freaky deaky thread! backdated to the blood moon. for anyone who is interested, hop on in!
The moon rose full and bright, but he knew it wouldn't last. Tonight was an evening of mourning, a remembrance day for the goddess once the brightest light in the sky. She outshone everyone, even her husband. . .but jealous Iliana had swallowed her up, taking her mother's light for her own, and the world had been topsy-turvy ever since.
Phocion had slain a rabbit, giving it a merciful blow to the neck with bared fangs. With the utmost precision, he sliced its throat in a near-perfect arc, the blood flowing fast and hot into the snow. He dipped one paw in the crimson pool and swept it over the side of his face, where he bore the crescent moon scar. Now there was a larger crescent, inked in blood, standing boldly out against the white of his pelt.
He did the same with the other cheek, then sat silently for a moment, the scent of the fresh kill aromatic and heady in his nostrils. Then, without warning, he let out a howl that shattered the night air like glass, long and shrill and ululating. A wordless cry of grief, reaching to the stars.
"Ahhhhhhhh, Erastis!" he half-chanted, half-sang, nose lifted to the air, in the ancient language of his tribe. "We weep for you tonight, we call your name! We lift our noses in song and prayer, in the hopes of your return!"
The white priest then turned his muzzle to the eastern sky, at the horizon, where the sun would emerge in several hours. "Iliana! he roared, face crumpling with barely-checked anger. "We know you hide, we know your truth! We know you murdered for the sake of vanity--a sin that will curse you until the end of time!"
Above, the moon was turning red. Fengari had begun to weep.
The full moon unites those held in mystic tendencies. Despite her profession to not mind much the pattern of the stars, it would be a fool that ignored the power the moon wrought on nights like these. And a bigger fool to ignore the sounds emenating from the meadow, unfamiliar and haunting. The tongue is strange, so different from her own, but she can place the voice it belongs to with some effort and she makes quick work of getting to the meadow.
The smell of blood quickens her pulse as she arrives at the scene, taking in the details: Phocion bathed in blood's metaphor, the instigator, the castor; the lovely sylph she's met before, seemingly uninvolved, another interloper like she. The rabbit dead at Phocion's paws. A blood sacrifice to match the blood moon above.
The full moon heightens emotions and she cannot help but give into it, a ragged noise of mourning escaping her sinner's mouth, a feeling she has not let herself feel but in pieces, detached, regulated through ritual. "Parce mihi infirmitatem meam," comes the wretched prayer under breath, a nonesense phrase, a bit of rite with nothing attached. But she does not move nor does she call out to Phocion, transfixed by the scene and the sky above.
The red light bathed his pale fur in blood, and Phocion dipped his head, his cry echoing over the plains. As in all rituals, his spirit, his being, had detached itself from his body, and hung just slightly ahead; he felt nothing, not the ground on his toes or the wind against his pelt. The priest, for now, had left his earthly prison and was one with the spirits that hung around him, their whispers thin and keening.
His icy gaze fell upon two that had emerged, one familiar to him, one not. But in his reverie, he didn't recognize their faces, and soon, his mind fancied more and more joining them, until he was staring at a crowd, gathered in solidarity, waiting fervently for his next word.
His eyes grew both saddened and scornful as he stared at his audience, jaw tight. "You all know the story," he finally declared, after a beat of silence had gone by. "We all know the story. It lives in our blood and in our bones." His head lifted to the sky. "But Fengari weeps, and begs me tell it again. So I shall."
The white priest, immaculately white pelt marked with blood, began to speak in a tone that was half-chant.
"In the beginning, there was no sun. Only the endless night. Out of nothing, Fengari formed, and created for himself a wife--Erastia." Phocion's nose dipped for an instant in deference, the name slipping sweet as honey off his tongue, then continued. "They had many children that dotted the sky like the stars we see above--for the stars they are, the ones that guide our way. In these times, wolves were kings and queens of the earth; all other creatures existed under our reign."
