Dragoncrest Cliffs some things only god can forgive

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Mentions self harm.

Indra had completed her little altar alone and in the dark. She'd waited until everyone was asleep to find the patch of the meadow where she'd trashed the flowers and worked at it until the early morning, weeks ago. Since then she'd kept away from it — hunting for items of importance across the cliffside; observing people as they came and went; rarely did she interact with anyone except to murmur things to herself or flee from their company.
Today she approached the altar with a bundle of objects she'd quietly plundered from others. Most of it was innocuous. Seashells from the rendezvous, an old wing that looked as if it had been chewed by tiny teeth, and a strip or two of something green. Something had drawn her to these objects but even Indra wasn't certain about why she chose them — only that she needed them, and so she'd found a way to collect.
The objects were placed on the bare patches of earth that she'd cleared; one shell on each spot, the wing in the center, and then the pieces of aloe on the two outermost patches, so that it was almost evenly distributed.
The last thing Indra did, as she settled at the apex of these three piles, was surround her foreleg with her teeth and bite down, hard. As she pulled at the skin she grimaced but did not stop, not until blood came, and with a wave of her wrist she splattered the objects with blood. This was the magic of the bear. This was the kind of sacrifice she'd been taught of, in Ursus.

hopefully this won't break timelines >> but I've wanted to hop in one of these for a while!

The girl was unstable. Rosalyn watched her with an air of distrust that could almost be similar to the way she ghosted through, but her gaze gave away the undercurrent of dislike. She would not have allowed her to stay, a poisonous time bomb in their midst, if she had the choice. Thankfully (for others) the decision was no longer hers.

This, however, was a line drawn too far. Some nights sleep was hard to find and tonight her thoughts were jumbled, full of faces whose names she no longer knew. She'd dreamed of strangers who called to her but whose absence, after, felt like an ache. More and more of her dreams were like this.

When she spotted Indra she crept low and watched, narrowed eye at first suspicious, then alight with fearful anger. Rosalyn was too superstitious to take the spattering of blood as anything but a curse that the girl was laying on their lands, a threat to destroy them from within. She lunged forward, with a low growl, and knocked a portion of the objects away. How dare you lay curses here. She hissed the words as she advanced, her posture a clear threat. Witches had no place here. They brought only ruin.

Her forelimbs bled freely after the objects were anointed. As much as it hurt it reminded Indra that she was present and alive in the moment, and that gave her comfort. The smell of the blood upset her stomach and she wondered if that was by virtue of its metallic smell, or the familiarity of it. There were memories in the blood. The more she dripped on to the altarpoints the more safe she felt from them.

The girl had just gotten to the last object for a second time when she started to feel a little bit dizzy. The wounds were deep and so the bleeding was more profuse than necessary, and as Indra was unpracticed in harming herself for this ritual, she hadn't accounted for the hazy feeling as it descended upon her.

Maybe that was why Rosalyn's sudden appearance didn't surprise her.

When the old woman moved towards the altar Indra thought, no, don't! And after a second she moved to prevent the objects from being disturbed, but it felt like she was moving in slow motion. The shells clattered like dice and scattered among the flowers; the wing was tipped over so that the blood that stained the feathers hit the dirt, and Indra didn't notice where the aloe shafts went - it was all gone, all —ruined, you've ruined it! What are you doing?! STOP!

Using her forelimbs now, she lunged to try and gather the objects as if they were incredibly precious, and while most of them were lost she found the wing and pulled it in close with a wince. A glare set itself upon the girl's face and she looked madly to the old woman.

I wasn't cursing anybody! It was for — I was protecting! Each item had come from a different place of power, each smelling strongly of a woman of Sapphique. Mother, maiden, crone, she did not know these coincidences, but they were present in her work.

She refused to hear it. The girl cried but Rosalyn did not care. She stood where she was, accusing, and felt no guilt for breaking what had been wrought.

I know enough of witches to know that blood only brings more blood. We don't need that protection. The sea defends her own. Rosalyn growled, glaring at her and raising her posture in a way that demanded acquiescence.

It was fortunate that the bear was unknown to her. Otherwise this talk might have turned to action quickly. Too many bears dwelt in Rosalyn's nightmares to ever see them as anything but harbingers of death.

This wasn't the reception Indra had expected.

Sure, she'd built the altar in (nearly) secret. She'd stolen things from people but not been caught. Now she gave her blood, anointed the items, to sacrifice for the bear's favor; she had thought this was expected of her. This was all she could offer these people.

And it wasn't wanted. The older woman rallied against such a display and the entire arrangement was cast aside. Indra bled freely from her arms and felt herself shrivel before the rage she saw. Rosalyn's posture and her madness in that instant made Indra so afraid! She shrank down as small as she could make herself and groveled in the dirt.

Breaths hiccuphed out of her as she tried to contain her emotions. Indra didn't know what to say; she wanted to run away from this moment. If anyone had cursed this place or these people, it was the old woman when she'd broken everything!

Rosalyn stood firm in the face of Indra's fear. She felt no sympathy, only a dislike born of anger and scorn at how she'd responded. At least she had chosen not to fight.

Next time I'll scatter more than these, she growled, and the hair along her hackles rose to threaten alongside. If she caught her with another blood ritual she wouldn't hesitate to spill what little blood the girl had left. Not if it meant protecting her family from the repercussions of these curses.

Then, with a final snarl, she spun and stalked away.