violence
She was born in the throngs of Beqanna, another creature from a long line of Beqanna-born. The land is in her blood, she knows nothing else – for all her wandering, she has never left the land itself, has only flowed from place to place within its confines. She does not think of other lands often – they are a vague, abstract concept to her, a thought that flits by quick as a bird’s wings, and then is gone.
She needs no other land than these.
(Her mother knows other places – her mother, who was a strange goddess behooved to a religion Violence does not care to understand – but Cthylla does not speak often of these places, and Violence doesn’t ask.)
She smiles still, ghastly and strange, a contrast to the mare – the pale white of the girl and the stark black of Violence, standing near but not too close, not close enough to frighten (yet).
“A lovely saying,” she says, “though perhaps ultimately a bit of a lie. I’ve been lost here dozens of times.”
She laughs, but it’s raw, and strange.
“My name is Violence,” she offers, “who are you?”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
