Training all torn away
for Weaver!
Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
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#15
MELITA
Surprise me was a challenge; except Melita’s lack of experience, a blunt sway of ignorance, choked and strangled the possibility. She’d been hesitant to leave the realm of her training, a note of apprehension in the unknown, take a risk never having to be a command though. Her eyes flicked to Weaver’s indicated, open sides, but chafed, growled, bristled, and hissed inwardly at being told what to do. A perplexity in movement and motion; when she’d come here for training. Melita thought nothing of the bizarre standards she’d orchestrated for herself.

So instead of catching, of matching Weaver’s blade this time, the girl skittered off to the left side, trying to get away, away, away – intending to utilize speed, swiftness, her lithe distinction, to her advantage. Then she raised her blade, not to Weaver’s ribs, or shoulders, but towards her back.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 4 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 13 - Endr: 21 - Luck: 22 - Int:
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#16
Weaver could understand why Melita bristles at being given a command, though it is not a command in it’s intention but a suggestion. Weaver just doesn’t know how else to give it, used to the constant barrage of things Erebor would tell her to do. She never did them exactly as he said, but she always took the message to heart all the same.

Weaver’s blade hits air as Melita moves away, speed along with strength on the girls side. Apparently Weaver had some learning to do about how to move not in snow. When her attack comes again, it’s toward Weaver’s back. Weaver can’t spin fast enough to catch it, so she takes the blow to her back with a grunt and a grin, pleased to see the other girl doing something beside what the rule books might suggest. ”Well played.”

At the same time, Weaver swings her blade toward Melita’s unprotected side, hoping to at least get in her own hit before the girl skittered away again or the fight comes to an end.

weaver

-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --

Quote by Charles Dickens


Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#17
MELITA
Success beyond catching blades, a minor pulsing of victory, of triumph, of a smile appearing in the praise curled within. Except that meant she’d completely lost her attention – deviating from the notions of spinning plays or defensive procedures. Recklessness and impulsivity might always be a situation that would literally land her in hot water, too distracted, too deterred, too drawn into a thousand other quandaries and contemplations, that she had no time to register Weaver’s next movement. She made to block, made to maneuver, made to motion and swivel off, but it was far too late. Inexperience and rashness did her in. Her side, unprotected, without anything to seize or sear against the opposing blade, earned a newfound bruise as the wooden sword smacked upon it. It was a searing slide upon her flesh, and she snorted at its existence, at her own foolishness. “You too.”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 4 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 13 - Endr: 21 - Luck: 22 - Int:
Played by: Kyra Offline
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#18
Weaver makes no move to attack again, drawing her blade away, sticking its wooden point into the dirt and leaning slightly, breathing heavily but with a grin on her face. ”My mother used to tell me that everyone would try to impose their way of fighting on me, but to take the pieces I liked of each and then make my own style.” It was the best advice she had ever gotten. Weaver was still learning. A million spars, but many in the snow with her brothers or play fights that devolved into wrestling matches. She would always be learning, and, more importantly, evolving. Everyone new she fought taught her something different. She stole their tricks and tactics and put them to use elsewhere.

”Where did you learn to fight?” she asks, making a little small talk as she recovers. She can feel the bruise on her side disappearing, the pain lessening. Healing magic was proving to be a handy thing, and after a moment she adds. ”Would you like me to fix that bruise? Unless you’d like a souvenir of our wonderful spar, of course,” she says with her usual Cheshire grin.

weaver

-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --

Quote by Charles Dickens


Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#19
MELITA
Done and finished; their miniature duel completed, allowing for the aches and pains to stitch themselves along her side. Her gilded eyes followed the motion her blade made in the dirt as she poised it to lean upon, then flickered back up to Weaver as she spoke, a smile still lit upon her face. “That sounds lovely.” A fighting style all her own; Melita’s was relatively composed of impulsivity and muscle memory. Perhaps, eventually, she’d canvas and paint the world with her streaks of violence, vehemence, and vitriol too.

