violence
She has shed the weight of motherhood and she is back to her old self. She thinks, infrequently, of her son, and wonders if he survived into adulthood. She didn’t want him to die, exactly, but she was never meant to be a mother – certainly not to a son - and so she had passed him on and walked away, shadows trailing behind her.
She is back, now. She flits in and out of the land. It does not love her, nor she is, but when she grows bored she enjoys the expanse of Beqanna and its strange offerings. She has found delightful things here, fools who are willing to let her in, let her pilot their bodies and share their secrets, or simply ones who gawk at the bone-thing that walks beside her.
(A waste of her powers, truly – she could summon souls, she could tear their life force asunder, and what does she do? She plays architect, building a golem of bones, horse and deer and wolf and anything else that suits her fancy. But she likes it. It is her companion. She loves it more than she ever loved her son.)
And so she is here, again. She doesn’t care about the shifting lands, the strange water-creatures that lurk somewhere in the depths. She moves unhurried through the forest, shadows trailing in her hoofprints, and she scans its offerings. Behind her walks the bone-thing, the soft clatter of its bones a gentle noise she enjoys. She is not particularly beautiful – she lacks the stark angles of her mother, lacks a luster on her coat – but with the bones, she can be noticed.
Or maybe she’ll notice someone else, first.
these violent delights bring violent ends
