violence
There is almost a whimsy in the things she does. She doesn’t call forth many corpses, finding the stringy flesh and stench of rot distracting. She prefers bones, finds them cleaner, easier to assemble and disassemble. Because she doesn’t do this to horrify, no, she does it to entertain – and what entertains her are these menageries of bones, fantastical creatures that are hers, her creations, her puppets.
Of course, she is horrifying in her own way – little more than a child still, but one with powers and no judgment in using them, a girl who is strong and knows it.
A girl who thinks only of herself, and no one else.
Of course, this man has come to offer some entertainment, and she stands as he takes hold of the bones, walks them forth, makes them dance. A clattering sound fills the air, a death-rattle as the once-horse’s coffin bones skitter across the earth.
She reaches for it again, grabs control, though she finds it strange and somewhat distasteful to share bones like this, she is used to them being hers and hers alone.
“Let’s make it more,” she says. She finds simple skeletons boring.
She brings forth other bones, a collection of small delicate bones from birds and squirrels and other small forest creatures, wraps them together until they form nonsensical wings at the thing’s side. She removes the skull, knocks it from the creature’s body and sends it rolling to land at his feet.
Then, expectantly, and demanding, “give it a new head. This one's boring”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
