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
Give the bruises out like gifts
