violence

 
God, but she’s bored.
She grows bored easily, and though she is full of ways to entertain herself – the bone-creatures, the whole of her necromancy thrumming inside her, telling tales of the dead – it is never enough. For she has learned, this girl, of the violent pleasures in others’ company, especially those who are hurting, weak, desperate for an escape. They are the ones who let her in those easy, sniveling and sad, and she is there with words that are such obvious lies, but through their delusions they should like truth.
I can make it go away, she promises.
Those horses make her blood sing, she feels a certain vivacity in it; invading and ruining them, taking and breaking and controlling.
 
Power corrupts, and though she’s only sipped power, she is most certainly corrupted.
But she is alone, for now – save for the bone creature who click-clacks at her side. It is a masterpiece, this thing, a frivolous display of her power, a menagerie of bones held up by her power. A horse’s skull on a bear’s body, stag horns accentuating it – a monstrosity, and perhaps the only thing she’s ever loved.
(Not that the creature exists apart from her – it is her, an extension of her.)
The creature is a warning, too – a display of her power. And it’s an invitation, too.
 
She clacks her jaws, the noise irksome in her skull. She throws her head, a theatrical display of her boredom. The bone creature rears in its own dramatic display, and she laughs. She’s bored, and alone, but finds these snippets of entertainment, at least until better things come along.
 

I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips