MELITA
The girl felt strangely defensive and protective of her staff – and it wasn’t that it couldn’t hold up to the notions, she’d just never tried it against an edged blade. Afraid it would shatter. Afraid it would break. Afraid it’d be like something else in her life, fractured, splintered, and gone within the blink of an eye. Her fingers curled reflexively around it, an ease of breath, not bothering to respond to the first statement – eyes registering over the other weapons resting along armory adornments. She could always be better at swords – Amun’s training had greatly improved her otherwise poor, uncertain regard, a wealth of incomprehension righted in stoic principles. “Swords, maybe?” She inclined a Cheshire grin, relinquishing the staff to Fangorn’s guardianship (at which the little gourd growled and hissed, as if certain he’d be a grand shield for the munitions), before hastening off to the gathered multitudes. Her gaze pinpointed to the wooden training blades, since she still considered herself a novice, grabbing hold of two and venturing back towards Weaver.Then the honeybee youth tossed one at the likely far more experienced woman – undaunted, unafraid, eager and ready to take in more opportunities for growth and savagery. The girl adopted a similar stance of preparation and guard that Amun had taught her, beckoning Weaver for the first maneuver.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
