violence
She revels in this, in the bogs and swamps of the girl’s mind. It’s different than Charnel, and Violence likes it, likes switching her emotions, likes changing her view until she sees what Violence sees, until she is made in Violence’s image.
(Not that Violence fancies herself a god – but someday, someday.)
Betters still is that the girl is so willing to be shaped, that she is pliant clay beneath Violence’s eager fingers.
She doesn’t ask the bones to dance – the girl does. And oh, how Violence smiles!
But there are bitter, sullen limits to her power – she cannot possess the girl and make the bones dance all at once, she lacks the omnipotence of magic. So she thinks one thing to the girl - be good, be good for me - and then slips back into her own mind. Power surges back into the sagging bones, and then they are complying, they are dancing, moving gracelessly.
“Touch them,” she tells the girl, “admire them.”
She is not in the girl’s mind but she will be, should she not comply. She’s getting the hang of this.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
