Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
It could’ve been guilt. It could’ve been the raw, biting memories. It could’ve been anything, given her impetuous designs – but she watched as the moment passed through, as Maea’s features suddenly altered to surprise than another bizarre encounter on her train ride of avoidance. Melita presumed there’d either be a refusal, nothing at all, and they’d part, naught more to it. The acceptance caused the slightest rise of her brow, and then they fell back into place.
Her eyes didn’t leave Maea’s movements as the wraith-like creature maneuvered along the beach, scouring for potential. Melita offered very little in the quick glances, steeling herself, molding and conforming those ember-spun proportions, her teeth gnashing together. Fangorn grumbled low, and the honeybee didn’t know what to say.
When the other woman returned, with some pliable wood, Melita simply nodded. “That could work,” and she set to task, taking the stick and hastening it to something instrumental. Much like in days of the Rift, her hands implemented and shorn, bending, applying pressure to the filaments without breaking them, well-practiced and versed in the art of shifting simplicity into something menacing. It likely wouldn’t last; but in the end, between her proportions, bitterness, and efforts, the bow was designed: modest, in comparison to the one she always utilized. Then she snagged string from her bag, and tied it along, completing it with a strand. “Here.”
In demonstration, she lengthened her form into a shift, drawing her arm across her bracelet, waiting for the bow to spring into her hold. “Draw it back like this,” and she performed the motion with ease, stare narrowing to immediately scrutinize Maea’s abilities.
Her eyes didn’t leave Maea’s movements as the wraith-like creature maneuvered along the beach, scouring for potential. Melita offered very little in the quick glances, steeling herself, molding and conforming those ember-spun proportions, her teeth gnashing together. Fangorn grumbled low, and the honeybee didn’t know what to say.
When the other woman returned, with some pliable wood, Melita simply nodded. “That could work,” and she set to task, taking the stick and hastening it to something instrumental. Much like in days of the Rift, her hands implemented and shorn, bending, applying pressure to the filaments without breaking them, well-practiced and versed in the art of shifting simplicity into something menacing. It likely wouldn’t last; but in the end, between her proportions, bitterness, and efforts, the bow was designed: modest, in comparison to the one she always utilized. Then she snagged string from her bag, and tied it along, completing it with a strand. “Here.”
In demonstration, she lengthened her form into a shift, drawing her arm across her bracelet, waiting for the bow to spring into her hold. “Draw it back like this,” and she performed the motion with ease, stare narrowing to immediately scrutinize Maea’s abilities.
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
