MELITA
Another miss.For someone who’d practiced, who dueled, who’d strived to ensure her accuracy, even in the waves and face of her impulsivity and impetuousness, this was utterly ridiculous. She had half a moment to sneer and snarl, some Korifian swear on the tip of her tongue, before being pounced upon, falling to the ground with the weight of the caracal upon her. The slash and rip of claws clung and tore into her skin, reaching and scalding along her collarbone, rampaging down the length of her arms, her own hackles raised, but no ability to transform. No ability to conjure anything (save for deities; and it wasn’t necessary here, not in a game – no high stakes except her pride). Pain conspired and shot through her lungs like a wall of fire, stifling, smothering, but gods she’d had worse.
And she’d never let someone like Kiada take her completely down.
Staff still in her hand, the honeybee girl attempted to sweep it around to whack the caracal completely off of her, spitfire emblems coursing through her veins, seething and surging through her blood, too entirely blinded by her rage to think about anything else. Not the game. Not Fangorn growling and hissing, moving forward to launch and assist Loren. Just vengeance and vitriol, just the childish, young Melita, back in the days of the Rift, drowning in her cycle of revenge. “Kutomba wewe, teef,” sliced and hissed through her clenched teeth, combining and conforming a series of languages, gauging for a reaction in the strife and anarchy.
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Melita falls to the ground when she’s pounced on by Kiada, suffering from deep scratches into her collarbone and arms. Fangorn attempts to help Loren.
You're all gonna watch me
Disappear into the sun
Disappear into the sun
