violence
Her own companion is far less charming than a wren. Alongside Violence strides a beast of bones, knitted together, piecemeal things gathered from a half-dozen different corpses. The thing changes, over time, as she finds new things and takes away others, always refining her creation.
It’s a waste of her powers, some might say – why bother with bone-things when she could raise the dead, make them walk beside her, instead? But she finds the dead messy, dripping and distasteful, and much harder to reassemble besides.
She does not move in silence; she is accompanied by the rattle of bones and her own thudding footsteps. She is not one for subtlety, Violence, and it is no different today, as she and her morbid bone-thing move in the forest.
She pauses, though, when she sees the panther, and watches as it transforms into a stallion. She is always intrigued at such powers, how their bodies can shift so easily from predator to prey and back again.
(She supposes possession is its own kind of shapeshifting, but it’s much harder, and the thing you change into often fights back, anyway.)
A smile comes across her face, bright. Such a smile could perhaps be construed as friendly – and maybe it is, in her way – but there is something dangerous about it, too. Something hungry.
“Hello,” she says, moving into his view, the bone-thing clunking along behind her, “what are you doing?”
She stares at him, waits for her answer, as if it is a thing owed to her.
these violent delights bring violent ends
@[Ion]