M E L I T A
Melita, despite being a blazing, defiant imp throughout a majority of the festival, rarely pausing to take more than a few breaths (a kid at some amusement park, ready and eager to embody everything the world had to offer), had finally allowed curiosity to simmer and sink into her frame, grab hold, and take flight. The subject matter had been the Wheel, with its blazing flames, its intricate designs, its unassuming presence, a vision there for all to see and participate in, but with no explanations for it.
It must’ve been something the Naturals always committed to, like the Spark Bird, and the ignorance of the Outlanders showed as they muddled and tiptoed up to it, eager for a chance to understand, to comprehend, the reasons behind the candles, the lights, the sounds, the nuances. She watched, diligent as ever on the sidelines, Fangorn in her arms as they struggled to perceive the circumstances surrounding it: perhaps it was for those they cherished, gone in the strangling paradigms and enigmas of Longnight. Maybe it was for good will, an opportunity to pray for deliverance and liberation in the oncoming seasons. She tilted her head, examined everyone passing by, but they didn’t say a thing, committing to their actions with nary a sound other than inaudible breaths, and then they were gone.
She furrowed her brow, looked around again, and caught sight of Rexanna. The youth slid closer to the beatific woman, offering a dip of her head, the entangled bombardments of her devilish grin. “What do you think it’s for?” She whispered, cranium nodding towards the sphere and its enigmatic flames, twitching and bobbing in the warm air. The girl intended to obtain a better look, sliding one more foot out and swerving around the nearest occupant of the device, before glancing back at
