MELITA
Melita spent the next couple days hunting for the perfect felled branch for a bow. She and Fangorn had roamed various tree lines and fallen timber, glancing this way and that at branches, testing, flexing limbs; some were hardly worth considering, too thin, too delicate, too breakable, not enough for power and prowess. A few were set aside, promising, capable of handling her fingers bending and shifting over their merits and might, and before long she’d narrowed it down to two hardwoods. Then, going about her work, she utilized both, stitching over bark seams and strands, checking constantly whether or not they would hold up to rigorous practice and potential – she wasn’t sure if Adam would continue honing his skills, but it was best for it to be prepared all the same.By the time she’d finished, the youth had also managed to whittle five arrows from the remains, using some crow feathers at the fringes (found, not plucked, scattered along the moss and bramble). Before long, her promised gift and prize to Adam was assembled, and at midday she meandered through the residences, the chilling wind stirring her senses into ebullience and exuberance; skipping along cobblestones as she strived to pay attention to buildings and the directions he’d given her.
Near the edge, and she exalted her movements that way, Fangorn rushing along her ankles, a hush falling over whatever hum she’d been conducting. Bench thing outside. Her eyes lingered on one or two with such adornments, and in the end, lingered along the threshold of the one with the big crack over the door. She glanced at it briefly, hoping that no one else’s residences had the same characteristics and that she’d spend the length of the day wandering back and forth. On her hunch, minor sagacity, and pluck, she knocked upon the entrance and waited.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
