Two Eyes Cenote no, no, it's rightfully mine.

private for a few rounds, then i will open up. <3

Lunar Phase: New Moon
68 °F Clear Skies
11 PM

come along now, she instructed to the lazier of the boys: two, though he knew himself as rowdy.

it did not take long for her to know every facet of his short, tragic life. she'd learned something else about him too, as the weeks progressed into months. in the old world he would have been called m'bezi -- born with purpose -- but that world had long collapsed in on itself with the perfect dissolution of a dying star.

she lead him through a tangle of stunted mangroves that limned the cenote's rim. night gathered in hushed silence here; the water's surface a sinister black so dark not even the stars reflected back in its rippling surface. even the normal chorus of tree frogs seemed absent, the silence punctuated on occasion by the soft and seemingly searching hoo hoo of nightowls.

she motioned for the boy to stand near the stony plinth she'd cleared the night before. he'd been a good boy, carrying the various objects needed for their ritual in the dutiful manner of a mule.

it would not be much longer now. the hour was lean but by measure of stars, qiao understood it was nearly time. set them down here, she unburdened herself of her greenbrier torc and motioned for the boy to do the same.

overhead another mournful croon from an owl, its notes short and swallowed by night's brimming darkness.

he'd been shoved awake by a rough prod, the first thing he saw the wide, owlish stare of two incensed sage green eyes. recoiling, rowdy felt the last vestiges of his troubling dream slip away.

carry this, she'd issued, thrusting a bundle of harvest grass and the charred limb of some unrecognizable animal. rowdy rubbed the last sleep from his eyes and looked around him. it was late, and the witch moved with an efficiency that suggested he'd better do the same.

his mind went back to his dream. it was like he'd lost some profound parcel of truth, and now struggled to find it -- but the more he dug into his subconscious, the more snaring thoughts clung to the surface like tenacious ivy and pushed his dream away.

qiao led him from the chambers. at times he had to stop to shift the uncomfortable burden on his back -- when he did so, she whipped around and quickly re-dressed him, urging him on with a glint of her hard teeth. rowdy's two tails sagged as he toiled down the embankment, realizing tonight's ritual was taking place at the cenote's rim.

set them down here, she ordered. rowdy did so, his soft motions disturbing gravel that tumbled down into the deep black. he flinched, for the report of stone hitting water felt enormously loud, as if he had just inappropriately caused attention to himself in a moment of grave silence. from his vantage, the cenotes looked like two sunken eyeholes -- not so different from the moss-studded wolf skull that qiao presently -- almost gingerly as if an old friend -- placed on a stony plinth.

as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw markings scribbled into the dirt where he'd been ordered to stand. at the base of the stony column, runes were enscripted in the sand and a pale white circle of clay, its contents filled in with rough strokes, was painted upon the stone's face. a pungent scent of myrrh languidly rose into the air.

he looked to qiao in inquisitive quiet, sensing rather than knowing that a ritual of great importance on the cusp of being performed.

impatience seeped into qiao as the boy — sluggish! — did her bidding. she reminded herself that to rush was to invite peril — the many countryside graves that lined her path could attest to that.

once he placed the herbs and the haunch of meat upon the ground qiao went to work. his gaze found her in question - with a sigh erring towards stifled patience she answered: for the ensouling ritual. a half-truth, but did the boy need to know more?

she studied the night sky and listened to the wind. a single rhythm pulsed distantly and it was that line she plucked like a thread, chanting in an old tongue. she moved backwards around the shrine first, set the haunch of meat upon the strap of harvest grass, and oriented the skull to face the climbing zenith of a moon whose face dared not show in the darkness.

next she pulled the hawk’s talon from the plinth. she bound it with a snare of harvest grass and affixed its gruesome edge through the left eye of the wolf-skull. her voice, a symphony of snarled words, clicks, and raspy guttural creaks, rose to a fevered crescendo.

upon herself she bound the bluestem to her wrist, painting her left arm with white clay. to the boy, she ascribed a chiseled rune of three claw marks of clay to his breast. he stood still as he was instructed, while the crone whirled around him.

the night, as if waiting for this very moment, suddenly rose to life. wind roared as its jagged edges bound through trees and at last settled against the hard edge of the cenote’s stone; tree frogs began their crazed creaking — the whoop of a night heron punctuated the dark, followed by the panicked scream of its prey. qiao’s lamplight eyes danced with the power of her ritual, and she turned to rowdy, the last remaining partner to their strange and obscene dance.

it was then that rowdy’s true nightmare began.

