Character Pieces, Fantasy, Home



Such a terribly simple word, for such an impossibly destructive idea.

War was pain, cruel bloodshed, screams of fear, anger and mercy echoing hopelessly in the night. War was gushing red and piercing noise.

With all that energy and worth put in such a word, it’s no wonder it became a she.

Much like death became Death, the Grim Reaper, war became War.

A woman with flaming hair, forever trailing crimson. Where she walked, conflict arose, anger surged, small arguments grew into something destructive, friends became enemies, and as always, fighting arose, with her at the epicenter.

High above, on a small hill overlooking a once bustling sprawling city, stands a woman with crimson hair. Lounging unbothered across her motorcycle, she watches as smoke billows up from the city below.

Screams rise, filling the air, only to be cut off violently by an accompanying bang.

The woman smirks, taking a swig from her flask as she basks under the setting sun. Later, she will join the senseless violence below, paint the streets of this forsaken city as red as her hair, run with manic glee, screaming long into the night.

And when the sun rose again, she would leave, race across the earth on her modern steed wherever the winds decided to take her. She’d never been picky about her battles, and if the next place was boring, well, she’d find new dance partners soon enough. But for now…

“When are you going to come out of the shadows?” She calls over her shoulder, eyes still locked on the glorious carnage below. Her mind wanders as she waits for a response, trying to remember what had been the instigator of this particular warzone, then immediately dropped that train of thought. It didn’t really matter.

Silence. Unnatural and dark rings behind her.

The being called War groans, dropping her head back, staring menacingly at the line of darkness ridden woods behind her, scorching eyes rolled under sunglasses, a frown stretching crimson lips.

“You’re so boring when you get like this.” She moans, rising and stretching her arms, knifes clinking around her hips at the sudden movement. “We both know you’re there, so why don’t you come out, Death.” She hums, pausing a moment to relish in the sharp sound.

“You think everyone who doesn’t run at you with a sword or fist raised is boring.” Drawled a deep voice. Blinking, War turned, fingers brushing over her weapons. Red lips curl into a smirk at the figure suddenly behind her; a tall lanky man, all sharp edges and deep shadows. Pale blue eyes glowing in the fading light as he inclines his head.

“What can I say,” She sings, shrugging her shoulders. She flashes her fangs, heat sparking in her chest at the sight of the scythe at his back. “Some of us actually enjoy what we do.” The man hums, turning his gaze towards the burning city with a blank expression. But even his iron-will cannot hide the sorrow and guilt-ridden ire lingering in those pale depths.

War’s inner fire blooms at the thought of crossing blades with him, but for once, for him, she squashes down the desire. It was better she stayed off his bad side.

So instead, she sighs and crosses her arms, pouting as she steps up to the elder. Bumping shoulders like she always does.

“Your work, I presume.” Death mumbles, voice rumbling like a warning, like the moment before an earthquake breaks the earth.

“Of course.” She replies, shivering and licking her lips.

Soon. She promises herself.

“And yet, I find you not in the throng of things, drenched in blood, swinging your ridiculous swords, but up here; away from the glorious battle below. Why is that?” Death asks, eyes narrowing, a gaze that would freeze anyone else. War shrugs again, throwing her hair back over her shoulder.

“I wanted to take in the view. Try something new.” She grins, throwing up her arm and lounging like a cat against his cold shoulder. “After all, weren’t you complaining I never try anything?”

“I meant, you should change up your predicable fighting style. Or at least, tone down on the bloodshed.” Death groans, voice falling to a whisper halfway through. Still, War catches the words and her grin widens, before she throws her head back and cackles. Long and loud.

“Oh, Death.” She giggles. “You of all beings know I couldn’t possibly do that.” For a brief , hellish and heavenly, moment, Death smiles. It is bitter and cruel, but a smile is a smile.

“Ah well.” Death sighs, swinging his scythe in a preemptive arc. “Best get to work. You do know how to keep a man busy.”

“I do what I love.” She calls over her shoulder, settling over her bike and reeving the engine. “And I love what I do.” One last time, she flashes the Grim Reaper her signature manic grin, then races down the hill, hair flying behind her like flames.

Without hesitation, she leaps into the fray, swinging her ancient swords, cutting down her opponents in a spray of crimson and charred flesh. Death following behind her like a shadow of doom.


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