violence
She is the child of monsters and magicians, though she doesn’t look it. Her father is a feral thing, armored body and alien tongue, and her mother is a magician who has sharpened every feature until she is only passably equine. And though Violence has begged, again and again, for mother to shape her, to make her monstrous, mother refuses, turns from her.
Instead, Violence looks simple, plain – a dark girl in a sea of dark girls. Though she can do incredible, terrible things, she doesn’t look the part, and she hates it. She wants to strike men dead with a glare, wants features so sharp they could cut glass, wants claws and fangs and fury to wield on her body.
Did you try to control me, he asks, to which she simply responds “yes.”
She tries again, then, reaches out to his dead form the way she does the bones, and once again there is a slight tug, a moment as decay recognizes its master, and then it’s gone, shut out. She huffs, frustrated, wanting him – not as a friend, not as woman often want men, but as a toy, a piece to add to the collection. He is fascinating.
“You’re strange,” she says, “what made you like this?”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
