death is a midnight runner; any

[violence]

violence

 
Monsters and mayhem brought her to creation so it should be no surprise that she carries those things with in, a sweetness in the marrow of her bones.
(The first time she spoke bones from the earth it surprised her, but from then on nothing had ever felt so instinctual.)
She feels them in the dirt beyond – the bones of a hundred creatures, birds and rabbits, wolves and deer. And the horses, of course. She likes to go to the beach and make them dance there, but such a graveyard is almost overwhelming for her, the girl who senses their bones like electricity in the earth.
 
She walks, flanked by a bone-creature of her own creation – it’s a mix of things, bobcat and wolf so it crouches low to the ground. It has a horse’s skull, though she’s replaced the teeth with something sharper. She likes the clack of its bones and the empty stare of its sockets. She’d wanted to give it wings, but wing-bones are hollowed and frail and thus hard to come by, so instead she settles for a pair of stag’s antlers, sitting on the thing’s head like a crown.
 
She has no purpose, today, so she merely walks, listening to the call of the bones.
 
 

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