MELITA
At his mild insinuations, and the Cheshire grin, she unfolded one in return. Maybe she should’ve been more guarded, more wary, more apprehensive, but she shrugged and laughed instead at the notion of spitfires and the conflagration of red-headed women, wild and free and untamed; savage tendrils and snaps. “I wasn’t born here, so I can’t give Caido credit on that.” Her eyes lifted and skull momentarily distracted by the notion of all the others she’d known – Lily, a definite Outlander, but she couldn’t recall anyone else. Perhaps the blight had truly isolated her from any others. She let the thought go on his laughter, angling closer as curiosity bit and tore. Planting. The last time she’d planted anything had been flowers last spring, beatific varnishes of color and hues blending into the marketplace; an experience that would’ve been pleasant, had Kiada and her’s story not unraveled into a bestial, acrimonious plunge of death, damnation, and her still bitter boundaries. “That’s kind of you.” Then the youth crouched, inspecting, poking at the hard ground. “I’m Melita,” she mentioned off-handedly, perhaps so she didn’t seem so discarded, so unattached, Fangorn bobbing and weaving along the frozen ground nearby. “I can try,” she shrugged, grabbing hold of the staff hooked along her satchel. The girl hadn’t brought any shovels or trowels with her, not for a hunting expedition, but she wielded the weapon with a more fiery expression, lifting it upwards, then allowing it to descend in a force of vitriol and vehemence, pondering if the plunge of power, potential, or potency would be enough to warrant a decent-sized hole.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
