MELITA
It wasn’t often that her arrows’ marks failed; not out of the realm of possibility, but rare. She’d practiced and maintained that constant accuracy for a long time, and to watch her precision flicker, falter, and scattered along the fields was naught short of vexing. Perhaps it’d been her vehemence layered behind drawn strings and tethered lines. Perhaps it’d been her abhorrence fumbling, shaking, her to the core. Perhaps it’d been sheer, dumb luck on the Harpy’s part.Maybe she could change all that.
Too close now, as the bird flew by her, the girl allowed the bow to recede back into the bracelet on her wrist, grabbing hold of her staff. There was no time to contemplate Fangorn’s growls and howls, the sound of him following things, alerting others to the notion of enemy movements, only her anger. Only her hate. Only her vitriol, clattering down into the rushing motion of her arm, intending to swing the weapon down, down, down over feathers and wings, over bones and edges, over fringes and skulls. The game was far from her mind – the collision more definite, more prominent, than anything else.
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Fangorn howls and growls that someone is coming onto their side of the field. Melita tries to hit Kiada with her staff.
You're all gonna watch me
Disappear into the sun
Disappear into the sun
