violence
Never forget: Violence was the first.
She was the first thing to wrench forth from Cthylla’s ugly womb, the first melding of monster and magician. She lacks the monstrous features of her father, the eldritch beauty of her mother; but none of this changes her blood.
The others came after, rapid-fire, and for a time it seemed her stupid mother was constantly pregnant, swollen like a tick, delivering a variety of odd children (all daughters, all black, all powerful, in one way or another). They’re good vessels, these children, things Violence can warp from birth (mother tries to chase her away, but mother’s weak, in the daylight, and Violence long ago learned how to control her father). In them, she experiences hunting. The sharpness of scents, the taste of venom in her mouth.
Now there’s another, or so she’s heard. Another creature born like her – like their – father, alien and strange, with its malformed language and simple urges.
Violence likes simple. Simple is easy to control.
She isn’t quite lurking – merely lingering near where mother likes to hang out, a shadowy place, private. She suspects mother’s enchanted it, a little, it’s so rarely populated. But Violence knows where to look.
At her side stands her bone-creature, her fine creation. It moves with her, like a part of her, some terrible organ.
Something moves, long-limbed and strange. Violence smiles.
“Hello?” she calls out, soft, “hello, who’s there?”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
