violence
There’s blood on her mouth.
Violence was born with a predator’s mind, no doubt – child of magicians and monsters, how could she not? – but until recently her hunting had always been by proxy. She’d known what it was to kill, had done so countless times while inhabiting the body of her more monstrous father or sister (she envies them, begrudges them their armored spines and feral smiles). She’s never been able to do so herself, the time and opportunity had never quite presented itself.
Until.
Until everything was stripped away, every piece of her bone-magic, and in its place grew a weapon – a horn, sharp and shiny – and a man came wandering at the right place in the right time.
She didn’t know his name, but she knew his blood was warm.
She’s left the corpse, and most of the blood has dried to a faint tackiness on her dark skin. She savors the feeling, delights in the thrill of dried blood cracking across her skin with her movements.
It almost makes up for not having the bones. Almost.
She walks in the meadow like she owns it, proud and furious. Walks and sometimes catches their eyes but they turn away quick, because her fever-brightness might be catching. She’s breathing heavy, too, from excitement and exertion both.
Then, a boy catches her attention – the reason doesn’t matter, it’s simply the heave of fate – and she gravitates.
“Hello,” she says. She says it too loud, almost shouts it, the word sickened by her own delirium. She doesn’t take her eyes off of him.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
@[jenger]