M E L I T A
Flowerbirth brought the sonnets, the stanzas, and the lyrics to rebirth, renewal, and the blessed, warm, open embrace of the sun. Melita faced it as she often did, with a bright, radiant smile settled across her lips, a hum on her tongue, and motivation for the oncoming days. There was a method to her mercurial, whimsical ambitions today though; instead of wandering around without a base purpose, slashing through the air with a makeshift spear, or chasing down local wildlife, she opted to give back to the haven that kept her safe during the ominous, foreboding menace of Long Night.
She stretched, she yawned, and awakened to the softening breeze, the chill still vibrant and floating down the coils and curls of her long, untamed locks, but she encouraged it, setting a lighter, swifter pace. There were no knives, no claws, no eerie, acrimonious touch of talons or threats out in the midst of the roads and pathways, yet, her eyes caught the traces of their nefarious touches, marked and etched ruins scattered amongst the columns and avenues. She nearly stopped moving, just to stare, just to take it all in; bitter, rancorous reminders of things lost in the snow, in the open chasm, in the perilous void, devoured and swallowed, never to be seen again..
The honeybee child didn’t shudder, didn’t quiver, didn’t trip or stumble at the sights, but the nuances set a touch of the Rift down her spine. If she hadn’t already been on a mission, she would’ve stayed here, taking apart the rubble, trying to make it something new, fresh, instead of an acrid reminder of days bombarded with unrest and uncertainty. She lifted her furs higher across her shoulders until they tickled her neck, her chin, and then turned towards the Rathskeller, Fangorn dutifully bounding behind her (however, even his gaze lingered on footfalls they’d taken only months before, erased by the burden of hostility, dread, and doom).
Once they’d arrived at the door, Melita let herself in, and took in the scene before her. Though some other inhabitants had done their part to cleanse the threshold, it was clear there’d been far too many creatures holed up in one area, signs and signatures of various upheavals worn into the tables, the bar, the chairs, the rugs, and everywhere in between. The youth paused briefly to nod at the barkeeper, then took off her overcoat, and rolled up her sleeves. Turning to Fangorn, she arched a brow, and brightened even more than before – purpose gleaning into each and every motion. “Let’s get to work!”
While the gourd companion simultaneously watched and picked up a few items of trash in its mouth (chewing on them thoughtfully before deciding they were not worth the effort, and spitting them back out on the floor), the honeybee girl unleashed a firestorm of movement. She grabbed hold of items left out, placing them either on the tables to locate their owners later, or to discard when she got the opportunity. Trash was placed in piles to bag up when she was through, and glasses strewn about the area, still reeling with the smell of alcohol, were put along the bar to be cleaned and polished for their next consumer.
