violence
She could run – she could turn on her heels and flee, clued in by the fever-brightness in Violence’s eyes, by the way her gaze was unwavering. Violence is not subtle – she gravitates to the theatrical, the flourishes.
She thinks she can hear the girl’s heart beating. It’s like music.
She steps closer. Part of her is still waiting for the girl to run. Violence is not yet a stealthy hunter. Perhaps she never will be. Perhaps she won’t need to be, not if they’re all like this, wide-eyed babbling fools.
The girl is looking at her, and the expression in her eyes offends her – most everything offends in, in all honesty.
“Indeed,” she murmurs in agreement. Another step. They are close enough to touch. The girl’s gaze still offends her, so—
She moves quick. She is not a practiced fighter, even less so with the new horn, but she knows the general idea – quick slashing motions – and knows her target – the girl’s face, and more so, those stupid, gleaming eyes.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