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: gore, character death

as he stood there while qiao and the night moved around him, rowdy was grateful for the dark — so she could not see the sliver of fear that danced in his eyes.

he held his tails stiff, his body still. she doused him in the primordial clay runes of the overworld. qiao had done one thing well — and that was prepare her lamb for his part.

rowdy stayed dutifully still up until qiao took the three quills and sent them straight through his left eye.

a prism of color, of shock, of nauseating agony blinded the left side of his vision. his brain erupted in thousands of beams of crystalline light; bending red, blinding yellow — while a pain so profound it crippled the left hemisphere of his brain sent him screaming backwards.

he had no time to react before the spasms began. one quill’s reaching arm  breached past every membrane in his eye and lodged itself in the soft folds of fat in his hippocampus. against his will rowdy’s body convulsed and he sat there writhing until qiao’s teeth sliced open his throat.

choking, reeling, with a gout of blood pressed from his lips, rowdy’s cries drowned in the dark gurgle of crimson that broke like a wave over his opened throat. something cold and hard lodged itself between the tight bands of exposed esophagus; a tooth that he could not see.

he spluttered, focusing his one remaining eye on the witch in agonized betrayal. though no words could form from his spluttering mouth, his question hung in the air long after qiao seized his shoulders and threw him to the waters below.

hungry, waiting, sitting there like a predator poised with jaws hovering over its meal, the water greedily enveloped him. from that blackness came a sucking sound like gristle detaching from wet bone; the last of the water’s rivulets rained down in smatterings. with a sigh the water’s blackened surface smoothed its rippling, illuminated ever so briefly by an ominous flare of red from the sky above.

the last remnant of rowdy redtail floated to the surface, a gristly stump of one severed tail.

like all of qiao’s lambs, the boy stood in queue for his abattoir, and never saw the raised fang coming. 

she had not expected the convulsions; as he buckled on the ground with viscera dribbling from the entry wound in his eye, qiao cut his throat with a practiced swipe of her canines. 

blood splurted like a heavy rain around them, her chest and face splattered by the thick mist of red; she lodged sobeille’s canine tooth to his gaping throat, watching as the thin ivory trinket tumbled down his bucking body. 

and then, summoning the last of her strength, qiao evoked a small spell and threw his seizing body over the cenote’s rim. 

he landed with a terrific noise; a jetstream rebound of water rising in a high column nearly eye level with her before the water sucked it back, the banks darkening in delayed splatters. 

adrenaline seized her frame. she shook with the costly efforts of her spell-weaving, bending over to heave up the contents of her stomach. she wiped the gruel from her lips and looked down towards the water, so sinister in color it looked as if a blackened portal to some malevolent and chaotic world. 

a dimming red began to rise in rosy hues around her. qiao looked up to see the cost of her ritual writ clearly in the skies —



a flare of cerise and fire; it stood against the indigo blackness with entrails of streaming red reaching towards the dawn. qiao watched and felt exhaustion sink its inky edges in her bloodstream. she blinked and the vision was gone — the night somehow colder than before. 

collecting her things with drunken motions, qiao did not dare peer into the circular rim where rowdy’s body had been hungrily accepted. 

a thin stream of blood slipped from her left eye, which now bore a splinter of black extending from the pupil. as she bent to place her greenbriar torc around her, she noticed a new scar notching the wolf skull’s socket. 

knowing that soon, the true cost of her ritual would inch its demanding talons into her flesh, qiao made for her bed.

now AW <3

the voice of qiao in the night, he nearly thinks it is his imagination playing a sour trick on him until he feels the warmth of rowdy’s body vanish from his side.
the boy shifts, burying his face into the crook of his forearm and tries to fall asleep once again. but sleep does not come back to him no matter how groggy he feels. he finds himself waiting for his brother to return.
the sky’s dim red glow falls on already shut eyelids.
riot is impatient.
he does not know how much time passes before he gets to his feet and pokes his head out into the night.
crickets chirrup. there is no sign of the pair nearby.
a decision he may grow to regret—he decides to go out and investigate, led only by faint scents in the sand.

