MELITA
“A highwayman?” Her brows furrowed while her mouth formed the inquiry, trying to imagine it – a man on the highway (whatever that happened to be)…and that was his occupation? She’d heard of scores of others: cobblers, blacksmiths, forgers, the typical warrior pursuits and angles, seamstresses, healers, but never in her wildest imagination had she ever heard such a job description. His world sounded quite different from any of the others she traversed within: with their metallic guns, weapons, tiny bullets meant to be more potent than a bow. She hummed a little under her breath, thinking, mulling over what to do next.At his mention of daggers, on munitions he intended to use though, she grabbed her quiver, her bow, strapped to her back, and proffered it. That’s how Melita always operated: a friendly hand, an open beneficence, learned from days when survival meant everyone worked together to achieve another day, another moment, another breath in a harsh, unrelenting void. “I have a bow! Would you like to practice?” It was homemade, nothing beautiful, ornate, or smooth like his gun, but it was sturdy enough to fulfill her hunting duties, the string taut enough to perform its required release, the arrows whittled with light feathers from local birds. There were enough things out in the fields to set up as targets: she'd done it on numerous occasions, hoping to hone in on her skills and precision.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
