MELITA
She didn’t expect anyone else, rarely did nowadays; but Fangorn keened and hissed under his breath, a little maniacal sort of sibilance that sent her head upwards, her daggers still protruding out into the air. On her lifted gaze she spotted, and then heard, the newcomer approach – and she could’ve sworn the woman looked vaguely familiar, as if she’d seen her nearby, elsewhere, before. Her eyes narrowed on the briefest of speculations, the gilded, golden ramparts of the other approaching, becoming smaller and smaller. Despite the size differentials, the stranger seemed to embody the space with grace, poise, and finesse; something Melita sorely lacked, striving to compose herself into something more than a fighting stance, pushing her wild, crimson locks out of her face. A fighting partner, a token offering in an expanse where such extensions might have been bristling and grating with some other fledged terror – she didn’t feel it from this one though. “Sure. I’m Melita.” She maneuvered her hand forward, placing the dagger in the other calloused palm, beckoning a smile across her features. “What kind of spar would you like?” What weapons and munitions did she carry?
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
