Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
Potent and lethal and irritated; a startling combination of movements and motions within the rush of the morning, within the slightest chill, any indication Torchline inclined towards seasonal alterations at all. She lived and breathed in the maneuvers across the sand, like dancing, her short swords striking at air and imaginary foes; sometimes growling her menace, sometimes arching in an unpredictable wake, coming across boundaries, lines, and tethers. Sometimes she pretended it was her uncle’s head she knocked askew or his gut she skewered; so god damned annoyed and irate with a man as equally stubborn as she. Too alike, too similar, too stupid.
Her eyes flickered to the pool, towards where she’d heard her sister’s chimes of laughter, to where ghosts had prevailed in the happenstance of anger, hostility, misunderstandings, and obstinance. She gave it a hardy glare, but nothing uttered or burst forth, so the unwinding of her motions chiseled, sculpted into the air. They still weren’t as familiar as her staff, or her preference towards the bow – but the youth had always been inherently drawn to any serrated edges, to any cast upon knives, to any collection and assortment of weaponry. Deigning to master them all wasn’t a mercurial whim – but a disastrous, treacherous inclination. No one would stop her.
Fangorn, ever the stalwart companion, rested against some of the warmer stones along the embankment, offering an occasional encouraging grumble of support, before slipping off into a residual slumber.
Her eyes flickered to the pool, towards where she’d heard her sister’s chimes of laughter, to where ghosts had prevailed in the happenstance of anger, hostility, misunderstandings, and obstinance. She gave it a hardy glare, but nothing uttered or burst forth, so the unwinding of her motions chiseled, sculpted into the air. They still weren’t as familiar as her staff, or her preference towards the bow – but the youth had always been inherently drawn to any serrated edges, to any cast upon knives, to any collection and assortment of weaponry. Deigning to master them all wasn’t a mercurial whim – but a disastrous, treacherous inclination. No one would stop her.
Fangorn, ever the stalwart companion, rested against some of the warmer stones along the embankment, offering an occasional encouraging grumble of support, before slipping off into a residual slumber.
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
