violence
Attention is often a byproduct of Violence’s desires.
She does not crave it, exactly, she would be as happy alone as she would be surrounded by a devoted throng. It’s more that her whims draw attention – the once-necromancer with a ghastly smile and a menagerie of bones at her side, a creature of her own making, striding along like some sick queen, the bone-thing’s jaws snapping and yawing open.
Of course, now the necromancy was stripped from her and she is boring, she is left with naught but a strange horn on her head, glistening and sharp but ultimately so trite, she’d break it off in a moment for the return of her old powers.
She has grown bored in Pangea, that dusty wasteland with its mad god-king, so she wanders out. The meadow was her haunt long before the kingdoms reshaped and will likely be her home soon enough, so she knows it well, knows how to navigate the throngs with as much or as little interaction as she needs.
She sees a gray girl alone, placed picturesquely by a stream – a beautiful, pastoral image that causes Violence to diverge, creep closer. Violence is black and strange, even without the bones, even stripped of every piece of magic she’d so wholly taken inside of herself.
Even without the bones, her smile is still ghastly, and her eyes still fever-bright.
Even without the bones, she can be a danger.
“Hello,” she sings out, “you look lost.”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
