violence
Her sister takes the bait.
It’s all she can do, of course. Violence knows the species – she’d shared Charnel’s mind enough times that she can practically imagine what’s churning in Nexu’s head (she’d be wrong, but she will never know this). She knows how they react, the savagery that lurks in their blood, the base instinct.
Besides – she may not look like them, all trills and armor and poison, but she shares the same blood. A half-breed.
Savagery runs thick in her blood, too.
She feels pain, once removed – the body that is not her body. A rending of skin, the warmth of blood blooming like madness in the spring across his her their skin. She tries to bury herself deeper in him, longs to feel every ounce of pain, to zero in on exactly what damage is wrought.
“I’m your partner,” she mimics, voice thick with blood, with want. She keeps urging the body towards the weaponry of her sister, the sharp teeth, the knife-tail. Keeps urging for blood.
She’s losing him, though. She can feel her grip slipping. The pain dulling, disappearing. She wishes he were dead – how she could control his body then!
She tries, a last ditch attempt, to do just that, to impale him on the sharp points of her sister, but she misses, or he redirects them.
“Your partner,” she manages, the words slurring now, hard-fought, “hates you.”
And then she lets go, and as she falls back into her own form, she gives one final shove, hurling his body to her (hoping for more damage, that her sister won’t realize it in him, won’t be able to stop herself), trying to scream, and then she is gone from him, back in her own body, a pile of bones at her feet.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
