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
Give the bruises out like gifts
