is nothing, she chanted to herself, as if she were back on the battlefield, maneuvering through the shadows, hunting before she became the hunted. You can do this was a repeated mantra, and they went in cycles, blending together until she thought they could be truth.
“Thank you!” She spoke to the man as he reset the sticks, waited for him to move out of the way, and in one last breath, she lowered the pumpkin, and hurled it with a vicious might. The honeybee child had always been a little feral, a little potent, but in this case, she required precision, strength, and domination; defects she’d rather not voice aloud. The vegetable managed to roll haphazardly along the lane, crashing into four of the sticks, before bounding into the tall grass. Not enough.
