Lyra and Mal have finished planning and are gonna try to steal from Satriya during the Blood Moon!

Any Satriya members are welcome, and the outcome is mostly up to IC actions!

Please be mindful to let both sides have a fair chance to succeed.

There will not be a strict post order (just be courteous & communicate!)

I'm closing this thread on Nov 13th (in about 5 weeks) to prevent Lyra and Mal getting threadlocked. (She's pregnant, I need to know where she is and who she will be around on the due date!)

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Skill — Ghost

Bollox.

Just like a fuckin' haunted ass fuckin' world to have a haunted ass fuckin' moon right when she wanted to make a go of stealing some shinies from these caravaners!

The weather was all wrong, she knew the sky and how one cloud or gust of wind might lead to another. These made no sense. Where she'd been right to anticipate fog, she'd expected an oncoming storm to follow. Not... this bullshittery. The fog stayed, oppressive and red. The moon stayed, fighting with the sun for dominance. Bleeding. She looked up now and then and expected to see a gaggle of bloody ghouls running merry through the sky in silhouette!

The ghost voice that spoke in dreams could say what it liked about deadly Blue and foreign threats. She didn't care. She hadn't signed on for this bullshit.

And the moon couldn't be red everywhere, right? Best to get out of this cursed place, and quickly.

She just wasn't willing to leave without something for the trouble. If these fools wouldn't flee an obvious omen, she saw no reason they should have any claim to their valuables.

This wasn't the storm she'd hoped for, but it would do.

And she knew her trade.

The Cur and Mal had crept to the border of the neighboring pack and found a fresh scent-post to roll in. (Stinky shite, what did these lummoxes eat?) To the wind, and any noses turned toward it, they'd smell thoroughly of Jakten tonight. A useful disguise, with the scapegoat so close at hand.

Even better, they'd both caught a wiff on the humid air — somewhere past the markers was a lady in heat. No doubt the wretch made deals with devils, the Cur thought! Her children would be cursed things, if she conceived. But it made a useful distraction from any outside meddlers. Dark eyes of an otherworldly nature would watch elsewhere. As long as Mal didn't get distracted, and go hunting for a different kind of prize tonight, himself... She growled at him in warning.

It was a straightforward plan. And in thick dark fog so oppressive you could easily mistake a body for a bush, thieves would have ample cover.

The pair had spied long enough to be sure there were two kinds of valuables in the camp. Baubles, kept in bundles... and pompous peacock wolves who walked like they owned the damn sky and never went anywhere without guards. A threat to them would be answered swiftly and without mercy. A ransom would pay handsome, but she didn't have the numbers for a kidnapping, just a boyish rogue who chewed on sticks. So baubles it would be.

But the prey didn't need to know that.

Mal was to crouch in shadowed underbrush on the side of camp closest to their king or emperor or whatever-the-fuck he was. She would skirt the guards and find the goods elsewhere, and when the time was right, Mal would cause a ruckus worthy of distraction to make clean their getaway. The pompous fools would, she hoped, flock to protect their leader. By the time they realized they'd been robbed, the thieves would have distance, and the scent of Jakten left behind would turn eyes and teeth in the opposite direction.

Sight, scent, surprise, scapegoat.

Everything she needed, as far as she was concerned.

She stalked the grey landscape, crouching from bush to bramble between pauses where eyes and ears kept sharp for any sign of unwelcome approach.

A moon hanging in the sky, red as blood. Unnatural fog that suffocated the land — also ominous and red, because that seemed to be the theme.

Even Mal had to agree with Myna: this was some cursed-ass bullshit and he didn't fucking like it. Seriously, what the hell was wrong with this place? Ghosts and voices whispering in his ear, sneaking into dreams, blood moons and curses, and —

Ugh.

Mal liked to think he wasn't that easy to scare, but this was enough to raise his hackles and send anxiety prickling down his tail in restless shivers. At least he had a job to focus on. That helped.

No matter what some stupid fucking moon was doing or how haunted it was, he was gonna get his goddamn treasure.

And hey, maybe everything being red would be a good thing. He was plenty red too, and for once all that ruddy fur was less likely to give him away. It felt like kind of a flimsy reassurance, but it was something. Mal would take whatever sliver of good luck he could get.

