violence
Days pass and so little changes – small plants sprout up, odd and twisted. She still breathes dust, though, and it settles into her once-slick coat, making her dulled and blurred. She doesn’t mind, she has never needed to be beautiful, has never found a need for beauty when her power sat at her fingertips, all dancing bones and manic laughter. She supposes beauty might help, now that she is essentially defenseless save for the sharp-honed horn on her head and her own animal cunning, but she is not a woman who asks for help.
She sees the mare alone, recognizes her as someone different – she doesn’t know this one. She makes her way to her, moving easily, dust stirring at her feet. One of the stunted plants is crushed beneath her hoof.
“Hello,” she offers, giving the girl a shark-wide smile, “my name is Violence.”
She looks closer at the girl, notes the way her eyes burn like candlelight – orange and strange. Violence envies the strange, for she has always longed to look more like a monster, to manifest on her body what she feels inside. But alas, she is nothing but a plain black girl, and covered in dust to boot.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
