violence
What she wants to do is hurt.
She has always wanted this, of course, from her very first days she had taken pleasure in making the bones dance around her mother, driving her mad; in possessing her father’s simple, alien body and hunting with it, savoring the alien form and carnivorous jaws. She had laughed when the girl she possessed had leapt from that cliff, a moment of flight traded for a broken, twisted neck.
But that had been a different kind of hurt – a hurting for her own amusement, a hurting borne from idleness, from her own whimsy.
Now, for the first time, she feels fury, a dangerous creature coiled in her chest. For the first time, she has been defied, her powers ripped from her the way a flower is ripped from the earth by a child’s hand. Now, she wants to hurt because she hurts herself – she wants to try to spread that pain, disseminate it in their wretched bodies.
Yet it’s more difficult, now, for she lacks the powers she once had. She has only a horn, black and gleaming, and her own strength – which is powerful, but by no means all-powerful, she is dragged down by her own mortality, by her own stupid equine form, lacking sharp claws or teeth, lacking poison, lacking powers that could lay them to ruin all the quicker.
She sees a mare, a mare who has done nothing to her, but something – the way she stands, perhaps – sparks ire in Violence, and she thunders toward her, as if this mare is somehow responsible for the stripping of Violence’s powers.
“You’re in my way,” she says, her path now so diverted that the mare is, in fact, impeding her, “move, or I’ll move you.”
She is rude, pointlessly so, and her eyes still blaze with fury, the suggestion that even if the mare does move, she will pay, pay for sins she did not commit.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
@[Hamster]