let me see the light
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
#1
 
M E L I T A


She’d never been truly alone.

At her first breath, when the sun’s rays kissed her face, blessed her birth, her sister was right behind her – they were together, forged moments apart, consecrated in warm wiles and gentle spheres. When they played on the dunes, when they rushed into the ocean, when they screamed and laughed across the tides, there’d always been mother, with her tender, compassionate, soft-spoken croons, or the kingdom as a whole, encompassed and bordered by bridges, by heat, by swirls of dust and power. There’d been friends too, fire-forged or a constant, scorching existence – rushes of lightning, emboldened efforts, times spent in canals and beneath glassy screens. Even when they’d all plunged into hell, they’d been together, tying frayed knots, combining strands of strength, becoming something out of nothing, left to their own devices, fresh blossoms out in the sun. Spirals of loss had splintered, fractured their little, lithe souls, and willowy, mercurial, capricious convictions became molten regards, fiendish endeavors, rebellious motives, and still, they hadn’t been without one another, without a kind soul, without a merciful guardian. There’d been companions, there’d been bonds, there’d been everything and naught too, those endless days spent staring down ghosts, phantoms, wraiths, behemoths, and monsters, and Melita, with her honeybee raptures, with her persistence, had strived to protect what was hers. Her worries had been eternal, always catching the eye of her kin, of her beloveds, of her cherished, potent allies, but somewhere along the way she’d forgotten what it was like to have no one.

Now, in the stark plumes, in the ghastly wakes, in the shadowy, midnight oils, she understood its unwelcome embrace. It was hollow and uneasy, empty, cast off and aside, misplaced, laid out to waste in unknown realms, in mystifying glades. It was harsh and unrelenting – each call unanswered, each hushed whisper led astray, each silent sob forced to drift into meaningless strains. It was the void, gnawing, scratching, hissing, reflecting the irreverence she thought she’d escaped from – she thought they’d disappeared, they’d run, they’d fled – but the Rift always won.

It brandished and tarnished her hide in more than just a scattering of scars. The hard-earned diligence, the insistent boldness, the searing, blistering, scorching tear of daring cooled, pulsed away from her frame as she walked further and further into a world she knew naught about. She didn’t cry. She didn’t weep. Melita stared into the abyss and it stared back, as mutinous as she – she clenched her jaws together, flickered her golden gaze across the Stygian fringe, and deigned to repeat her steps. One more time she hinted, she told herself, striving to keep her mind occupied throughout the tangible lull (no Sila, no thunderous crackling, sparking, no Clementine rushing in with petals and blossoms, no mother, no father, no legion of comrades pledging allegiance to swords, to arms, to munitions, to revolution). Her steps, her motions, her rhythms were savage concoctions, an audacious splendor of sinister beats (try me she snarled at the wind, she growled at the veils, she hissed at the boughs), as she sculpted past the same cluster of trees, the same rustle of limbs and leaves, the same warren haze and formidable maze. Trapped, snared, caught – all part of another game, another ruse, another scheme. She had no doubts it was concocted by Kaos and his maelstrom devices, one more burning error and wound to send her on her way, down into the bulrushes, consumed by her own damned flaws and defects, elaborate and potent, venomous and deplorable. We have to go, she’d told her twin, smiling and grinning all the while, sinister anthems already distorting her sight – she’d seen nothing but freedom, liberation, and deliverance. The sweet girl had readily agreed, and then they’d all broken apart, fell elsewhere, scattered amidst the stars, the heavens, and the galaxies.

I’ll protect you, echoed past her skull, drummed into her heart; a brutal, barbaric reminder of her failures.

If this was where she’d make her last stand, then she’d make sure the fallen deity wouldn’t see her flicker into naught (you won’t have me - not in his line of gallows, in his catacombs, in his tombs, waiting to be brought back from the dead to screech and howl in her friends’ ears) – she was silent, she was stealthy, she was furtive and specious, eventually winding her way within a grove, blending into the darkness, into the cataclysm. She made no sound for other predators. She made no carnivorous movements. She simply eased into the shadows, a part of the backdrop, and waited along the heights of a tree, spread across a branch, legs folded, gaze narrowed, the hunted becoming the hunter.

Her body shuddered for its lack of contact with anyone and anything, and her heart yearned to melt, to fracture, to descend into its sorrows – but the rest of her simply wouldn’t allow it.




Iskra


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#2
Just another product of today - Rather be the hunter than the prey


He found it easiest to satiate his hunger in this form, the natural way, albeit he did prefer greens more than meats and had spent the better half of the afternoon rustling up various fungi and edible plants. They weren't entirely substantial without something more though, so here he was, quietly slinking through the woodlands. He was still becoming familiar with this realm, so he took it slow, each paw placement carefully determined among frequent pauses to asses and digest the land.