Sure, he was excited about the heist. Laser-focused on his job as he soundlessly crept around the thick underbrush where he was supposed to wait, on the side of camp where they'd determined the most important wolves slept. He just wished he could shake the bad feeling that'd been nagging since that damn moon decided to stick around during the day.

Grimacing to himself, Mal slunk towards his chosen hiding place: a fallen log, just tall enough to obscure him if he laid flat. From here, he had a good view into camp, was close enough to get there when he needed to raise hell, and might even catch a snippet or two of chatter, if any of their guards or slaves or insomniac-royals felt chatty.

Perfect.

Now all Mal had to do was watch, listen, and wait for the right moment...

pharaoh slept, one arm outstretched upon the simple pelts, body accustomed to the hardness of ground beneath him. he dreamt in hieroglyphic strike of ramesses, a man he had never known, resplendent as he swept down upon enemies. a day of hunting with his nobles, a dinner spent solely in the queen's company -- khaemwaset was quite at ease. his slumber was that of one who knew he was guarded, who expected mazoi outside his bower and the jodai in portentous control of all else.
his dreaming moved to the death, the Duat of sand; to the faces of his parents, to the remembered sound of his mother's voice. as a boy did he missed her, though in waking hours to say such was not something he allowed himself.
shimmering water with surface hot from Ra's lingering touch spread before mind's eye. the oasis. palms nodded gently around khaemwaset, but as he turned, it was not to see the stone steps leading down, but the mesa of his birth.
flat-topped, scarlet, forbidding. a fortress. he could even see the tomb of ramesses' queen in small distance.
a blink and he saw satriya itself, an obelisk with countless moving bodies all around.
the red moon bore down. earlier in the day had pharaoh bowed to it, ordered that a sacrifice be made to restore the blood of Khonsu. in daytime his worries were great, but in this glorious sleep, he saw only the constant past and beautiful future.

by all rights, sitamun should have been lying on her pallet near the great royal wife, able to be summoned in the night. but Khonsu fought some battle above them, and she felt such tension in satriya because of this. prayers lifted, and a temporary altar made to commemorate this struggle.
she herself hovered near the small site, pulling debris aside, clearing twigs. she assumed sapair would be on patrol or maybe with the trade-goods, and she wished to go to him.
there were so many other things that should be on her mind! why did the jodai occupy its largest space?
sitamun hid a smile. she was very tired, but sleep would not come. and she was not intent upon wandering the camp, so iron-eyes lifted once more to the moon, and her silent prayer beseeching Nephthys began again.
if Khonsu was wounded, then Set had done it. her goddess was Wife to Set; it was to the Lady of the Temple that the priestess prayed now, placing all her effort into focus upon the power of her chosen patronness.

The kingman’s had no preoccupation with a brooding sky. The critical season came upon their camp in violent wafts of winethick allure from the mountain. Outside the bower of Pharaoh did his shoulders stiffen, an affray against the compulsion to maim and sow the Jakten queen amid the ruin of her men. In his early years, he’d have fought to do so, with neither reason nor control placed on ravenings.
It was his young squadron he considered now.
Taliba. Ra . Kierkegaard. He called for medjay and mazoi, summoning also the devoted Mesen-ka #2712 from sleep.
“The einvald’s heat will draw men to this mountain. Keep vigilant.” Tersness sharpened the edge of order.
Sapair meant to secure the perimeter and avail himself in Sitamun before night's end.

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cameo

Ignorance hazes her eyes and sleep hammers the mind with war chants. Neith turns, a sigh muffled by eiderdown bedding. Whispers real or imagined come from the tongues of circling, winged creatures; a hundred gaping mouths insatiable for wolf-flesh.
What is this god-song wailing?

Skill - Ghost

Camp was quiet. Many slept, it seemed — as she'd hoped. Distant voices called others to heel. The Cur grew bolder in her invasion, then, watching for guards, and slinking through oppressive fog when she was sure none walked near. The grass was cold and dewy on her feet, and behind her the scent of mountain wolves stuck to beaded blades.

Incense led her nose toward their stores, and she sank her belly to the ground beside a bower where some caravaner snored faintly, to watch whether any paid special attention to the collection of fur-bundled trinkets. It would not be entirely unguarded under such grim auspice as the bleeding moon, would it? Or did this band believe itself impenetrable, and forego an inner watchman?