MELITA
In the end, Melita knew her rage, her actions, her abhorrence wouldn’t bring them back. But it made her feel alive too – the reach of ferocity pulsing, an unrelenting wave over her presence, cloaking and garbing with daggers, with sedition, with cruel, toxic endeavors, whistling and whirring against her mind. It was beatific and wondrous, to have the sensation of contempt and loathing back into her core again, to have something worth fighting for, even if they were just memories, even if they were just canvases, even if they weren’t ever returning –
It felt right. It felt just. It felt satisfying.
She permitted the vitriol to slink into her senses, to override anything else that might have mattered. Consumed and devoured by her own wrath, the girl snickered, smirked, as the crack of her staff clambered across Kiada’s knuckles. More, she almost crooned, once a fighter of monsters, once a barrage against demons. She didn’t know what she was now – vengeful, unforgiving, vindictive?
Kiada’s attack followed through though – she would never expect the girl who favored a duplicitous god to lie down and take every attack – her weapon landing on Melita’s right calf with an aching pulse sure to be a deep bruise, even as she attempted to sidestep, even as she strived to utilize her speed. Fine, she whispered into the dark. Intending to face her opponent, Melita rotated the staff in her hands, revolved it so it landed in her opposite palm, before raising it downward on a swift, quick swing, yearning to build momentum for the climb up, hoping to land somewhere along the girl’s right shoulder. It was an exchange of aches and pains, a brutal layer tossed into the entanglement of barbarity, the outrage in her heart, the violence in her lungs, the savagery, vehemence in her ether, in her essence – daughter of the sand, of the sun, of the dunes, of the draconic.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
