M E L I T A
Melita had never been much of a planner. She’d been sketched straight out of abrupt and hasty designs, storming heedlessly into battle, swinging a sword, a shield, at anything that barred her path. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t – and she’d learned from mistakes, but never to slow down, to take a breath, to scheme out details and deliberate before her earnest efforts burst across the scene.
So this new trial, of maneuvering, foraging, and hunting for the oncoming season, gave her pause, made her reflect, caused her to do something other than search for demons. Her eyes now had to be cast to food other than typical hunting maneuvers; enough to keep her sustained with DeepFrost’s touch, salted, buried in the snow, or anything else she could snatch and glean. She’d have to become a predator and scavenger, whiling away miles and miles of terrain to get what she wanted – but at the very least, she was determined. It was new, it was foreign, it was unfamiliar, but she took to it with her typical haste, her rushing motivations, her instinctive, impetuous ambitions.
The Woodlands were a first stop – she and Fangorn, walking down the lanes of groves and trees, hoping to catch and snag anything edible. The bag slung over her shoulder was a necessity, and already contained a few traces of winterberries once laden on a few low, hanging branches of brush and fern, and she’d peeled them off with little hesitation, hoping to discover they were nourishing later on. A few late apples had remained, but not for long, plucked by her grasping, ravenous, mercenary hands and stuffed into the satchel. She hummed as they worked, her little gourd sniffling along patches of undergrowth, rime, and snow, hoping to catch a whiff of vegetation or animals hidden and lurking beneath the depths.
But then the sound of claws, dragged and scratching down a length of wood, gave her great pause – she sucked in a breath, narrowed her stare towards the decibels, and dared a glance at Fangorn. It’s eerie eyes were pinpointed in the same direction, but he didn’t appear perturbed, frightened, or concerned, so she didn’t either, but followed the notions and noises out of pure curiosity.
It was a lion, she noted, after peeking around a long bough. Her own lack of fear was likely embedded from long ago, back when Iskra first transformed, and she watched as his features turned into tufts of fur and long, powerful claws. But this wasn’t Iskra; another stranger, unknown and foreign, causing her to tilt her head, stray away a couple of meters, grabbing a fistful of more berries, stuffing them in her bag while Fangorn lurked behind, pretending to look enchanted and allured by the promise of more food, and not completely intrigued by the massive carnivore’s actions. “Hello,” she uttered, a little softer than normal, not daring to incite or provoke it, existing in the same space, the same atmosphere.
