SKILL blood moon event, seer 1/5
for Thorne · link leads offsite for reference, credit for the prayer goes to talamasca

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tonight, she prays.

Nuit—Mistress of the Sky,
your Eye watches over us always.
like the stars nursing at your belly,
we are your children.

Great goddess, hear me as i pray for the safety of the people.

at her feet, a small pit dug. pressed under dark palm, a blue flower for the Goddess. a bowl of water, to soak the blue flower in and let the offering sit for the rest of the crimson night. perhaps the goddess was angry, if only racharra were as divine as she thought she was when she had engaged samirseti. perhaps then she could reach for the Goddess. instead, she will just have to bring more offerings soon.

now sitting, racharra thinks of priestess nazli with a soft smile. what would she have done under these circumstances. racharra hardly knew how to lead prayers more complex than this, but it always came to the coywolf so naturally. no tears come, for she had none left.
and in her lingering, the lady forgets she is not completely alone.

He watches.

Silent as the night, his coat blends within the fog, and he allows it to wrap around himself like a second coat, his fur damp and heavy, his nostrils flaring with each breath.

He watches, at first with disinterest, almost mockery. But now, there is something else in his pallid stare: interest. Intrigue, though selfish more than anything, at what this woman does.

She prays—he sees. It is clear to him, though he does not know why. Who is to hear her, aside from him or any other beast passing in the night?

His lips twist into a sneer but he does not pull away. He stays put, crouched in a hollow bend among the tall grass, the fur along his spine rippling with tension he carries like a beloved companion.

The sky is starting to bleed. Crimson light begins to creep over the horizon like spilled wine, casting the plains in a low, bruised glow. It clings to the tall grass, turns every flower a little redder and seems to paint the woman in an unworldly hue.

Thorne did not often care for omens, but this one feels personal.

Pretty words spilled from her like silk as her paws pressed reverently into the dirt. Painted in the colors of earth, she looks peaceful. Soft. Vulnerable. She smells of jasmine and eucalyptus, gentle and clean. He quickly finds himself hating it—her—already. Something about her, for the wasted words she spills and the soft smile she wears makes something itch beneath his skin.

she is clueless, at first, to the company that joined her. racharra is far too focused on the wine red moon to notice — but she is well aware that absentmindedness could mean death in unfamiliar land and there was nothing more that racharra feared than solitude and death. she lingered in both.

traveling through deserts for so long teaches you to know when someone is watching — for the vultures pry for any chance of death. and they were patient things. they wait, and wait. and usually their patience is rewarded. though she fears it most, the noblewoman knows the sight and stench of death like family.
and this prickling sensation along her spine was much the same when the birds glared her down, hungry and mocking. at first she dismisses it as paranoia — a red moon would do that, she's sure — but when it becomes too much she breaks. tearing her own eyes away from the Goddess, its a futile search through the fog. standing and wandering would do nothing, the rolling golden hills once most beautiful and comforting lost to her in Nuit's anger. she beckons, a simple chuff disguises her nervousness. then the woman hardens, creasing her bows into deep grooves. she does not leave the safety of her shrine but she does come to a stand.

the deserts also teach you that you cannot trust yourself just as much as you couldn't trust the land. an oasis in the distance in reality a pile of bones and if lucky a puddle. and racharra would believe it if she had gone mad in the many, many months since that fateful day.
she has become more fragile than she thought. what a joke.