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
Give the bruises out like gifts
