daughter of the sun; you belong only to yourself
She pushed, she cajoled, she fought against the ethers, the vestiges, of weakness. Howls and growls fought to bite into the air, defiant, menacing, ferocious little growls threatening to lift into the surroundings, but with nothing to fight, nothing to rally upon, except whatever immobile victim she chose, the sounds were restrained. Out amongst the shadows and bare light, it was merely her and Fangorn, and she could lift her arms, volley and rail upon the schematics of imaginary foes as best she chose, placing two hands upon the staff and thrusting it forward, manifesting images of adversaries, of demons, blowing through them with clean, fluid movements. Each inhale was a pattern, each exhale a contortion of coiled energy and raw precision, some brought upon by impulse, some by inherency, a recalled scheme, a magnificent memory.
But then there was a voice within, and she ceased immediately. There was a hint of acrimony and hostility in the bridge of her shoulders, an instantaneous reflex brought on by growing up in a land intending to demolish every occupant. When she finally turned her head over her shoulder, the staff clasped tightly in her hands, the stiff, unyielding, unbending rigidity ceased, recognizing the individual coming along the sands.
“Oh, hi Sam.” A casual wave followed, as if she hadn’t been thinking of beating him into the ground seconds before; a swift smile taking the place of her sedition. “I was just practicing.” The honeybee youth didn’t know the man very well, the casual encounter and the like throughout the Grounds, but he’d always been kind enough. Fangorn gave him a hearty grumble of a hello from the shoreline, and then the inquiry was on her lips before she could stop it. “What brings you out this way?”
But then there was a voice within, and she ceased immediately. There was a hint of acrimony and hostility in the bridge of her shoulders, an instantaneous reflex brought on by growing up in a land intending to demolish every occupant. When she finally turned her head over her shoulder, the staff clasped tightly in her hands, the stiff, unyielding, unbending rigidity ceased, recognizing the individual coming along the sands.
“Oh, hi Sam.” A casual wave followed, as if she hadn’t been thinking of beating him into the ground seconds before; a swift smile taking the place of her sedition. “I was just practicing.” The honeybee youth didn’t know the man very well, the casual encounter and the like throughout the Grounds, but he’d always been kind enough. Fangorn gave him a hearty grumble of a hello from the shoreline, and then the inquiry was on her lips before she could stop it. “What brings you out this way?”
Melita
