M E L I T A
Her fist connected, but not where she’d intended.
It was grasped and held by the warrior woman as if it’d been nothing. As if she, little Melita, were nothing. Her inexperience, her ignorance, was a barb sticking its way down her ribs, through her bones, collecting and curling through her mind like a thorn, like a bramble, like a vicious, spiraling opus. The honeybee girl had known she lacked some portions and skills; she wouldn’t have agreed to this training if she didn’t want to become better – but to have it shoved back in her face was a vehement maneuver. She grit her teeth and bit back the curse suddenly ricocheting through her mouth, because she’d show her, she’d show them all.
Despite the spike in her anger, the fury contorting its way through her figure, she listened to the advice Roana gave. The youth adjusted accordingly, leaning back, upper frame square over her hips, grounding herself into the terrain. I am a rock, she thought, channeling more calm through the incensed wicks of ferocity, striving not to be flustered by the obvious, tangible weakness in her talents. I am a force. One day, they’ll fear me.
She wasn’t daunted, however, by Roana opting to not release her hand. There were always other methods, other ways, other strategies and tactics to utilize. The Rift had assured a quick mind was an asset, rewarded by survival and persistence through the wicked, nefarious eaves; if one ruse failed, another took its place, quickly, efficiently. The youth considered several options on the try again command: had Roana any dangly bits between her legs, the decision would have been much easier. Had she been able to reach any sand or dirt to toss into her opponent’s eyes, it might’ve been done. Instead, On an exhale, keeping her right leg firmly planted, rooted, she lifted her left leg and attempted to kick forward, trying to reach Roana’s lower limbs or kneecaps with a potent punt.
