MELITA
“Oh,” she answered – puzzling over the complexities of carriages, roads, and rich idiots; though the contemplations ranged from intrigued, interested, yearning to see this sort of debacle, and then shrugging. She wasn’t one to judge too many flaws or defects, not when she had managed to accommodate herself with quite a few – too rash, too impulsive, too brazen, too headstrong, too eager. A little snicker tucked itself along her lips though, impressed by the notions – she wished she’d orchestrated such events in the haze and waste of the Rift, instead of desperately clinging to survival, to wrenching friends’ out of enemies’ claws. Perhaps they could’ve been more successful. She shrugged again, glancing back at the gun once more before it was put away. “I wonder if any blacksmiths could make your bullets? Then you’d still have a supply.” Adam took her bow, seemed intrigued by it; but then the way he held it was all wrong, and her features ensured she looked mildly horrified. “Oh, not like that!” She reached for his arms, not at all shy, repositioning his elbow, gentle, encouraging. “Here, you reach back with this,” and she placed the string, as taut as possible while rearranging his arm, within his hands. Then she stepped back, chin in one of her palms, thinking, mulling over if she should give him an arrow, afraid he might injure himself. “Try practicing without an arrow first. Release your fingers when you’re ready.” Her gilded eyes rested on his posture, on his technique, not diving into how different it was to suddenly be the instructor, instead of the trainee, the scholar, the pupil.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
