my heart is a concert hall
Melita Najya
the Honeybee


Age: 26 | Height: 5'6" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Torchline
Level: 10 - Strg: 57 - Dext: 58 - Endr: 58 - Luck: 57 - Int: 1
FANGORN - Mythical - Vampire Gourd SILA - Mythical - Dragon (Fire Breath)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 2,913 | Total: 10,647
MP: 9824
#1
 
M E L I T A


Melita had once honored Gods. She’d bowed her head low when they’d floated before their admiring crowd. She’d gasped and revered at the sight of her favorite: the Sun God, and his burning emblems, his fiery banners, his quick, calculating mind, and his pride, his power, his potency. She’d prayed and pleaded and begged amidst her family and friends when the world came crashing down, hoped somehow, someway, they’d all be able to stand together, to beat back rogue, false paragons.

Then they’d been destroyed, every single one of them, from the beautiful, enigmatic Moon Goddess, the kind, gentle Earth God, the sizzling, acidic Time immortal, and her beloved fire deity, bristling and sacrificial, incapable of doing anything against a malicious, spellbinding force. It’d been the first time she’d ever witnessed them fail, crumble, and flicker apart. It’d been the first time she’d ever realized those cherished, distinguished beings could be destroyed.

Thereafter, her only aspiration had been to see Kaos fall.

She’d been a part of the irreverent, seditious force, revolutions spiraling in the shadows, survival a waiting game, a persistent, tenacious complex shrouded in the folds and fogs of the Rift. She’d offered the false all mighty no allegiance, no belief, no creed, no indoctrination; didn’t listen to his overwhelming sermons, his pathetic summons, his ominous, foreboding speeches. The earth distorted and coiled around her, her companions, her people, and she’d refused to give voice to the tyrant, to the terrorist, to the bestial form of a barbaric divinity.

Somewhere in the midst and murk, she’d lost faith altogether. It was only her fighting to protect everything she loved. There were no consecrated embers. There were no thunderous outcries. Just her howls, her roars, her blistering, bristling defiance.

But here, tucked in the swarms of enigmas, the twist and turns of fate, the girl had listened to the words of others who’d seen, who’d borne witness, who’d been blessed by the spirits amidst the grandeur, the decadence. Were they things to have confidence in? Or could they be mauled, maligned as well? Omnipresent and potent, but capable of being swindled, tricked, and deluded, just as her last gods?

She inhaled and moved towards the altar tucked within the temple. Her gaze scattered to the offerings beneath the remains, and her hands maneuvered along some of them, righting those fallen, dusting off those coated and forgotten, out of habit, out of nervous, restless energy. She looked upon the gourd at her feet then, a small smile tucked in her lips, but lacking the sunshine, the radiance, it usually beheld. Her actions were riddled with consternation, with apprehension, with the zeal and ardency of a youth who’d seen and experienced too much, who dreaded the eternal outcomes. “What do you think?” She whispered to the pumpkin, and the companion only gave her a sidelong look, as perplexed as she.

The girl reached into her pocket and pulled out the wildflowers she’d seen growing along the meadows, free and beautiful, tucked in vivid, marvelous perfumes and beatific hues; she’d admired them, wondered if a god would admire them too. Then she swallowed down the nerves, hands still shaking, as she placed the blossoms and stems along the platform, and bowed her head. I’d like to believe in something again, she wished, she dreamed, she pleaded; because most days it was just in herself, and that could only go so far.







Age: 7 | Height: | Race: Attuned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
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#2


As soon as the flowers touched the shrine, they grew vibrant and beautiful despite the dim and dusty lighting within the temple. Their scent ricocheted outwards, propelled by unseen breezes.

For a second the flowers are almost...scanned. A strange light coming over them in piecemeal functionality. For an instant they glow electric blue, but give off no heat and then—

they are gone, and only the strange electrical scent of petrichor remains.


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