violence
She prefers bones to flesh, usually.
Flesh is messy, dripping and scattering. She doesn’t like the stench of it, either, the way it floods the nostrils and shuts out all other sensations. She likes her dead things clean, bones polished white and ready to be assembled, a macabre jigsaw puzzle.
But this.
Dead, but moving – living – with no help from her, from any other necromancer. And though some decay wafted from him, he wasn’t messy, not in the way the few corpses she’d entertained herself with had been.
Very interesting, indeed.
“I know,” she says, when he calls her interesting as well. She is not a humble thing, she knows she is powerful, comes from a powerful family, a woman who brings forth bones and can nestle in their minds.
He gives her his name – Jinn – and she nods.
“I’m Violence,” she says, then, stepping closer, curiosity alight in her eyes, “are you dead? You should be, but I can’t control you, not like most things.”
She could slip into his mind, she supposes, but she is still terribly weak at that power – oh, sister is easy because sister is stupid, but most creatures spit her right back out, and she hates it, hates the feeling of being unsuccessful.
So, she sticks with the bones. And her questions.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
