MELITA
Fangorn was only mildly disappointed when Harper didn’t flinch at his antics; his recent successes in coaxing Oliver’s fear had made him hopeful of repeated performances – alas, not to be. Melita snorted at the vampire gourd, to which the enigmatic, eerie grin was turned her way, bounding back to beside her ankles while the stranger’s mischief paralleled her own. Her eyes watched as he juggled the mud, following the practiced movements and motions, the way he didn’t seem to think about it at all; natural and inherent, the way she was with a staff, with a bow. She might have asked him about the volley of skill, had mayhem not spring immediately after.The mudball flew directly into her shoulder; not hurting, not painful, not a lamentable, anguishing experience (and she’d asked for it, after all), but a raw chuckle still escaped her throat at the splotch of muck and mire staining over her shirt. His laughter instigated, provoked, and roused, one hand grasping hold of her own mudball tightly, before instantly rising to his challenge. She wasn’t wholly inexperienced in the notion of throwing; she’d often hurled rocks, stones, or whatever she could get her palms upon in the Rift when assaulting and sieging upon monsters who’d otherwise rip them apart. It just wasn’t as practiced, as precise, as the rest of her munition skills: arm flung back anyway, before rotating and extending it forward, releasing the ball of silt and loam towards him.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
