MELITA
She could hear the worried noise the luxere companion made; caused the irreverent edges of her smile to quirk upwards, even more distressing and pressing, malicious, villainous. Where there was once sunshine and exuberance, there was only an uncanny trace, ash, soot, and cinders, embers under her feet, crawling over her insides, resting there in the beats of her nefarious heart. She thrived on the paling of the man’s features, on the apprehension pulsing and persisting, a roughening glow surrounding her vicious essence, as she rolled over, back upon the branch, legs dangling back and forth, back and forth, feet raw, red, and bloodied too.Melita laughed again, higher-pitched, shrill, as tone-deaf as the rest of her songs, but without the fanciful lyrics of her mother’s refrains. This was more subterranean, made for purgatory and Hades hounds, eerie and enigmatic, otherworldly in the sense of spine-tingling notions; like banshees, like harpies, like those banished to denizens of devils and might. “I will,” she intoned, a slide of her cryptic gaze pinpointing, slicing him in two. “If you give me the rose.” Wasn’t that a worthy trade? She wouldn’t bother him anymore, he’d be free to continue cavorting with glowing deer, and she’d be able to destroy the gilded flower with its poignant thorns. Her hands went to her bow then too, a threat, an omen, an illustration of what’d she do; he’d seen it before.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
