MELITA
The problem with power was that sometimes Melita forgot what came when there was no longer anything to brace against – whether that was her hate, her vitriol, her vengeance, or in this case, another form. Weaver’s movement away from her sword left her slightly off-kilter, off-balanced, and she had to force herself back into the ground, rooted into its surface again. Inexperience showed, ignorance bloomed, and her eyes narrowed into a feral intensity. She should’ve known better. Weaver’s platitude told a multitude of stories in its might. As if it was all battle-hardened, as if she’d done this a thousand time before. Melita had in other capacities, but most of them had been to live, to survive. She caught Weaver’s movement and sought to alleviate it, a feint in Amun’s meticulous training, droning in her head. Going for the head, but sweeping for the feet; tricky, tricky – Melita did her best to lower her blade down by her legs, in attempt to catch. But gods, the angle was bizarre and not grand for offensive measures on her part.
In attempt to use her might again, she tried to push more of her strength into the movement, so perhaps it could cast aside the wooden blade once more, and rush towards Weaver’s form.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
