Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
Half a season gone and so too had the governmental structure she’d known for what felt like lifetimes – even when it hadn’t been – and while Torchline had been recognized for its turmoil, it wasn’t often in the switching of leadership. And for a few moments, Melita wasn’t really sure what to do or how to go about something she’d promised before she left. Her uncle had been one thing, and this a whole other multitude she hadn’t expected.
So she sent along a note and busied herself – taking great measures along the beach to scout out a fairly accessible area, but scattering anyone around in the vicinity with her obvious target building and hankering of weaponry. The ember-laden youth rounded over a few stones, piling them on top of one another, haphazard and askew, before layering sticks and brush, and then doing the same to others, ensuring the distance was adequate from one to the other. They looked utterly ridiculous by the end of it, some with strands of boughs that could’ve been marked as arms, some variety of limbs, or ready to fall down at a moment’s notice. Fangorn, shaking his head upon the sidelines, rolled his eerie eyes.
Unbothered by this, since it was the usual way, Melita shrugged and moved forward, grabbing hold of her bow while she waited for Maeve, steadying her breath, notching a training armament into the strands. Familiar, at ease, a comfort to her, as she pulled the strand taut, and listened to it fly.
So she sent along a note and busied herself – taking great measures along the beach to scout out a fairly accessible area, but scattering anyone around in the vicinity with her obvious target building and hankering of weaponry. The ember-laden youth rounded over a few stones, piling them on top of one another, haphazard and askew, before layering sticks and brush, and then doing the same to others, ensuring the distance was adequate from one to the other. They looked utterly ridiculous by the end of it, some with strands of boughs that could’ve been marked as arms, some variety of limbs, or ready to fall down at a moment’s notice. Fangorn, shaking his head upon the sidelines, rolled his eerie eyes.
Unbothered by this, since it was the usual way, Melita shrugged and moved forward, grabbing hold of her bow while she waited for Maeve, steadying her breath, notching a training armament into the strands. Familiar, at ease, a comfort to her, as she pulled the strand taut, and listened to it fly.
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