His mane rustled as he paused suddenly, nostrils flaring wide as he breathed in deep. There was something, familiar in the air. It was a pleasant aroma, bringing back memories he couldn't fully recall at the moment; they were distant, like his dreams after waking, and equally as strange, as if they belonged in another realm entirely. Iskra knew he was not born in this place, but his memories of the other places were foggy, the details getting lost in strange fantasies of deserts and flying whales and pegasus - absurd. Still, even if he couldn't remember exactly why this smell was familiar, it flooded him with an unrelenting joy which he was grateful for nonetheless. He chuffed gently in response, his tail picking up movement behind him as his gaze darted back and forth, eager to find the source. It was just at the tip of his mind, and it was even something he could taste, something, sweet.

What was it damnit?

I S K R A

Will heaven step in - Will it save us from our sin


Codes: Oddmountain | Art: Pexels
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
#3
 
M E L I T A


Her fingers were shaking in the hollowed, midnight corridors, but she refused to let the rest of her frame tremble. She might’ve been a leaf on a mighty oak, but she wasn’t going to quiver or quaver; there were things to be done, matters to be settled, fights to be ventured, friends and family to be found. She muffled a shuddering breath, then maneuvered closer to the edge of her chosen bough, glancing out into the twilight span, narrowing her eyes in hopes of finding anything beyond the veil and shades of darkness glaring back at her. Had this not been a pattern in her life, she might’ve been more alarmed and apprehensive – but took instantly to her more impulsive nature, ducking below a few fronds and stems, noting the subtle shift in scenery and surroundings – a quiet murmur, a silent, ghostly presence, a wayfaring wraith traipsing down lanes. Melita swallowed, then moved back to where she’d been, further and further into a thicket’s trap, pondering over her next options. She was attune and familiar with the ominous proceedings of predators, of demons, of malevolence and injustice; she’d been thrown into massacre and tortures at an early age, crossed and riddled and scored her foundation with upheaval and vengeance. If this was something coming, then she had to be ready, armed, prepared for a fight. There was no telling what could lurk in these woods; the unknown threatened to close over her, and she wouldn’t allow it to smother, to consume, without knives and daggers at the ready.

It marched without aplomb, hushed and diligent, perhaps searching for its next meal. She could hear it breathing somewhere nearby, closer and closer – and the wrenching notion that she could be its target scratched against her core, and she straightened her spine, muffled her breath, steeled herself for the ensuing battle. She lacked fundamental weapons – was without her beloved rapier, her favored shield, her leather armor, her plethora of blades, or barrage of trusted allies and companions. The forest supplied her with branches, and maybe, given enough time, she could whittle something into sharp and caustic spines, barbs, and thorns, but carnivores and fiends rarely waited for their prey to come up with a notable strategy. The girl’s gaze merely rested on the ivory contortions of her worn shoes, and decided they’d earned their right as worthy ammunition.

She’d just have to angle it enough, trust her throw, steady her hand, to ensure she’d chase the incoming monster away – be the bigger brute, the nefarious behemoth, the beast who ripped, tore, and howled in the depths of the gloom. If it was implored to follow the trace of her delivery, then she’d been in a worse scenario, but the audacious, emboldened reel of her movements and motions were already captivated, locked, and loaded. She’d take the risk (she always had; rushing straight into the fight with fire at her back and in her tempest: a blazing inferno, a force of disaster and change).

Fingers grasped at the sole of her shoe, stretching herself over the branch, gaining a better look and access to her foreboding adversary. It was difficult to pinpoint through the trees, but she could hear its approach, the alteration in its breathing, and something told her to stop, to cease, to desist, but the rest of her figure simply couldn’t keep up with the rapid alterations. She hurled the object towards the bulking shape, and only moments later realized the familiarity in the lion’s walk, posture, demeanor, and hue. The youth probably should’ve had the wherewithal to look utterly ashamed, but not a sign, not a trace, of humiliation shaded her cheeks in the crisp folds of shadow and gloaming. “Iskra!” She hollered instead of roared, waving from her tree stand with a persevering, ethereal quality.





Iskra


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#4
Just another product of today - Rather be the hunter than the prey


He was just about to uncover it, just about to scratch that itch too far from reach, when something came tearing from the tree top. The sound of leaves being pelted out of the way was only enough of a warning for him to turn his head and see the object in its entirety as it struck him. The shoe spun toe over heel as it careened towards him, landing its slap perfectly with its sole whipping from bottom to top across the side of his face, like an ultimate boot stomp.