he knows the scent of wolf-blood. musky, metallic—it is inscribed into the foundations of his brain.
rowdy. had the sickness come for him too?
riot had already gone this far—in the dark, the trail to qiao’s quarters would be harder to retrace than to simply go forward. the moonlight gleaming from the cenote’s water guides him forth on legs that grew wobbly.
his nose is flooded with the scent of rowdy’s blood, mixed with the reek of vomit.
riot locates the source—his nose, put to the ground, becomes damp as it bumps into rowdy’s bloodsplatter. 
trembling, he wipes it away, hesitating, questioning, then realizing the truth of what it was, and wiping even more fervently. he fears the sickness more than death.
he peers around, finding the waters of the cenote below.
a single tail floats in the shadowy pool, darker than the color of water alone.
reeling, he stumbles back.
his body begins to shake in a way that is uncontrollable, as if his body were too small to handle the grief that became far larger than himself. his throat feels like it will collapse in on itself. he’s wheezing, wheezing—no sound comes from his lungs and 
darkness overtakes his vision.
he collapses at the cenote’s rim.

Medusa hated to admit that she thought Qiao was cool, even if she had been a bit of a bitch. She was fascinated by her, and so this night she decided to follow her. Medusa didn’t arrive in time to see everything transpire, but a blaze of red in the sky caused Medusa to pause before reconsidering.

What sort of witch was this lady? Medusa wanted to learn, and so sniffed after the set of tracks. But by the time she arrived, there was now a third—and Qiao was gone. Huffing, Medusa darted toward the prone figure and nearly missed the thing floating in the water. A fucking puppy dog tail? Wasn’t there some damn nursery rhyme that had something to do with that? 

Medusa wondered if pushing this other puppy in would make things more potent for Qiao—who would notice? But then she figured, better her own than this one. Maternal instinct evaded her, and she wanted to avoid the responsibility for life.

But this didn’t feel like a blessing, not in the least. Medusa frowned and peered up at the sky, still traces of red there. Shuddering, Medusa nudged the limp puppy, saying, hey, kid, knowing it could perhaps be the one thing to remove the implication that she was a part of this all. 

Even if she sort of wanted to be. But, it felt like the slimmest odds of survival. Qiao would probably sooner shove her in this bone broth mixture than take her on as an apprentice. 

She took no responsibility for digging her own grave.

Each night is plagued with terrors. Sleep never comes easy, if it comes at all.

The witching hour is odd; too warm, too thick. The air is wet against Eset's sides as she rises, drawn instinctively from the hebsut’s chambers out into the concourse where two figures are stood, silhouetted in red at the cenotes' edge.

There’s a faint, muffling voice. “Medusa?”

Closer she pads to the woman– a stranger, as is the child at her side, though she recognizes both. Immediately in their faces something is horrifically, irrevocably wrong.

A shade closes over her. The depths of the cenote are dark, they churn, aggravated, riling and spouting the meager remains of their bloodied contents.

The sanctuary echos with the coy’s wild cries.

“What have you done!?” Teeth bare for the white woman. Too slight too fight, it didn't matter now. Her rage was as hot and searing as lashes upon the skin.

For the first, and perhaps last time, maternal instinct blooms to life. It is only when Eset surged toward her that Medusa experiences it, rising to an immediate stand and snarling: no, you’ll kill him— and she stood over the boy, body a blockade.

But Medusa herself was weak from her own series of unfortunate events. She tumbled over, asking herself why she risked her life for anyone other than herself, or her father. 

She hung over the lip, scrambling for purchase. Medusa knew she was at great risk to never be a hero again. 

Not that it mattered. She didn’t think she’d volunteer for the role regardless. One and fucking done—she lived and learned. 

But maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t. Death was before her, and it wore the face of the Hebsut.

let me know if it’s okay to skip you April! Kind of assumed here just bc he was snoozing BUT ping me if you’d like me to remove this and I shall!

joining directly after this since I believe this is all happening on the same night

I assume Machi will be at the top of the cenote next round! Please let me know if you would rather me delete this instead!

