Wapun Meadow tears of blood

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.