the flowers bloom like madness in the spring; any

[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