A yowl rumbled from the mighty beast, no less indignant than an alley cat knocked off its fence post, just perhaps with a bit more bass. He also spun ridiculously on the spot, as if struck by a hot iron instead of molded leather, the startling aspect of it enough to draw that reaction and nearly send him running helter-skelter through the shrubs. Sometimes survival instincts just meant reacting as fast as you could, even if the threat was nothing more than a shoe.

Only the shout of his name stilled him. The voice that called it was so familiar that his head whipped around, and instantly the fragrance he'd been sorting through had a name. He called it, "Mel!", but in his current form it only came out as a low rumble. He raced towards the tree, as enthusiastic as a kitten as he reached up with his massive paws and curling claws. Lions weren't adept climbers, but as he reached his fur billowed, withdrawing rapidly, bones shifting seamlessly from lion to man as he ascended to her level.

"MEL!" he cried out, overjoyed as he reached to grab her in his arms in a zealous bear-hug. It was perhaps not the best idea given their current arboreal positions; as it was he was balancing on two different branches that still swayed under his hasty movements and weight. Perhaps if he were his mother, who'd always perched well in trees, there'd be nothing to fear, but Iskra was only marginally better than lions when it came to branches.

I S K R A

Will heaven step in - Will it save us from our sin


Codes: Oddmountain | Art: Pexels
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
#5
 
M E L I T A


The ridiculous moments passed by on a wave of dust and ash, and she was whole again, tangible, real, not held together by thin lace or fraying strands. She laughed, melodic, mellifluous joy in the shadows and gloom, as events transpired before her eyes, as a foe became a friend, as reality finally managed to serpentine its way through the treetops. Suddenly, the blistering heartache didn’t matter, cornered and sectioned off in her mind, settling in to collect coals and embers, while the rest of her giggled in triumph, in glee, in portions where armor wasn’t required, where a soul was revitalized and restored. Perhaps home wasn’t in the glorified moments of war, strife, and anguish, where she screeched against beasts and attempted to terrorize adversaries, but where her companions and kin were, spirits willing to traverse the same distance, the same perils, and come out alive on the other side.

Melita was engulfed in fur, paws, and then simply @Iskra, surrounded on all sides by familiarity and warmth. Her response was bright, merry laughter, incensed by delight, by merriment, by relief, and a clutch of her hands, tightening around his shoulders and neck, fearful of letting him go. It was an ease, a camaraderie, they’d adopted since they were children, supportive and encouraging, bestowing deliverance and sanctuary in the melancholy hours, proffering understanding and benevolence in the quieter ones, when everything fell apart, when the howls were distant echoes, when the misery finally clambered down on their shoulders. “I’m so glad to see you,” the nymph whispered, palms still grasping, as if he might disappear before her eyes, escape back into the fold. She could feel the semblance of tears forming behind her gilded gaze, and she cloaked them away, despite their elated, blessed existence; they curled back in the form of a choking, silly sob from the back of her throat, a refreshed grin, a sigh of repose relinquished from her hold. The girl didn’t ask him a single question – about the others, about how he’d wandered there, about how he’d managed to find this damned abyss, about they had managed to find one another again – simply enjoyed his presence encompassing hers. It was enough.

She leaned into him, forgetting where they were, not bothering to question the boughs’ strength, the canopies’ might. “I don’t know where the hell we are-,” crooned from her lungs in a series of bouts and giggles, but the statement was never quite finished. Her twisting and turning had proven just enough for the tree limb to finally collapse; a crack resounded through her ears, and her head, wild curls and all, swung just in time to see the fragile ends of the wood give way.





Iskra


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#6
Just another product of today - Rather be the hunter than the prey


Her embrace instantly filled all the gaps within him, holes he didn't even realize he carried until they were full. Iskra always tried to be strong for everyone, but Mel was someone who had always given him strength, whether she always knew it or not. Of everyone that he had lost, between worlds or from life altogether, Mel was his one constant. She was like the sun, always there, but sometimes lost to him in the depths of the night. If he just waited long enough through the morning would come and there she'd be, as bright and beautiful as ever.

He closed his eyes as he squeezed her against his chest and cradled her in his arms; her hair softly tickled the corners of his face and her breath warmed the side of his neck. Her words reverberated against his skin and stood his hair on end near her lips, and his response was just to hold on tighter in agreement. "And I you." If only it could last like this, just a moment of pure bliss and fulfilment, but the world only offered kindness in small doses, they both knew that truth.

