M E L I T A
A blistering conviction had settled deep into her form the moment her eyes had dried, the moment the world had reassembled, the moment that hatred had spewed at her simply for her existence on this damned earth.
You must get stronger.
She’d been mighty and courageous within the Rift for sheer survival. Her pluck, daring, and audacious oaths had ensured her persistence, perseverance, and fortitude were melded and folded right into the very core of her being. She was not one without the others: forged in fire, breathing maelstroms, endeavors, and bold, intrepid beliefs. She’d been brazen, she’d been impetuous, she’d been impulsive when it came to the lives of her friends and family. She’d lived.
But not much of that seemed to matter now: despite all her strives, all her attempts, the peace and repose flickered away with the last breath of a fallen man, with the rush of a zealous quartet, with the relish of a monster slayed, marred, and destroyed. She wasn’t enough anymore; not with the rise of anger, with the sizzling, the seething, the smoldering wakes of the earth rising up to snag and unfurl, to growl and hiss. Before long it would come to blows, to assaults, to sieges on more than just monsters. The honeybee child had seen it, had witnessed the way people divided and cut themselves apart to prove they were right and others were wrong, how a singular viewpoint could seize and torment, how promises and virtues and assurances could mean nothing in the long run.
The honeybee girl had no intention of being amongst the disillusioned, the frail, the meek, or the inept. She needed to become more.
It was Fangorn who heard the first potent whacks, gestured wildly to the wandering youth as she kicked rocks down paths, as she attempted to come up with a plan by herself. It was unfortunate that she’d grown from impetuous natures, instead of a steady, scheming one; ruses hadn’t had time to be effectual when a fiend, when a demon, hovered behind one’s neck. The pumpkin companion, however, must have sensed a grand, great opportunity, gesturing wildly with bounds, leaps, and hops into the air. “Goodness, what's the matter?” She tilted her head, shaking it once or twice, but the gourd was mercilessly insistent, and so she followed him towards the outskirts.
Before long a woman appeared before them: armed and garbed in military style, dutifully assaulting a post. Melita studied her, trying to figure out where she’d seen the form, similar, familiar, but where; but also admiring the style, the methods, to her madness. Precision and practice had never been her thing: the youth’s techniques and manners were usually assigned to the more reckless of natures. Then, an idea began to form…beautiful and brilliant, chaotic and wonderful, an impish quality centering itself into her mind.
She approached, amiable and amicable, Fangorn at her ankles. “Hello! Very impressive!” Perhaps she didn’t look the part of an incoming, feral, savage little thing, but gods how she wanted to prove herself amongst the fold. “I’m Melita.” Then, she might’ve realized the familiarity was due to this woman being within the battle she’d just watched, and something close to foolishness and embarrassment coiled amongst her motions, her realities. Why would she even bother with someone like her? She’d just helped take down a monster that hadn’t been conquered up until those last, few lethal moments. Instead, though, she bowed her head a little, maybe more meek than she would’ve liked to have appeared, but there was a layer of worth she hadn’t worn, hadn’t accomplished, in the realm of this battle-hardened woman. “Are you training for something in particular?” Was there more to come?
