violence
She is, in truth, unbothered by the stares. She is used enough, to being stared at, it’s to be expected when you walk alongside your own personal menagerie of bones, when the thing nods and moves its mouth, as if speaking.
(Giving it language is beyond her grasp, and she is a poor ventriloquist, so she settles for sometimes making its jaw move, imaging the words instead.)
Such oddities are a bit strange, even in a world as strange as Beqanna, so she has grown used to the weight of others’ gazes. It’s useful, at times, to capture attention, it makes it easier to lure them in, to distract them from other things, like how she’ll prod at the corners of their minds, seeing if they’re weak, if they’re malleable.
(Her possession is flimsy, often times, useful only amongst the weak or the willing – and in simpleminded beasts. It has its uses, but it mostly leaves her frustrated, this unfulfilled promise of power, of control.)
There is a look in his eyes that is inscrutable, but she does not try to delve further. She cares not what has struck his interest, she cares only that he might be entertaining, that his scars have a story she could possibly use.
“No,” she says, and her voice is sweet, almost a purr, “I’m always in perfect control.”
A lie, of course. She’s lost her temper a hundred times over, she’s collapsed to want or whim too early in the game, impatient, she’s broken bones in frustration at their refusal to submit to her architectural vision – the list goes on. But he knows none of this, so she lies, blatant, perhaps to see if he will believe her, or what else he may do.
“I’m Violence,” she says, head high, keeping herself tall – she may not look much like a monster, but she scrambles for intimidation wherever she thinks it may be found.