M E L I T A
The youth had never been one to squander opportunities: fists tightly grasping hold of whatever she could, dragging it down to her sights, sounds, actions, motives, vices, and virtues. A better individual might not have scrambled and sank their teeth into every instance, but she was greedy, she was covetous, she was begging, aching, for some semblance to prove herself, to become worthy, to be more than the savage, feral thing in the background. She wanted power, she wanted might, she wanted the fury deep in her soul to be unleashed – for the world to know her name, for the shadows to never encroach upon something she cherished ever again.
And to do all of that, she dared and defied, she smiled and beamed, she took emboldened strides and howled in the whistling wind. The girl flew along the night’s drawls, the ghostly, eerie ambience, contemplating nothing of the dangers, only of the chance, of the opening, to become better. She’d already knotted the ends of her dress, frayed seams and fabric as they were, bounding and leaping along the sweeping boughs of the glade, restless and fervent, Fangorn at her heels, staff in her hand.
The torches waited for her amidst the chosen clearing, and she breathed in the silhouettes of flickering flames, thought about one day being able to burn the wicked, become some sort of infernal combustion, blasting apart those who’d ever wronged her. It’s a vivid sight, and her gilded eyes roamed further, noting
