violence
She is aptly enough named – she’s tasted blood before. Killed, too, though most often when in the bodies of her more monstrous family. Her own body was woefully lacking in weaponry, with her blunted teeth and lack of venom, it forced her to be creative. She found violence (pun intended) most often when she possessed them, managed to wrap herself in their minds, pilot their bodies into doing horrible things.
(She’d snapped a girl’s neck, once, run her off a cliff. It had been strange, and thrilling, the taste of power on her tongue, thick as cream.)
She looks fondly at her creation, beckons it close to her, as if it, too, felt affection.
He gives his name, and she nods, as if it means anything. She likes the threat of it, but is sure she’ll forget it soon enough. She does enjoy his questioning about her pet – too many run from it! – so she sends it closer, its head cocked, reaching out, as if to say hello. She does not touch bone to skin, though – not yet.
“No,” she admits, “it’s mostly scavenged.”
Her kills while in father’s body, or Charnel’s, had been subsequently consumed, the bones cracked for marrow, no trophy left for her. Perhaps when she claims her own kill – a dirty one, one made with own weaponless body – she’ll keep it, or part of it.
“I like that you aren’t afraid,” she is blunt, here. She’d like if he was afraid, too, of course – that could be used – but this is different. Interesting..
“Are you from here, Nightlock? Are you used to monsters?”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
