violence
There are things she craves, certain dark things that build in her like oncoming storms. She comes from magicians and monsters and it’s only right that darkness sings in her blood.
She is not so powerful as her mother, nor so fearsome as her father, but she makes do.
She makes do because she is the one who can prowl in their minds, and she does, rockets into them with all the glee of a child. And better still are the bones, the ones she beckons from the earth, makes into monsters of her own creation – fantastical beasts, her skeletons, a menagerie of different bones knit together by her deathly magic to make things that walk beside her.
She talks to them, sometimes, and they clatter their teeth in response.
She walks in the meadow like she owns it, accompanied by one of her beasts, a thing with wolf’s teeth planted in a horse’s skull, atop of a creature that may have once been a cougar, or a puma (she plays with the bones but lacks the ability to precisely define them).
There’s no rhyme or reason to why the man draws her young eye – except perhaps some ancient piece of her DNA, the cry of like to like, bones seeking bones.
She smiles. She is still growing, body piecemeal with adult legs and a still-frizzy mane. She lacks the harsh angles of her mother, lacks the otherworldliness. More unfortunately, she lacks the monstrous features of her father (a fact she begged her mother to remedy, to no avail). Instead, she is rather plain: save, of course, for the bone-thing that walks beside her.
“Hello,” she says, polite, eyes fever-bright and gleaming, “you look bored.”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
#necromancersunite