violence
She doesn’t need a kingdom to rule, not when she has her bones.
(Which she doesn’t have, not now. She forgets so easy.)
She finds no power in titles, prefers to forge her power through performance – she recalls vividly the way the girl’s eyes had looked, wide and terrified, as Violence’s bones had danced closer and closer. Kiss them, she’d said to the stupid girl, and the girl hadn’t listened, and, well --
But that’s not the story here.
The story here is this boy, who has manifested like some deus ex machina, here with a sweet promise on his lips, a promise of help. Of restoration.
Wholeness.
Her eyes bespeak her hunger but her voice is calm, even.
“I’m powerful,” she says, simply, “before… this, I could animate the dead. I could possess minds; make people do whatever I wanted them to.”
A bit of a lie – her possession had not been so refined as the necromancy, she did her best work when their minds were willing and open, or if they were particularly stupid. Most minds fight against her piloting them. But she doesn’t tell him this.
“Perhaps there’s a dead relative you’d like to speak to,” she forges on, “or someone who you’d like to make listen to you. Do your bidding or such. I could help you.”
It’s a price she’d pay gladly – someone else’s blood for her powers. An easy trade.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