His tone grew bitter. "The brightest of the children was Iliana, and she was beautiful, more radiant than any child who came before or after her. But Iliana was jealous, and jealousy is all-consuming. She was jealous of her mother, of the light Erastia held." He again looked to the east, a growl in his throat. "One day, the envy overtook her, and she attacked her own mother while her back was turned. Swallowed her up, to take her light, her spirit.
"Oh, how Fengari's anger rocked the earth! He tried to fight back Iliana's wrath, but with her newfound power, his daughter was too strong for him. Her light was so bright that it turned the night into day, and the wolves--the children of the moon--from kings to peasants."
Phocion let out a despondent howl, longing for the nights that once were. How it must have been to rule the earth, in perpetual peace! To live in endless darkness, the world lit only by the moon and stars!
"Now Fengari is engaged in endless pursuit of his daughter," the white priest said hollowly, looking at those assembled. "Until he finds her and kills her, the world will not know peace. Wolves will suffer. The light of day will continue to taint the earth." He gazed down at the hare, its blood blooming steadily around its body in a crimson cloud.
"Tonight, we mourn. We weep tears of blood for what once was, what came to pass. . .and all that could be."
As if possessed Phocion's gaze turns toward them, no, through them, to things that are not here, to things beyond them. She recognizes that look, the half-crazed mask of holiness that once upon a time she'd ascribe to mysticism or genius. Now she wonders if it's not just a self-made frenzy even as she feels waves of grief crash through her. Tender night!
His story is not one she's heard of before, yet his voice rings like many she's heard, ringing nostalgic thought through tired veins, and yes, tonight is for mourning, she can drink to that. Poet lifts her head and cries to the moon, a long noise with beneath and night and breath hidden in the syllables. And the blood, oh, the blood: her eyes track the graceful movements of the sylph, slow to follow, but follow she does, paws heavy.
"In our bones," she calls softly, echoing Phocion's words, "my guilty bones." The rabbit is not her prize, no; the sinner lays herself before the priest, twisting to expose her throat, shameless in her display. If teeth or temperance greet her, she will accept, for even she does not know exactly what she asks for here. Her movements are feverish, the picture behind her eyes fleeting and obscure, blood and moon and forgiveness.
They lifted their noses and cried out with him, their mournful cries ringing across the valley, lifting to the crimson moon overhead. When they had finished, he lowered his gaze and saw that the white wolf had approached, first, lingering by the kill--and the other--he recognized her as Poet, now--lie before him, neck twisted to bare her throat.
My guilty bones. He shook his head slowly, lowering himself to her level. "Rise, woman," he whispers, crystalline eyes firm and unblinking as he stared into hers. "Fengari does not desire your blood. Not now, not ever."
Phocion looked over to the other woman, looking so hesitantly at the rabbit. He padded over, still in a trance, and submerged his paw in the pool of rapidly cooling blood, lifting it to sweep across her cheek in a gentle arc. He did the same to Poet, whispering a prayer as he did so.
"Blessed are you who submit to Fengari," he murmured, speaking in the ritualistic tongue once more. "Children of the moon and stars, know your birthright and rejoice in it. You alone are the masters of this world."
They were thus baptized, and it was good. Phocion would remain here until the moon descended below the horizon; only then would he retreat and retire.
sorry sorry sorry for the wait!! i'm gonna fade here if that's ok. you can play whether or not they accepted the blood paint; i left it ambiguous
No blood from her is taken, no punishment offered. She does not know if it is relief or sorrow that courses through her now but still she rises at his command, falling back into place beside the sylph. Phocion (or not Phocion, but whoever the spirit he embodies currently is) moves, offering them a baptism in blood. She hesitates before submitting, but submit she does, accepting the gentle swipe of holy blood against her cheeks.
Afterward she lingers, mumbling a half-forgotten prayer of her own as she waits with Phocion for the moon's descent. Her tears dry slow and it is with strangely light footfalls she makes her retreat to the valley under the streaks of dawn's light above.