Machi slipped quietly from the passage that led to the Mazoi’s chambers, his one eye squeezed shut as blood dripped from his brow. His paws trembled, a telltale sign of the seething fury beneath his otherwise calm exterior. Each step he took toward the Hebsut’s chamber felt heavier than the last, anger a dark cloud hovering over his mind. He needed to rein it in, to focus.

But then, a sickening splash echoed from the direction of the cenote, tearing him from his brooding thoughts. His ears perked sharply, instinctively catching the sound before his mind could fully register it. The unmistakable, metallic scent of blood filled the air, rising from the depths of the water. Machi's head snapped up, his heart leaping into his throat. His gaze darted to the lip of the cenote, where he caught sight of a figure disappearing over the edge. Moments later, two more figures appeared in their place, silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

What in the gods’ names is happening tonight? The thought pounded in his mind as he began to move, his steps quickening with urgency. Whatever had transpired, it was far from ordinary, and the gnawing pit in his stomach warned him it was only going to get worse.

Suddenly, a cry pierced the night—Eset’s voice, sharp and unmistakable. Rage wrapped around her tone, propelling Machiavelli into motion. Without hesitation, he broke into a full sprint, paws pounding against the stone floor as he raced toward the entrance.

Safiya heard the cry while she was bent over her items. And she briefly thought of ignoring it. But she had responsibilities now. Truly and surely. And so with a heart jamming hard against her rib cage. She raced after Beastie. Paws pounding on the ground. Every breath she pulled in was swift to expel.

She was smaller, lighter so she quickly raced to the entrance. The smell of blood and an acrid scent of anger was on full display. Eset was aiming for someone? So Safiya jumped into the fray. But aimed for places that she could dance away from attack retreat attack like her father taught her. There was only duty and safety in her mind. And adrenaline fueled her young limbs.

can be skipped. Light powerplay. If you do skip her please let me know it's what you're doing in ooc notes. I will make this a priority. I can also just delete this if it's too much or it seems like I'm hogging threads

posting order i think is: riot - medusa - eset - machiavelli - safiya - khusobek

patrol had taken him from the palace following safiya's coronation. golden coyotes, a trio of them, had haunted the borders. handled was the situation, but he knew nothing of kheti's transgress against his sister, nor the alliance of brother and tiye against safiya.


he knew only the pounding step of his daughter, the flash of machiavelli's fur in the opposite corridors. safiya struck; her father assessed. "subdue the hemet," he ordered of his child. she would pass it to the fellahin. khusobek remained a guards-captain even in his immediate failure to secure. if the pale woman favored her life, she would submit at once.

but why did eset grab for medusa? blood hung to tinge the air; he cast a glance at the wellspring and the crumpled child before he moved to intercept the hebsut himself, his body a hopeful bulwark between she and the efforts of his order. a shout rang from his throat for @Meseba: guard the gate.

once eset had bled. now medusa reeked of the same scent, and he wondered with a man's mind if some madness had crawled into them both. "hebsut, eset! let us look at the boy together, please,"

consciousness creeps back to him.
he lifts his small head in a daze—soon discovering he is surrounded by a wall of blurry figures and muffled voices; snarling, shouting—
hell had followed him to the desert and ensnared him once more. his fate is surely doomed—a crowd, the harbinger of destruction.
his heart lurches to be stolen away by the jaws of a kidnapper.
but no—stormchaser is not here and he couldn’t find qiao and rowdy’s in pieces and
a surge of energy; riot is to his feet in seconds, as if he’d been electrocuted. he dodges between figures and takes off on wobbly legs toward qiao’s den under the pitchblack night.

exit unless chased

also exit if not followed

The air thickened in sickness and rot, a miasma rising from the unforgivable spill of child's blood within their sacred pools. A wall cast round her wrath, his every sinew taut from war. Abruptly and with a snarl the hesbut arcs, upper lip resolutely upheaved, smoking eyes tearing over the shadowed bodies then up into the red guard's face who obstructs her.

“You mean what’s left of him? Get out of my way!” The order strikes against the grinding stone with a lash of fangs to the vacant air at the mazoi's shoulder. Eset pushes roughly past him– not towards the now detained hemet, but down the halls and after the boy for @Qiao’s quarters.