M E L I T A
Even if Wessex hadn’t permitted to join them, not much would’ve stopped the girl. Her determination and intentions were stalwart and gutsy, someone driven by whatever means or pursuits necessary, someone who’d had a multitude of things taken from them, someone whose grasp was tight and strong, persevering despite her winsome smile and her whimsical nature. Her attention diverted to Ronin first, whom she’d apparently failed to recognize (ridiculous she thought to herself, but she’d been so caught up in the sway of poles, logs, the strength and regard for birds who erupted into flames). She bowed over her slight, bending her head and shaking it, all the ringlets pulsing with vivid fire and ease of temper. “Oh, of course! My apologies! Nice to meet you again!” Her gilded eyes flicked over him once or twice, committing his face and form solidly to memory this time – returning the shake with equal measure and gusto. When Ronin inquired about possible training, she brightened again, never down or pushed aside for long, breath quickening in the excitement, in the possibility, of gaining precision and might. The girl was drawn to all depths of danger and power; wanted it all, every ounce, in order to protect and guard what was hers – it was simplistic enough, but after her childhood, the roughened edges of youth, Melita had only become more insistent on waltzing straight into hazard and peril, defending those who couldn’t manage on their own. “I hope so!” Her smile took on an impish, devil-may-care quality, as if she’d conjured and recalled it from all the other fiends and cretins she’d met along the way.
Then, at Ronin’s inquiry, her eyes ghosted too to the sword strapped to Wessex’s back; a fine piece of craftwork, quite unlike her roughly-hewn spear. Perhaps he wanted one as well, and who could blame him – the weapon was lovely and deadly, a perfect combination for the rumors circulating around monsters, demons, and Long Nights. She tilted her head in curiosity, for she wanted to know (everything and anything; the best qualities).
Per Wessex’s suggestion, suddenly things were in Melita’s control. As the youngest, and likely most immature, though not without a fair amount of bestial, barbaric, chaotic experience, it probably wasn’t the safest, wisest measure. Moments left up to the honeybee child often ended up torn, broken, damaged, and frayed at her impetuous, impulsive tendencies, flames and daggers prospered from foolish enterprises, more bruises and wounds than truly required or necessary. Her eyes still whispered and ghosted over the bone bridge though, the width was clearly not enough for all three of them, then she pondered over strengths, nuances, those who knew about this earth and plain. If this was a test though, she’d likely failed. Fangorn rolled his enigmatic gaze around while her fingers stroked at her chin. “Well, we could have you go first,
