M E L I T A
Wessex’s innovations in amusement, and grand use of the gourds, had inspired Melita to come up with her own game. The youthful sprite had skirted her way down the field, humming with a few pumpkins under her arm as she scouted out a playing area. An idea had sprouted in her head as she wandered, reminded of days spent training, which had been haphazard and slightly inept at best, but encouraged a means to practice precision. She’d never quite bested it, more prone to impulse and action, to barrages and swift, sudden motions, but there was no harm in bringing it back into the fold, especially with so many potential victims.
When she’d found a clearer spot, flatter, not rolling down a hill or cascading into a stream, the girl settled herself into a makeshift plan. Hands on her hips, her gaze swept over the valley, and spied a few objects that could serve her purpose. Before long, she’d managed to gather a few rocks, sticks, and leaf litter. Targets, she smiled and beamed, before putting herself to the test.
She lined them up by varying distances – the pile of leaves being the closest, the small stone in the middle, and the stick the farthest and most difficult – hard to hit by its narrow existence alone. Then the girl snagged a pumpkin that had strayed too close, clearly curious by her endeavors, and backed away.
Melita eyed the leaves first, trying to match up how far she’d have to throw, how much she’d have to push. She envisioned the red, brown, and yellow hues blending together to become an enemy – some dastardly demon, some fiendish monster, and grinned. The wind whistled behind her, encouraged her rally, and she launched the gourd, listening to it fly through the air and land in the back portion of curled, withering fronds. “Excellent,” she proclaimed, and set about grabbing another pumpkin for the stone’s assault.
