violence
She grows bored, and dangerous.
She walks quick, as if she has some purpose, some place to be. Beside her walks a thing of her own creation – a menagerie of bones, assembled from all things. It has the body of a bear, the skull of a horse (though wolf’s teeth are intermitted fixed in said skull), and a pair of stag’s antlers atop its head. It’s beautiful and horrifying, and she loves it, her sweet companion.
Some might find it silly, for the thing occupies much of her powers, keeping it animated and held-together. Instead, she had let it waste in a pile as she controlled that boy (the possession was so much harder than the bones, it never came as naturally, as easy). But now the boy is gone, and she is bored, so all her focus turns to her bone-thing. With this focus, she makes it magnificent, and even now as they walk she sends tendrils of her power out, searching for more and unique bones.
She is not quiet, walking in this walk, her own steps loud and sure, the bones rattling along besides her. But she has no reason for quiet, for caution – she finds herself above most things, and few try to engage with her. A few do - or, she scents their weakness and forces the engagement upon them – but mostly, she is left to herself. To her bones.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
