violence
She would prefer to shed her familial burden entirely, as they mean little to her, especially now. Previously, her father and sister had been vessels, monstrous things she could pilot with terrible glee. And her mother had been a source of magic, though mother had never deigned to change Violence in any way, though she had begged – had begged for Cthylla to make her features sharper, crueler, to make her the kind of beast her father was.
But mother had denied her, selfish and stupid, had plodded on with her dull life of night-worship and shadow-spinning, leaving Violence to carve out her own way.
Of course now, she carves with blunt, useless tools – lacking her necromancy, her possession, she is left only with a gleaming horn and her own wicked smile. It’s hideous, to live like this.
But she perseveres.
And now there is this boy, who is dull and alone, and she is here to change that as best she can.
He asks are you hurt? and she laughs, high and ringing. She shakes her head, half expecting blood droplets to fling from her lips, but it has dried to a lipstick-tackiness and stays put upon her.
“No,” she says, “I’m just fine.”
The blood suggests otherwise, but she stands tall, proud.
“My name is Violence,” she tells him, “who are you? Are you alone out here?”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
