violence
She too had known death at an early age – but in excitement, rather than fear.
Raised by magicians and monsters, she had met quickly with corpses of all kinds (father hunted for his meals, strange, alien thing that he was). She’d learned of her power of them, and later, her power to possess others’ minds. She’d started with her father, possessing him for the hunts, it was through his beaklike mouth that she’d tasted meat, that blood had run down her chin.
It has only made her all the more jealous, all the more desiring to become a monster. But her mother had refused, though such a transformation would have been well within her powers, and thus Violence had remained, a woman unremarkable when placed alongside such things her as parents.
(Her jealousy had only grown when the next daughter was born a xenomorph, like their father. She’d possessed her, too, but the satisfaction had been fleeting, as Violence always had to return to her own body.)
She’d split away, soon enough, had not been back to see them in ages. She still found death easily enough – at her own doing, occasionally, but mostly leavings, natural or unnatural causes, they all offered a palette for her, their artist.
As she moves, she feels a weight upon her. She turns her head, curious – her bone-thing’s head moves in tandem, and otherworldly echo – and her dark gaze falls upon a scarred stallion. She meets his gaze, unwavering, still now, curiosity stirred. She wants the story of her scars, to revel in whatever horror caused it.
She wants, perhaps, to write scars of her own.
“It’s rude to stare,” she says, tone brusque. She should be kinder, if she wants him to stay, and she knows this, but kindness – or, the façade thereof – is not an art she has mastered.