violence
Her name is indeed an apt thing – she is the daughter of horses and aliens named for old gods (Cthylla, Cthulhu, names that beg to be growled from deep in the throat), yet her name is simple and straightforward. Her name is war, mayhem, and she embodies that with her flat shark-eyed stare and wide grin.
His voice is odd – dusty, like the air. She wonders how old he is. He doesn’t look particularly old, but she assesses him, almost instinctually, looks for weaknesses – a limp, a stiffness. She isn’t quite aware she’s doing it. She’d possessed enough predators to know what to look for – though she has not hunted in this body, she has done so in the bodies of her sister and her father (their bodies were primed for such things, alien and feral, snarling teeth and heightened senses).
Not that she’d hunt him.
Except –
Except he asks an odd question - where’s the border?
“Why?” she says, and her gaze grows heavier on him. Truth is, she doesn’t care who stays and who leaves – let them all leave, she’d be queen of the wasteland – but she likes the idea of a hunt.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