She went to tuck the sword away though, when Weaver spoke again. “First in the Rift, but I wasn’t trained.” A shrug, as if the memories of that world still didn’t spiral up and down her spine, across electrical scars and manifestations of demonic rites. “I would just use anything I could.” Sticks, rocks, long, extended branches, honed to become makeshift staffs or bows. “I’ve learned with a variety of weapons though from some wonderful people here.” Those that had deigned to give her a chance, those that saw potential, those not rooted so far in the rest of the callous wakes. At the offering of healing though, her brows rose, the slightest of air of surprise. “Oh, you have magic?” Another Abandoned – worlds full of growth and enchantments. Her grin remained, ignited on whims of mischief, on the tired, fatigued, mercurial dominion of a fight well-established and done. “I wouldn’t mind.”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 4 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 13 - Endr: 21 - Luck: 22 - Int:
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#20
Lovely. What an odd word to choose for a conversation about battle style, and yet Weaver finds it fitting. It is lovely, to create your own style from the workings of others and the devices of your own mind. New combinations, new ways to move, learned from years of practice and trials, successes and failures. The word, though not a word Weaver would use in such a context, fits the redheaded girl perfectly.

Melita continues, speaking of the world she has come from and the training, or lack, she received. Weaver listens, curious, as she always is about these other worlds. ”The Rift,” she repeats, mulling over the name. ”That sounds like hell. And I say this having grown up in Halo.” She was not unfamiliar with hell, but at least she hadn’t had to spend time in a place called The Rift. It doesn’t even sound like a place, but rather some byway between worlds where you got trapped. ”But that’s not a bad way to learn to fight. Sometimes you don’t have the luxury of a weapon, and it is good to know how to fight with anything at your disposal.” She always preferred to have a weapon, knowing her own strength in hand to hand combat was usually lacking, though she understood enough to survive it. Elbows and knees were more powerful when you didn’t have enough strength otherwise behind a punch or kick. Go for the soft spots. Cheat like hell and live.

Weaver simply nods as Melita asks if she has magic, knowing the stigma that comes with her particular brand of skills. She’d never picked it, never been given the choice, and as such she simply was what she was. Perhaps it was less frowned upon by those from other worlds, but who knows how long before the prejudices of this world become their own. Weaver takes a step closer, concentrating, hunting for the feel of the bruise. She finds it after a moment, letting her magic flow through the other girl and mend the wound. It was perhaps not completely perfect, but it should be at least largely painless now and without much of a mark to show. ”I’m still learning it, but it’s been proving to be useful for small things.”

weaver

-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --

Quote by Charles Dickens


Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#21
MELITA
Sounds like hell was only the tip of the Rift’s parameters, but she let the notion pass through her on a sigh, on a quiet, inaudible billowing through her mouth and nose. She didn’t want to press in too deep here, no mentions of her sister lost, of her family vanquished, of things that fell apart just as quickly as they’d begun. “It was,” came on a nod, a shrug, an affirmation of their vices and decadence. Curiosity sprung together though, because she was only barely aware of Halo, of mountains, of tundras, passing through on whims – it was the opposite of worlds she’d been born within, of sand between toes and hot dunes rising into the sky. “What is Halo like?” Ensuring her blade was put away, motioning and maneuvering back to Fangorn, her quiet, stoic guard, patting and scratching the stem along the top of his head, an answering grumble and hiss to accompany her efforts.

At least Weaver didn’t mock her for a lack of training before now, didn’t judge, didn’t sneer, where others might have. An acceptance of taking what one could get, no matter the situation. So Melita extended no stigma or prejudice back upon the woman for her magic – it had been a well-known, established regard in Helovia and the Rift too, normalcy passing through bloodlines, even if she had none of her own. “How did you learn to fight?” Intrigue, a sharing of performances and potential, growth and experience, as the healing, mending, soothing contortions pulsed through her frame. It was different from her mother’s herbs and curatives, or Loren’s mastered inclinations, registering all the same as the aching plains receded. “Thank you,” a cheery, exuberant smile curling along her mouth again.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 4 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 13 - Endr: 21 - Luck: 22 - Int:
Played by: Kyra Offline
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Posts: 903 | Total: 918
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#22
Weaver understands loss. All too well, really. They share that, at least, though they do not know it. ”Cold,” she says with her usual shit-eating grin. ”Colder than the coldest day you have probably ever known. But otherwise? Honestly it’s kind of great. Once you get used to it, I guess. I don’t think most outsiders would agree, though. Snowy and icy, ringed by mountains, and damn hard to traverse. Everything that moves is likely to kill you. But the people are as tough as the place they come from, but helpful and kind. It’s a small place, and you grow close to the people around you, all trying to survive together.”

