M E L I T A
Melita had always been one of those bold, intrepid figures who believed if given an opportunity, if allowed a moment to try, she could conquer, triumph, and assist with anything, with everything. Her childhood had already taught her that those inclinations may not be necessarily true – her fearless endeavors, her brave pluck, her savage, seditious charm, could earn her some creditability, could allow her to dive into reckless abandon, into enterprising oblivion, into swords, knives, daggers, and vitriol, but it didn’t always mean she was successful. But lords, how the girl always endured, head held high, nerve and daring in each whimsical, mercurial step. Even today, she wouldn’t allow herself to be outdone – a shining, little beacon, a speck, of might and fortitude, bristling with an effervescent smile, a cherubic, impish delight.
She’d followed Rexanna, purely out of folly and mischief for a time, wandering in and out of the avenues and street-corners, salvaging the minute amounts of quiet she had within her frame (always loud, always exuberant, always a raucous, rioting fiend), peeking and stalking, giggling behind her cloak. She pulled it tighter around her as she continued her, and Rexanna’s path, until they came to a place she was completely unaware of. The girl forgot her sojourn and crusade the moment curiosity sparked, listening to Rexanna call out to another, tilting her head and forgetting any other pretenses anointed for the moment. She slid behind her fellow female and whispered, her best pursuit at reserved natures; bubbling and brewing, standing on her tip-toes, trying to peer inside and unmask the great mystery and enigma surrounding the area. “What’s going on?”
