the flowers bloom like madness in the spring; any

[violence]

violence

 
Her mother would hate it here.
Not because the land is a disaster, gray and barren (a mimicry of the wasteland where a battle once took place under an eclipse, a story Violence knows pieces of, a story she does not care for because it does not involve her). Not because the land was created in defiance.
No, her mother would hate the creator – the king (the god? some god). For he is what - who - she was raised to despise, he is the thing her mentor once fought, a long and complicated tale.
(And he is her mother’s sire, too. Violence’s grandsire. A complicated, interwoven, foolish story.)
 
The fact her mother would despise it so is what drives Violence to stay. She has never been one for community – she found the friendship she needed in the bones, in her glorious menagerie creatures- but with that gone, she has been adrift. And her wanderings had led to this strange gathering, had led to an idle pledge, had led to her watching, wide-eyed, as a wasteland was ripped forth from the land that had taken away so much.
She hears him screaming with the effort of creation, and she hopes it hurts Beqanna more, to have something taken like something, a land violated.
 
She herself likes it, she is a woman who is accustomed to dead things. It’s almost comforting, in a way. She is learning to breathe dust (it makes her voice raspier, stranger. She likes it. She likes to be strange).
Bored, she wanders in dried riverbeds, admires the few twisted, awful plants that struggle to grow. She smiles, she herself a twisted, awful thing.
(A land full of metaphors, really. Fitting, so fitting.)
 
 

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

[Tioga]

You were automatic, as hollow as the 'o' in God.

This place would have made Mother afraid. She would have quivered within her tiny silver black body, she would have trembled. Never mind that he too would have instilled fear in her without the Magic to fool her into calm submission. He’d taken her once, blinded her with his beauty, coaxed her to him with mesmerizing constellations and galaxies etched into his skin. Many had fallen prey to such tricks, Mother was not the first or only, she did not have to worry about being the last either. If the dead even humor such trivial emotions or woes, if they even worry- I say they don’t.

I am not easily afraid, that is why I remain. I am not easily pushed under the thumb, weakness is something I do not care to harbor or display. My Mother had done too much of that, I had witnessed how easily her precious and gentle life was snuffed because of it. Falling prey to the same fate is something on my list of things not to do, so instead I pursue dominating this barren land. I will thrive here or I will die trying and I will not worry over long on the latter- death does not shake me so.

Sickly, wasted, I don’t like it at all. The bare ground is enough to earn a glare from my copper eyes, the dry riverbeds are that which ensure my hearty grumble.

Each morning I make a trip to the common lands to ensure my basic needs are met, food, water. And while I dont actively pursue the companionship of the others that live here, I can not manage to avoid them altogether. Most days I glare my disapproval from afar, eyeing most with a guarded gaze and displaying the opposite of affections. Not that they want it, not that they seek it from me or anyone else. It serves for my own satisfaction, quietly disliking them from a distance. And yet here I am, finding myself much too close from another resident.

At least it isn’t that watchful palomino, something’s not right about that boy.

{TIOGA}

khaos x wichita

html by Kyra

[violence]

violence

Sickness, so much sickness.
Violence has grown thinner, btu she likes it – like the way her bones jut and her skin loosens. Likes to look like a corpse.
(God, she misses the bones. She is so empty without them.)
She is learning to like the taste of dust in her throat. She is learning a lot of things. Learning to use her new horn, that sharp and honed weapon.

There is a noise, the dull thud of hooves on parched earth. Violence turns, ears pricked sharp, and watches the girl. She’s seen her once before, when the sick god gathered them beneath his molting wings and created this hellscape for them. She’s seen her once or twice since then, in passing, and has thought nothing of them.
But.
But Violence is bored and idle. She no longer has the bones to keep herself entertained.
“Hello,” she calls out, and she smiles – too wide, too ill-fitting for her flat and feverish eyes, but she smiles nonetheless.

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

(I'm sorry this is short...trying to knock out posts before leaving D