violence
The necromancy had come easy, like breathing. She’d been rattling bones since she was all but a newborn, the power a flood inside her. She was meant for such death- magic, meant to play with the dead.
(Mother didn’t like it, the rattle of bones, Violence’s incessant nature. Mother was frustrating – all the power, yet doing nothing with it.)
Possession was harder, still a thing she is refining – she needs to be stronger, needs to be able to control them for longer, control the stronger ones. But other people’s heads are a chaotic and terrible place, full of wailing and memories, and Violence finds it somewhat distasteful, has not yet learned how to quiet their cries.
She much prefers the dead.
Her creature is still beside her, walking like a companion of bones and sinew. It’s gone unnamed, but she likes the company, likes the sound. The creature is easy to make, easy to puppet about. Besides, it’s a constant practice, keeping it like this, upright and rattling beside her.
(And not many enjoy her company, enjoy the brash way she’ll throw herself into their heads, or the way she’ll throw the bones.)
The stops and watches the girl, watches the whirl of dirt appearing seemingly from no effort. But the girl’s intense stare, the particular tightness of her stance, betrays some sort of connection.
Intrigued, Violence walks forward, slow, but sends her creature out in front of her. It rattles forth in a run, stumbles towards the growing hole.
“Hello!” she shouts as the creature’s jaws move, pantomiming talking. She is still far back, possesses no sort of ventriloquism to adequately throw her voice, but the game amuses her all the same.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
