Stone Circle bring strife and discord with you wherever you may travel.

the first thing noticed in many murder scenes is the spectacular quantity of blood in relation to the size of victim. perhaps most don't know how much blood the body holds -- for why should they? it gurgles darkly under the skin, unseen and often unheard. it pumps its quiet course throughout the body in constant flux, and when drained, often shocks those that come across it.

four liters.

spilled about like a splattering of rain. pooled under her like a puddle.

indra looked down, startled.

did i do that?

there was a wolf besides her, not laurel, that had tore into the man too.

did she?

indra stepped back in shock (where did i go?), searching, groping blindly throughout the violent scene, for laurel (are you okay?).

her limbs were shaking. her heart thudding so hard she was afraid it might break loose. she could not catch her breath, it came in ragged repetition, raw gasps.

she barely recognized the man before her (again, that bewildered thought --did i do that?). he looked like a crumpled and discarded thing, and indra might have thought him dead for weeks except all the scarlet dousing the trampled plants and welling in a dark tide underneath him: no, she had been here, they had done this. his sodden form looked far more grotesque than anything indra had ever seen, and so she looked away and crawled towards laurel in quiet shock.

are you okay?