A quiet crack underlined Melita's voice, a quiver that trembled more heavily than the others under Iskra's boot heel. Before either of them could even recognize the signs of treachery, down they plummeted, nothing but stones put at Gravity's mercy. A surprised yell bellowed from Iskra's chest and wildly one of his arms grabbed for another branch, but to no avail. His other arm remained firmly around Melita, "HANG ON!" he yelled, rotating so that he'd take the brunt of the impact, bringing his other arm back around to hold her safely.

The ground met up with them soon enough, Iskra's body thudding solidly against it with a groan, the force of impact liable to knock Melita loose. Iskra might have burst out laughing if he had any breath left in his lungs, but for now, it was a teary-eyed wheeze as he attempted to sit up but failed a few times before resigning himself to his fate and laid spread out on the forest floor. Still, he was grinning ear to ear, because of course they fell out of the fucking tree.

"Wish I still had my armor," he complained jokingly, the words still stretched thin with little breath. Unfortunately, his words meant more than just padding for trees - there were monsters in this world too. "C'mon, let's head into town." he suggested softly as he tried to get back to his feet. It didn't entirely matter to him where they were, not now that they were back together, but he could tell her what he knew along the way. Albeit, he didn't know much having only been here a short while too, but it was definitely weird here.

I S K R A

Will heaven step in - Will it save us from our sin


Codes: Oddmountain | Art: Pexels
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
#7
 
M E L I T A


Iskra was a constant: strength, generosity, benevolence, and liberation. Iskra was family, friendship forged on fiery plains and those vivid strokes of a wide-open canvas, before plagues and barbarity, before demolition and massacres. There’d been hope and futility, adoration and joviality, the youthful, wild exuberances and ebullience inspired by curiosity and endeavors, not a single soul held back as they dove into chasms and caverns, as they wove their way through labyrinths and warrens. Thereafter, when there was only smoke and fire, blood and ash, tyranny and death, they all found one another midst the ruins, sunken into the embers, driven back into the shadows. Perhaps that was their endless, unwinding theme – despite every mishap, every trial, every tribulation, every damned, treacherous moment, they still found their way back to one another. Each time, she blended her strength into his, so they would match, parallel bonds of persistence and fire, and she’d swear to catch and snag the stars for him. He brought her back from ghosts, and she screamed at his mother’s wraith form, challenged dragons and demons for the sake of her companions. He’d show them glimpses of other worlds – paradises below the fathoms, glass fixtures unbreakable, unattainable, and she’d smile and laugh, she’d be advised, but never ridiculed, never lectured, allowed to breathe, to be herself in the waves of uncertainty. It was one of the many vows and assurances the honeybee child had made in the glimpses of sunlight and dunes, frozen in time, in space, in memory, collected in her rogue ambience, delightful and radiant, a glowing promise, an opulent sacrifice she was always willing to make. She’d stand as a shield, as a sword, even though he’d never asked, she’d blister and scald and break apart anything that threatened him, even though he’d never dream of it, and she’d bleed, bleed, and bleed, sacrifice anything and everything, ferocity embodied, if he ever said the word. It was loyalty, it was friendship, it was harmony and devotion, and too many others things she’d never pondered, never put to notion; simple, just, and binding.

She breathed in serenity for its finest of seconds, splitting along the sacred, finite shards; she’d never dared to ask why they only had those brief intervals of peace and repose, when they could merely relax instead of fight, instead of pummel and bludgeon. Perhaps those days were gone now, and they only existed in the framework of demise and destruction, a pattern of chaos and bedlam, ricocheting and bouncing off the shrapnel.

This one, however, was entirely self-inflicted.

The ground came rushing to meet them, the branch cracking under the weight and pressure of their forms, and on impulse, she thought about shifting in his arms, about taking the brunt, about leaning into the ground first instead. He must have known, must’ve felt her maneuvering, because he only tightened his hold, and she was defended. That’s not how this works she thought about hissing, but all she could emote was a gasp as Iskra crashed against the forest floor, and she was flung beside him, only loosened and thrown when the impact gnarled into him. “Dammit,” she uttered, gilded eyes focusing on the skyline for a second, side throbbing from where she’d landed, and instinctively reached out for him,  pushing off the brush, the moss, the sticks and stones bruising her form. His wheezing wasn’t lost on her, caused her to scurry over faster, to kneel near him, arching her brow at the distinctive smile still traipsing over his mouth. “Are you all right?” Her tone was concerned, laced with a thousand other conflicting things, like mayhem and vehemence (towards a damned tree, as if it could’ve helped two idiots stuck in its boughs). The youth sighed, rose from her knees, brushed the leaves and dirt from her dress, fingers plucking a few twigs nestled in his hair. “We’re so stupid,” she laughed then, the laughter escaping her like a rush of air, a means of escaping the bounty of emotions seething their way through her throat, offering her hand to help him stand.







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