Weaver puts her blade away as well, deciding not to be a rude guest who leaves her stuff laying about, watching as Melita goes to greet her weird little companion. He is cute, she supposes. As cute as a gourd can possibly be. As Melita greets her companion, Weaver straps the knives back around her waist and picks up her scythe.

”My mother, my step-father, my two brothers. All of them taught me in some way or another. My mother taught me to hold my own, in every way she possibly could. My step-father and older brother taught me to hunt, to wield weapons and build traps. Both brothers taught me to fight, constantly sparring together, learning together. Sometimes just kicking the shit out of one another for fun.”

She says the last bit with a grin, thinking of all the ridiculous fights she and Korbin and Erebor had gotten into. Their mother never stopped them, letting them learn or simply be kids instead. Her and Korbin still got into playful wrestling matches, on occasion, tearing apart some chunk of the house and leaving the other with a good bruise or too. ”Of course,” she adds, not thinking much of the offered healing. There was no judgment from the girl, at least outwardly, and that seemed like enough thanks to Weaver.

weaver

-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --

Quote by Charles Dickens


Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#23
MELITA
Born in the desert, Melita hadn’t understood the cold until the Rift, and most of that was just emotional pieces, trying to hold herself together while ghosts clambered over her throat, pierced shades of strength and doubt. So she nodded, listening, a grin along her face as Weaver described her home. “The Hollowed Grounds is a bit like that too. The world is hard, and there are monsters everywhere, but most people seem to come together. And that makes all the difference.” Her arms slid over Fangorn, clutched him against her chest, listened to him grumble while she placed her staff along her back.

A family unit of learning and striving then – Melita had only fringes of those motions and notions. Her mother had been a healer. Her sister had been gentle, kind, and sweet, and never harmed a flower, much less a fly. Her father had never been there, and she’d only learned of him from Sunjata’s experiences with the piece of shit. So Melita had been the brave one, the fiery one, the reckless, unrelenting one; building her tough enamel, her lacquered strength, while the world threatened to pull her apart. “How wonderful,” and the smile remained, effervescent and kindled. “Do you still do that now?” Family units and ties, coiled together, bonds durable, tethered, even if there were knots and gnarls. Aspects she often missed; those glorified moments gone in a flash.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 4 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 13 - Endr: 21 - Luck: 22 - Int:
Played by: Kyra Offline
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Posts: 903 | Total: 918
MP: 0
#24
That’s a different sort of cold, emotional versus physical. Weaver has grown up knowing the latter only, really. The loss of her family usually left her numb, not cold, though she always found that spark of life again. Refused to lose the flames for long, to waste the life she was given that they were not. Perhaps she was born with the gift of fire manipulation because she was made of fire. Created from it and of it. ”Caido has never been known for kindness,” she says, and it is unclear if she means the land or of the God or both. In the end, the difference doesn’t really matter. ”And do you like it here, in the Grounds?” She asks, curious if the girl would choose this life over the one she had been ripped from, or if this was at least better.

Erebor had been gentle, in his way. Korbin was the kindest of them, a lover, not a fighter. Straia though had never been gentle. She loved her children fiercely and fully, but she was not a gentle mother. She did not coddle, she did not kiss your boo boos all better. From the stories, she gathers her father was not gentle either, but made of twisting shadows and decay. Weaver never knew her real father, though she never cared. John had raised her, loved her, been her father even though she wasn’t his, and he had always been enough.

