violence
She doesn’t know just how alike they are – both children of magicians, dark and awful women. There’s even blood ties, for Ajatar’s father is Violence’s grandfather (a fact unknown to her, for her mother scorns that particular aspect of her heritage, prefers to pretend she sprung into the world fully formed rather than a babe ripped from a mother’s womb). And maybe that was the subconscious thing that pulled her to the girl in this instant, some thrumming of magic to magic, blood to blood.
Or perhaps it was just chance, a random act in a random world.
Nevertheless, Violence is delighted that the girl does not run, that she instead watches the bone-creature with interest – and even half addresses it, a proper acknowledgement. Violence smiles, her own bony grin, though it lacks the fangs of her creation.
“It changes, from day to day,” she says, and her bone-thing nods in affirmation, “what do you think its name should be?”
She sends it forward. Her eye is caught by the glint of scales on the girl, and she wants to touch them, feel the different in texture, wants to rip one off and hold it in her mouth to know the texture of it.
Ah, but that’s rude, she supposes. So she refrains, even if the creature is close enough to touch.
“My name is Violence,” she says, “what’s yours?”
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
