violence
For all her powers, she is almost weak, compared to her parents – a magician and a monster – and this bothers her to no end. She’d begged – begged! – mother to shape her, to give her some of the more monstrous qualities possessed by her father (and later, her sisters), but Cthylla had denied her each time.
Her sisters especially do not deserve their deliciously wicked bodies, those armored bodies and hungry mouths, Charnel and Nexu are weak, useless things.
(Viscera is useless too, even more so – her body is plain, like Violence’s.)
She makes monsters with what she can, collects her bones and makes her puppet, and it’s satisfying, but she knows it’s of little danger.
“Some find the skeletons wandering untethered by meat unnerving,” she shrugs, “we’ve known some to run.”
He asks about her, then, and she sees the glimmer of opportunity, grabs it.
“Dead things in general,” she says, “but I find corpses messy.”
They are amusing in short bursts, sure enough, but she does not like them as companions, the stink of rot in her nostrils. They are harder to manipulate, too, cannot be pieced together so easily, too much tearing and ripping.
“And minds, too, though-,” she hesitates, not wanting to admit weakness, but it’s a hard truth. The necromancy had come easy to her, like breathing, but the possession was far less reliable, too easy to be overcome by a strong will.
“Though they have to be weak, or invite me in, to be any fun.”
She can take strong minds but only for a moment or two, and then she’s too often forced out. She hates the feeling, which is why she does not often lean on the power, unless she finds them very weak or very stupid (like her sisters, who were both – they were beautiful vessels, though).
“What about you?” she asks, “what can you do?”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
