violence
She took what meager things her parents could offer – she comes from magicians and monsters, but ultimately, they were fools, her father too feral to be of much use and her mother too wrapped up in some complicated worship that Violence has no taste for.
(Such a waste of all that magic.)
She was ready to be the revolution, the woman who walked with bones, until the world turned upside down and everything was taken from her, left her violated, left her with a stupid, glistening horn like she was some beauteous forest creature instead of a beast to be feared.
She has not adjusted well, she has been restless, and angry. She wants blood spilled, wants punishment enacted, a sacrifice to the lands so they might reconsider and grant her back her powers.
(She hates it. She is not the begging kind.)
And this girl – this random stranger, whose path she crosses because fate (a smiling, wicked thing) decrees it – this girl is suddenly too there, calling out in a cheery, chipper voice that grates across the fraying coil of Violence’s mind, and so –
So she stands before her, dark, drawing herself up. She is no bigger than the girl, has no real advantage – except, perhaps, her furious, the idea that something she deserved was taken.
“I’m Violence,” she says – a name she loves, a name she wants to embody; wants to taste mayhem spreading on her tongue.
In the sunlight, the horn gleams. She is not a monster – she doesn’t even have her bones – but there is something monstrous about her, all the same.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