The question hurts, though Melita can’t know the knife that twists in Weaver’s gut at it. ”Korbin and I, sometimes. It’s not really the same though, without the rest of them. Life in Halo is hard, and as such, death is common.” Though she doesn’t say it directly, her meaning is clear enough. They still train, they still fight, but there’s something a bit hollow about it without Erebor’s disapproving stares and their mother’s laughter when they cheat and trick.

weaver

-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --

Quote by Charles Dickens


Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#25
MELITA
Never been known for kindness; and if she thought about it, hadn’t a majority of the lands she’d been within amount to the same? The Rift was a harsh, unrelenting, merciless tide – and it’d sculpted its manifestations into her, a callous, embittered little wake with flaring, tempestuous ides and a penchant for brutality when she required it. Helovia was favored because it was where she’d been born, where everything had begun, where the Sun God promised them warmth and guidance, and where she’d found curiosity, inquiry, without so many wounds. It’d been the moments of compassion: her mother, her sister, that had been instilled into her form too. She was a combination of both entities and kingdoms: fire and vitriol, pettiness and tenderness. “It’s better than the Rift,” she laughed, a light chuckle, even if she was the only one who’d understand. “But Helovia was destroyed. So I didn’t have much choice.” But to be here, sent into these grounds.

Melita picked up on the missing strands and seams though in Weaver’s following statements – winced at the muddling she’d done. Others had pricked and picked the same wounds that she had just done, and knowing the way the lacerations scarred on her form, instantly took issue with her prior statements. “Sorry,” she murmured, clutching hold of Fangorn a little tighter. Death is common. “It is, but I wish it didn’t have to be. It gets tiring, to keep losing the ones you cherish.” A shrug then, as if she couldn’t think of anything else to do but keep fighting, keep fighting, keep fighting – grit and mettle in her teeth, clenching down on her enamel, digging her feet into the earth.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 4 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 13 - Endr: 21 - Luck: 22 - Int:
Played by: Kyra Offline
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Posts: 903 | Total: 918
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#26
Perhaps no land was known for kindness, not really anyway. Life was not known for being kind in anything but small measures, giving you moments of a mountain top view before dropping you back into a valley. So much of life was spent trekking up, up, up out of the valleys, trying to touch the sun. You reach, fingers stretching, and for one fine moment you can feel the heat of it…

The world teases, tantalizes, and takes it all away.

In truth though, for all that was wrong with Caido, it was not so bad. There were monsters and Longnight and lingering death, but wasn’t that true everywhere? There was kindness in the people here though, resolve and resolution, desires and dreams. The girl mentions some other place, a place called Helovia, destroyed and lost to...well, Weaver doesn’t know, but she can imagine. To the plots of others, to the whims of destiny. The details didn’t matter. ”Sorry to hear it,” she says, trading their sorries that do no good but offer some sort of companionship in the pain.

Weaver just shakes her head though as the other girl responds. ”You didn’t know, it’s fine.” And she means it. She’d rather talk of them than forget them, rather have to admit they are gone than pretend they were never there. ”It does, but they are waiting for us someday.” In Mort’s realm or whomever else you believed in. In the end, she suspected they were just different names for the same god, for the same place.

weaver

-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --

Quote by Charles Dickens


Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
Change author:
Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,652
MP: 9824
#27
MELITA
Small measures of something other than torture and cruelty; sometimes it was like a fleeting turn of wings and feathers, plumes and breezes, just enough to sate one’s appetite for more, then taken in the next instant, the next season. She’d grasped and clenched and held, but always thought it was her greed that took things away. Perhaps her dominion simply hadn’t amounted, and she needed to express her avaricious tendencies. Perhaps her defiance, her sedition, her rebellion, should’ve flared again, a conflagration in the frustrations of things she couldn’t control, worlds she couldn’t unravel.

She rose from her sitting position, putting weapons back in place, Fangorn chirping, rumbling, and growling his compliance. As much as she’d eternally trade sorry stories, she had other things to prepare for. The waiting for us someday gave her pause; almost an insinuation, a note, to ask Ludo at a later juncture. She’d hung lanterns for Clementine, for her mother, for all the other spirits and ghosts haunting her mind, but never asked the herald if their souls were somewhere. If they were happy. If they were together. Her eyes fell to the ground, and then with one massive, heaved breath, as if restoring all her dominance, all her supremacy, over her own being, she lifted her gilded stare back to Weaver. “Hopefully,” she answered – because she didn’t have anything else. A shrug, an endeavor to return to the annals of perusal and wonder. “Thank you for training with me today. Let me know if you ever want to do it again!” Then she waved, a beacon of exuberance, of renewed strength, across the training grounds and out into the sweltering sun.

{FIN}
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts


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