M E L I T A
Part of Melita’s faults and foibles were aligned directly to her more impulsive traits. Despite a majority of her childhood being spent amidst demons, fiends, heathens, and the more treacherous wraiths (shifting sometimes in the form of her family; alluding to devastation and terror), she still rushed headlong into her follies and crusades. Bullheaded and stubborn, obstinate and defiant, fey and mercurial, half the time her pitfalls could be evaded by simply taking in the rest of her surroundings, by twisting, by turning, by utilizing more than audacity and boldness.
So it came as a massive surprise when she heard applause, a faint, embellished roar of a crowd. Her breath stopped for a moment, frame whipping around, jaw slightly dropped while her hands had balled into fists – pondering over which weapon to use, which munition she could supply to undermine an enemy – before her mouth curled immediately back into a swift smile, a light laugh. She loosened a breath on the chuckle, on the giggle, wild, savage, but not muddling straight into danger.
The youth bowed at his applause and compliment, bending over in pockets of head bobs, spine straightening and untamed hair growing more untamed in each movement. “Thank you, thank you,” she proffered through a stream of laughter again, as if performing for a crowd. “An encore?” Her brow arched, fierce smile inclining into a feral smirk as she grabbed another pumpkin nearby, and turned back towards her lined objects.
She swung this vegetable back further, intending for it to be unleashed on the stone, a fairer distance away. Her precision was sorely lacking here though, and it wobbled through the air, before bounding off the side of the rock, splattering more in the grass than on the ancient surface. Melita shrugged, laughed again, fully aware that her lack of patience, that her ambition to merely move and assault had formed the error. Her gilded gaze swept back to Alistair, the grin even more impish. “Give it a try!”
