M E L I T A
Melita required very little encouragement to dive headlong into any sort of festivities. Her heart was fire and her lungs were stoked in ferocity, a bewildering, alluring set of movements and motions buoying her into pure, unrefined glee. Phoebe had only briefly mentioned the upcoming festival, a way to ward off the brooding, brewing machinations and upheaval of LongNight, and Melita was more than happy to shed the layers, the lacquer, of brooding consternation from her thoughts. Even if it was only for a short while, she’d prefer to bask in the glow of the sun-kissed earth, before reaching and scorching back into the pressing unknown.
The last festival she’d ever attended had been in the sands, the scorched, blessed Dragon’s Throat, where she’d tasted too much and drank her fill of so many unsuitable things; frankly she hardly remembered or recalled anything after that – but the wildness, the temptation, of it all over again didn’t quite leave her. Her limbs were echoes of untamed, unrestrained vitality, maneuvering with rapt ease, eyes taking in the sights, the sounds, the wonder, the flags, the stalls, the promise of renewal and rebirth on the tip of their tongues. Her whimsical, fey essence yearned to try anything and everything – from the bewitching games of chance, to the glorified food, to the beckoning, siren swells of wheel of fire pressing its flames into the air.
But what to do first? She knotted the ends of her tattered, frayed dress so it bounded against her knees instead of dragging near her ankles, locks completely untamed and savage, every inch the feral youth straight out of the wilderness, launching a frenzy of brisk runs and dashes, intending to inspect and investigate anything she could grasp. She was caught in Fiat Lux’s tethers and had no intention of escaping. They were alive, alive, alive, and naught could be better than savoring every moment of it.
