violence
She likes to be strange, to draw their eyes. Violence envies the things more monstrous than she, she was raised amid aliens and magicians, feeling stupid and plain in her own dark body. Of course, she’d been the smartest of the brood – smarter than her parents, too, she thinks – and that was its own triumph. She may not look like much – a black mare who\s not particularly pretty, one of a thousand here in Beqanna.
Except.
Except she is powerful in her own way. She can draw bones up from the earth, animate them, let them walk beside her. She can jump into others’ bodies and pilot them, even if her attempts are often brief, if she is not first invited in.
This is how she makes herself a monster.
She waits for his answer, which comes a beat late, and when it comes it is irrelevant. She nearly rolls her eyes, but instead keeps that stupid smile on her face, still watching him, weighing her options. He is powerful, and that intrigues her, and even if he lacks as a conversationalist, she thinks there is something she could salvage.
“Ion,” she repeats, “I’m Violence.”
Two strange names, meeting in the forest.
“What brings you here?” she asks, “or did you come here to talk to me, too?”
Her own attempt at glibness, slightly nonsensical, as Violence’s own sense of humor is a withered thing.
these violent delights bring violent ends
@[Ion]