where the stars do not take sides
Melita Najya

Age: 18 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 2 - Strg: 17 - Dext: 17 - Endr: 17 - Luck: 10
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 167
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#1
MELITA
Melita had faith in people, in herself, in things scattered about her heart; memories, bittersweet and delightful, painful and tormenting, unjust and perplexing. Her soul was strong and her eyes were bright, enlightened by the past, by the present, by the future, but not piety, not devotion to anyone but those she considered her own. It wasn’t for lack of trying – she’d witnessed the rise and fall of her precious deities seasons and cycles ago, and had never sought out the wicked demon who’d extinguished their lights.

She’d wanted to destroy him for so many reasons – but never had the opportunity, the chance, or the strength.

But the honeybee youth could recall the potential, the possibility, of others listening to her, of watching her, amidst the other shrine, tucked away in the back of the temple, its icons and relics dusty and decrepit. Her flowers had been vibrant and beautiful, just as this world was, light piercing through the shade of their blossoms, glowing a wild blue (like the sky, like the heavens, like electricity – Ampere’s untamed spirit, Iskra’s brilliance, Zero’s metallic structure), before they were gone.

Had she been accepted then? Was that all there was to it?

Was there more to the story? Did she need to prove herself again? Did they need to witness her strength, her abilities, her potential, her iron-clad resolutions, her burning, burning, burning aspirations? Or had it been a way to nullify her entirely, to pacify her beliefs, her doubts, seen, noticed, but not heard?

Would it be worth it to try once more?

This shrine was far different from the first: circular, descended from the skies amidst the grass, patterns and stones, carved with something she couldn’t place or name. The girl wished she knew more, understood more, comprehended more, than just the words of others, the clips and phrases of their pride and joy in these divinities. She coveted days where the same repose and sanctuary existed for her, beneath the towering cliffs of the Dragon’s Throat, lying in the sand, funneling her way through the promised land.

Her offerings were of the wild again, and she lowered their adornments to the shrine’s rocky outcrops. The first was the remnants of her flower crown from Fiat Lux, where’d she’d sprung and leaped, danced and cajoled, twirled and laughed, exhibiting joy, serenity, prosperity after the tides had been dark and terrible. The second was a beautiful stone she’d found along the oasis, ivory, pure, and she’d been emboldened enough to dive headlong into the marsh for it. The third was a gentle hum from her lips, a keen from her mother, a lullaby from her sister, without the tones, without the words, because she’d never do them justice.

Then she lowered herself, kneeling, pressing her head against one of the larger stones, and Fangorn did the same, mimicking her but in silence; and she prayed. It wasn’t as she’d done in the thickets and hollows of the Rift, where her mouth had moved in accord with whatever damned thing could hear their need for safety, for vengeance, for one more day. It was strong and enduring. It was blissful and beneficent. Do you see me? she wondered.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
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