MELITA
The seditious youth looked past the entanglement of flames below her eyes and towards the stranger; watched the slightest portions and pieces falter, narrowing her gaze suspiciously, wondering if the amusements had worn off, away, or something else altogether. Had she of known, would she have ceased? Would it have mattered? Or would her impulsive, ruthless nature still have come to the surface? A suitable pause in the calamity, Fangorn maneuvering out of the way, the surrender slipping from his mouth, the girl lowering her bow until it faded away, the arrow put back in her quiver. Victory – though it didn’t quite taste the same, not something truly savored.So she maneuvered forward, hand extended to shake on their shared triumphs, a bridge, a gap, to coax and onward, instead of one more bristling assignation. “Well fought, sir. I’m Melita.” Something they might have proffered ages before, but unfortunately not laden until these precise moments. Backwards, perhaps – the notion pressed an inward shrug. Her grin returned, sunshine and mischief, regaling and inquiring. “Who are you?”
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
